A friend I made in America says she finds it hard to write poetry now that she has been elected to her university's academic senate, that the politics of everyday life mitigates against poetry.
How hard it is sometimes to simply turn away from the everyday, thrust aside the demands of job or home, ignore the feelings of doubt, guilt and weariness, and descend to the depths of one's being where poems might be brewing. Another friend describes this descent into herself as going into a capsule that is lowered over the edge of a boat down into the ocean depths.
Someone wants to use this computer ... SO it goes.