Have you ever stumbled on a vein of mineral wealth in your work, a place that has been compressing inside until you open up the seam and it bulges with images and sounds? I've rarely written series poems based on emotional content, though certainly like all poets, my work proceeds in tonal phases. But recently I found an image so striking that it opened up such a seam and I could only work it through side tunnels, one poem at a time, so much was there.
I always enjoy series poems, and especially when they're strong enough to power an entire book. But I never made room for them, or time perhaps. Or conscious awareness of the veins of feeling compressed and "cooked" till ready to gleam. I hope it continues. I'd like to hear about your series poems, if you've experienced this.