After writing a poem

In the midst of a period of writing, in the midst of a poem, I find myself completely caught up in the struggle and the detective work needed to do the job.

When I am done with that period of writing, whether or not I have more work to do to the poem at a future time, I find myself blank, erased; I find that memory of the creation is gone in all but the most superficial way (that is, I know it happened and no more), and I’m at rest, almost as if I was exhausted after a physical effort.

It’s as if the poem engenders in me something quite different from the meditative state, and the peace and Zen detachment come after.

What’s it like for you?