When you 'do' poetry, it's a matter of writing and reading and reciting aloud, too.
When you 'do' poetry in writing, that means you produce it or you write about others.
Being an analyst or critic -- even an appreciator commenting a bit -- carries risks.
For one, there's seldom full agreement on anything, in no small measure because it's hard to establish anything worth saying that doesn't involve weighing subtleties or taste. A casual position you take may deeply offend either the writer or another reader.
It may put you in a world of polemics radically far from the poetry itself. Academic departments and personal reputations stake out territory. Even outside the professional area, egos always hang in the balance.
Another risk is being flatly wrong. Misreadings happen. Things fly far over one's head, sometimes, and observers evaluate analysts as well as poets. It's your dignity lost, you goof!
With that as minimal preface and humble, innoculating defense, let me catch a bit of Emily Dickinson's #419 We grow accustomed to the Dark.
Into the poem, she ends:
And so of larger -- Darknesses --
Those Evenings of the Brain --
When not a Moon disclose a sign --
Or Star -- come out --within --
The Bravest -- grope a little --
And sometimes hit a Tree
Directly in the Forehead --
But as they learn to see --
Either the Darkness alters --
Or something in the sight
Adjusts itself to Midnight --
And Life steps almost straight.
Are we dealing with contemplative seriousness or depression? Are we solving a metaphysical problem or coming to grips with ailment? Not sure there's a solution given the word 'almost'.
Right. We can adjust, we can learn anew. But 'darkness' isn't handled, necessarily, isn't finished-off or tamed. When we think so, we may just be convincing ourselves that it's changed when in actuality we've changed.
This could be a kind of 'making-do'. This could be a 'caving-in', adopting the other side as one's own, making the best of a bad thing. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em. Calling defeat victory; diminishment, growth. Deceiving oneself in order to 'move on'. Making league with forces sinister because that's life.
Maybe without fully admitting any of that.