ars poetica

I've been thinking lately about how much time I used to spend writing poetry.
Most of it, not very good but it wasn't really the product that was the point. And I know that honest to goodness poets roll their eyes at this kind of "everyone can express themselves" talk. Ars Poetica is just that, an art-study and learning and technique and talent. I can relate to the feeling, that my kind of working has been diminshed. Letters to the editor render me apopletic, as would be theorists talk smack based on ideas they've heard on facebook. Put that aside for the moment, the act of writing, the time, the process, the sound of a typewriter keys smacking letters on a white page in the pale hours of the morning had some sort of magical quality for my soul and for my well being.
I don't write much poetry anymore. I think some of it has to do with the time I don't have, and that my typewriter is broken, but all of that is really besides the point.
Part of the reason is that here in Toronto, the magic seems to have faded. In some ways, I'm far more awake.

Am I imagining it or do conversations now lack the rythm and timbre they used to?
(only on the odd winnipeg morning does it conjure)
I find that lately I'm a fan of silence and of making: pottery is a good outlet for silent poetry, where hands and hips move and push, tension creating upsward swells of meaning, the smacking of clay bodies against table tops imprinting now.

the change has left me wondering.