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I am a very good programmer. Also modest, but that's another topic. A particular language we used at a previous employer had a very powerful editor, which had a learning curve nearly as large as the language itself. I forced my programmers to learn it, because productivity went through the roof if you became proficient with it.
Well, I was promoted to VP and thus ended most of my programming. One day, though, we had to get a project done so I assigned myself a big module to code. It took me awhile to get into that "trance state", and remember how to do certain things with that editor. I struggled. Then I hit the groove. I remember hearing the door open, close, then open again, but ignored it. (I also type so fast it sounds like machine gun fire. When I'm coding, the sound of the keys almost becomes hypnotic.) So, I coded, I really don't know how long, and then turned around to find my coffee cup. All my programmers were in my office, watching, silent, slack-jawed. My lead programmer said, "see? see?" while they nodded.
I asked them what the hell was going on, and one of them said "that was beautiful".
I put that editor through it's paces, coding the next macro sequence while the previous was still running. The percussion of the keys rat-a-tat-tat... this language was one were columns mattered (like COBOL), but I ignored that until the end, where a macro sequence in the editor "reflowed" everything. It was beautiful to watch, on screen, as monolithic blocks of code suddenly danced into shape.
I'm also a visceral coder. I FEEL loops, I SEE branches. I have the habit when visualizing the next set of code to act it out with my hands or even with whistles and so on.
Anyway, I guess my point is that code itself is poetry, but the act of coding can be a performance in its own right.
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