The same poem can serve several purposes. At my most single-minded, I began to understand this, against my will, in the years after my mother left the earth on May 22nd, 2008. For a time (and I’m not sure whether this time has actually ended, or will ever end) everything that felt like poetry also naturally resembled mourning. But poetry attaches itself to the present moment, and the present moment quickly became full of other sensations. Part of me wanted to retreat, and the world as I experienced it had other plans. Mourning took turns with falling in love; falling in love took turns with doubt; doubt took turns with happiness; happiness bred guilt.
Read more at “In Their Own Words,” Poetry Society of America