The awful virus of it; the expectations of genius
arising out of nothing mere attention to the banal.
Over the years I’ve learned to just watch it and wait.
There’s an old haiku about writers block:
Disobedient poems! They never come
When you call. Heal, u sombitch. Heal.
But even if I sat still in the grass after a rain
there’s no promise any words would approach.
There are enough poems about rain. Is any-
thing left? What melodies play between blades
of grass? Does rain get an afterlife? Are there poems
wetting one’s pants? One should
never write a poem about poetry. It seems
counterintuitive; like getting a receipt for a
receipt. Yet I remain afflicted with writer’s
block. I toss, I turn, I can’t
break the fever of wanting. I’ve exchanged
telepathic glances with birds
read The Scoville Heat Scale for
Chili Peppers and Hot Sauces
and gasped when I saw cloud forms appear
to hold hands while skipping over mountains.
But I failed writing a poem about it
because its obvious, right? You’ve
seen it. Besides, I felt choked up
wanting my own hand held and felt
envious. Envious of clouds. Envious
of the first graze of rain across a mouth.
There are things I haven’t yet written
as there are prayers God won’t take
responsibility for. Prayers like dead
batteries. Prayers like toxic medicines.
Perhaps one could ask here:
What’s the difference between Prayer and
poetry? That’s one way to confront a
block. Ask questions: How would you
spend today if you were a goat
or a dolphin or a cloud reaching
out for another cloud while leaping
over mountains like stepping
over cousins sleeping on your dining
room floor. Every day there are miracles
and moments of beauty that need
poems; Unchaperoned flowers making
love in a field of grass. Cephalopodic
clouds shifting color, texture and giggling
rain — animals that stop and appear to admire the
light at dusk. They seem contemplative, thinking
having realized something. If only, If only…