Though eventually, or maybe initially, one has to ask, "Why do it?" What is writing poetry for? That is, after realizing one can't shake off the compulsion to do it. Poetry, in and of itself, the poem, let's say, can't generate significant profit. A career, yes. But that's poetry embedded in some context other than itself. One can be a poet and teach, or edit, or lecture. But one can't be a poet, and nothing else, and eat without some form of inheritance or charity on hand. This, I am thankful for: It allows me to imagine an Epicurean monasticism which oddly enough eases the sense of being neglected by providing it a shelter.

Though what to do about immortality? Didn't being neglected amount to vanishing? Isn't that the real risk? Since I began publishing in 1968 there has been a steady paper trail of appearances or mentions. Likewise, there were enough good personal libraries where, read or unread, my books sat on shelves. So the work exists. It wouldn't be too hard to find when my name bobbed up, or someone decided to track me down. Late modernism is full of such discoveries. Besides, the chance of being forgotten is as certain as death.

"On Being Neglected" by Thomas Meyer (First Intensity #20 / 2005)