Teaching writing over the years intrudes on your own writing in

"Teaching writing over the years intrudes on your own writing in important ways, taking away some of the excitement of poetry." These words from Robert Morgan reflect a deep truth about the delicate balance between the art of creation and the discipline of instruction. For the poet, the act of writing is often a deeply personal and spiritual journey, one that emerges from the well of inspiration and emotion. Yet, when the poet takes on the mantle of the teacher, something shifts. The creative process, which once flowed freely and organically, is now entwined with the expectations and demands of instruction. The joy of writing begins to be overshadowed by the burden of teaching, and the poet may find themselves caught between two worlds—one of pure expression, the other of critique and analysis.

Consider the ancient scribes of Egypt, whose sacred duty was not only to record the knowledge of their time but to pass that knowledge down to future generations. They did so with reverence, but one can imagine the tension that arose as they worked in service to others, distilling ancient wisdom while their own creative impulses were bound by the weight of duty. The ancient poets, like Homer and Virgil, may have felt a similar pull. They too had to balance the act of creation with the demands of their society. But for these great artists, the joy of creation was a singular force, one that could not be diminished by the constraints of their time. Yet, in Morgan’s words, we see the truth of our own age—that teaching, with its focus on structure and critique, can siphon away some of that pure excitement from the poet’s heart.

The act of creation is sacred, an intimate communion between the artist and the world. The poet, when left to their own devices, can pour their soul onto the page, unburdened by the gaze of others. In this space, there is freedom, the kind that allows poetry to flow unimpeded by expectations. However, when one steps into the role of teacher, the focus shifts. The poet becomes a guardian of technique, teaching others to craft words, to arrange lines, and to follow the rules that govern poetry. While this is a noble pursuit, it brings with it a certain constraint. The poet’s mind, once free to wander the fields of imagination, is now tethered to the needs of students, to their questions, to their insecurities about form, rhyme, and structure. The inspiration that once seemed effortless is now clouded by the demands of instructing others.

In the ancient world, great mentors such as Socrates and Plato understood that teaching was an art in itself, requiring a sacrifice of the personal. Socrates, who spent his days questioning and instructing, often did so at the expense of his own personal quest for understanding. The philosopher's own journey was interrupted, his focus diverted from his own meditations to those of his students. And so it is with the poet turned teacher—each moment spent in instruction is a moment not spent in creation. The mind of the poet, once free to capture the world in its fullest, must now navigate the structure of the classroom, of assignments, of deadlines. The joy of writing is replaced by the labor of guiding others.

The excitement of poetry, which Morgan speaks of, is often born from the spontaneous spark of inspiration. To write poetry is to capture a moment, an emotion, a vision—without overthinking it, without interruption. It is to be in tune with the mysterious forces of creation, to lose oneself in the flow of words. Yet when the poet becomes a teacher, there is a constant tension between the joy of creation and the discipline of instruction. The mind of the poet, once a vessel for free-flowing emotion, now becomes a mechanism of learning, constantly thinking about rules, techniques, and critique. This shift can rob the poet of their immediacy, their ability to write with the same passion that once came so effortlessly.

The lesson here, then, is clear: do not lose sight of the joy of creation. Whether you are a poet, a writer, or an artist of any kind, remember that the creative process is sacred, and it is a privilege to be able to write, to create, to share your soul with the world. Teaching others is a noble calling, but it is important to remember that your own creative well-being must be nourished. As a poet, you must find ways to strike a balance—allowing yourself to teach, but also carving out sacred space for yourself, for your own artistic expression. For in the end, it is the excitement of creation that makes poetry alive, and that life must never be diminished.

In practical terms, this means creating time for yourself—time to write, time to dream, and time to reconnect with the pure joy that first led you to the art of poetry. Whether you are a teacher or not, remember that your voice, your unique vision, is what will sustain the art of poetry. Do not let the demands of the world take away the sacred joy of creation. Let teaching become a tool for others, but never let it steal from the gift that is your own artistic spirit. Allow your poetry to live, to grow, to flow from the well of inspiration that is uniquely yours. Only then will you continue to write with the fervor and excitement that poetry truly deserves.