In poetic creation, there are perhaps only two pleasurable moments: ideation and, of course, completion. The first comes down to illusion, the second to relief. For the rest of the process, there is nothing but struggle and more struggle. We get one verse right, but the satisfaction of a moment disappears in the face of the need to get the next one right. We get the idea right, but the verse lacks rhyme; idea and rhyme match, but the rhythm is off-putting. And so on, plus the need to find words that, when accurate, do not fit the needs of the verse. The process would resemble the assembly of a jigsaw puzzle, were it not innocuous matter to be concatenated, were it not a hobby whose success or failure exempts the practitioner from existential consequences.