Only Death can fire a poet.
But on the other hand: is it anything like sawing logs? Yes, if you are boring. Is it anything like building the pyramids? Yes, because as far as we know, aliens are doing it. Is it anything like construction work? Please. Women go the long way so they don’t have to pass us by.
Do we have kitten posters hanging above our desks? If we do, who can say that we do not work in an office?
Now that we’ve established that poetry is work, let’s move on to questions of productivity. How much should a poet produce, ideally? As much as one half-assed garden, planted by a person with a drinking problem, who did not read the directions on the seed-packets very closely. Elizabeth Bishop only ever wrote one poem, a villanelle about an elk breaking up with her (“The Elk Breaks Up with Me”), and if I may say so she did very well with it. Wallace Stevens only wrote five poems, and every one of them was insured for one million dollars, like a famous pair of legs. The greatest living poet, Nicolas Cage, continues to amaze us by never having written a poem at all.