This hectic life

This week Düsseldorf, next week Barcelona, the following week Chichester, and so this hectic life goes on...

Other poets have asked me whether so many commitments hinder my writing. Well, there's obvious frustration on certain days at not being able to pick up a book or a pen. However, that frustration somehow builds and builds to a point where pent-up poetry really does surge when I finally get the chance. It's not forced out by hours of staring at a blank page.

In other words, my life feeds my verse. I need constant activity beyond poetry. Without it, without events that tumble one after another, my creativity is stunted.

I can't envy people who make their living from poetry. That's not a criticism of others, just the knowledge that I'd be finished as a poet if I were surrounded by the genre every day.