A poet’s job is to dream. To qualify, you must start by shedding earthly reality. Only in dreaming does a poet write. Even if one writes about the real world, it has to come from a place that is not.
Perhaps that is why taking drugs is favorable. A little mushroom lets the mind go free into other dimensions. Maybe drugs and alcohol are part of the job description.
To consciously dream without the aid of substance, to will oneself into a trance takes discipline. It’s not an act of clearing the mind, rather, letting the mind wander upon a neuron and allow it to take you where it wants to go. Many result in dead ends. But invariably there is a path unlike all the others. You’ll recognize it because it is energetic. The poet must chronicle the journey in that instance by whatever means. A poem is born.
When confronted by reality poets inevitably strike back, and sadly being mislabeled as lazy or weird or selfish. Eyes glazed, body slumps over books, walking in circles, mumbling, disengaged in social settings—the poet is at work. Do not disturb.
