There is a sense of deflation after writing a good poem: as if, why bother to keep trying? As if, the next thing I write can only be mediocre. As if, mediocrity is the poison of one's life. It's one of the ironies--the way in which transcendence and disappointment constantly entwine--and I'm sure it's why great artists have tended to be so self-destructive. There's a terrible balance to maintain. If one has committed, as a writer, to a preternatural sensitivity to language and feeling, then how does one un-commit to that?

Here's a bit from the last poem Joe Bolton wrote before he killed himself. It makes me very sad. (And the ellipses are his, not mine.)

from Page

Reliance upon language was its undoing. . . .

But someday it will be all that is left of me.

Death bothers its margins like gulls along some shore.

But today looks to be a beautiful mid-October day, warm and blue-eyed. And I have nothing to do for 8 hours except to read and write and feed animals and hang laundry and yank frost-bitten sunflowers out of the gardens. I'm sorry that Joe didn't manage hang on long enough to see a day like this.