Few things in life are as deeply satisfying as the moment when I set down my pen and feel content with a poem. I am proud when a poem is published or praised, but this pride does not penetrate. No–what endures is the incredible fullness of doing something well, of coming so close to truth that it burns. Of course, this heat fades as self-criticism and reproach take back their rightful hold on my perspective (rightful because they do, for the most part, urge me to continue working toward my greatest potential), and I am left again with a yearning to live inside that brief moment of truth-fullness.

You also have experienced this fullness. The upwelling of joy shared between loved ones after a sickness is cured. The deep inhale of vastness when you reach the summit. The tenderness shared between lovers. The heavy miracle of a newborn child. The purity of grief. The intensity of naming one’s creator. You get the picture. There are moments when our souls crest with fullness, when we glimpse  life’s deepness and know its pull.

This exact fullness is both the pursuit and (hoped for) result of poetry. Poetry demands the exact word, not a sufficient word. You might read about how some poet deliberated for years between using “the” or “a” and call it obsessive. And it is, but it matters. I think we need to be a little more obsessed with exactitude, with truth-seeking, than quantity, generalities, and mass-appeal–catchy words and phrases that can be consumed as quickly as a Big Mac.

Of course, after arriving at this place of fullness through writing, what else can follow but the bedfellow of truth–fear? Fear that having reached this place we can only lose it. That having experienced this fullness, this closeness to truth, we will forever yearn to live again in its presence. The fear that, even though I am proven wrong each time, I will never again write something that leads me to this sacred place.

But there are ways to live inside this fullness more often. Some people I know live almost completely inside this fullness, though I live more often outside of it than in. It is a practice. Summon the memories of those places you felt this closeness to truth. If you believe in God, which I do, you will call on those times when you felt the nearness of your creator. You will call on the deep and growing connection with your loved ones, the intense joy and sadness you have shared.

This is what poetry is about, what it is after. To hold up these moments of truth-fullness as extraordinary, to preserve them long enough that we might be reminded of what we should be seeking, of what we should live inside. Everything slips from our grasp. Poetry cups the cool water to our lips when all we have is thirst.