When I read a poem
Or when I merely read about a poem
And on many other occasions also
The urge to write comes upon me again
The painful stirrings
Not unmixed with anxiety
And why fear the inevitable
But feelings too of happy anticipation

And then the disagreeable business of composition
Not foul or sordid or nasty or disreputable or louche
But kind of dirty
As in the phrase
Not afraid to get one’s hands dirty
And the anxiety of during
Somehow worse than
The anxiety of before

But then the shameful acknowledgement of after
The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism
The eloquent voice of the Accuser
You should have worked harder
And if you have lost
You didn’t want it badly enough
Because winning is the only thing
And wanting must always be done badly