I've always been suspicious of poets and musicians, even as I confess to being strangely drawn to the former.
They take a spark of creation, and use its heat to form pre-existing patterns - the same complaint I always have about shuffling the small stock of existing symbols I have. Nobody should be surprised when there's nothing new under the sun.
Creativity is cut off at the root, so it would appear, when it is constrained into a rhythm or meter. I compare the most elegantly-crafted poem or sequence of lyrics to 'Bababadalgharaghtakamminarronnkonnbronntonnerronntuonnthunntrovarrhounawnskawntoohoohoordenenthurnuk!' and to me one represents the edited, controlling influence of the super-ego, and the other is a glimpse into the stale mouth of the id.
Yet it's clear that the world which poets seek to rebuild in their oeuvre is, like the poems themselves, subject to regulation - all the things I've mentioned before, the natural events which caused people to invent God.
The rhythm of nature is reflected in the rhythm of poetry, and the beat of musical instruments - and yet I am still suspicious of it, thinking that the author has one hand tied behind his back. Why suspicious? Is it because I long to work with the unconscious, to fuse together disparate concepts and arrive at their synthesis, their syncretic dying of the light?
Or is it because I've never mastered the language of constancy and timing, watching it from afar with a confused face, as a monoglot would watch a foreigner? What form of autism is it that craves repetition and yet is repelled by music, hearing only dissonance where apparent harmony exists?
