Poetry is not only as Eliot said, an escape from emotion—which for him meant that only people with emotion immense enough to need escaping from it can be poets. It is also escape from intellect. Yet it is an art and form of passion, and often it is a form of meaning that is also intellectual, archetypal and of importance to all thought and intellect, to the highest forms of intuition which are also necessitated in intellectual work and theories.
But somehow thinking must not be done in the poem, intellect must not be corroding and eating the face of the poem. A pensive writer destroys, begins to eat his own poetry as soon as he writes it.

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