It’s been a little more than a week now since I’ve had the opportunity to put up another poem of my own, and while I understand that one can’t always be inspired to work on specific things or in specific ways, there’s still that sense of frustration that arises when a “dry spell” occurs. So, I decided to write a poem about that; one gets one’s topics where one can, after all!
The Formula "Sit and think for a bit, It'll come to you; It always has before, Why should now be any different?" And yet, now is now And then was then, And poetry Is not made to order. Unresponsive to logic Even in its most rhetorical form, It follows a line and melody All its own, Declines to be summoned Except with most respect; Stays only to hear Its own self speak, Though it insists on Not being thought A pompous twit, a prig, But a voice from a heavenly aether, Or a cloud. What a put-up job! Attributing itself To a series of unknowables Or unmeasurables, in the course of things, Like muses, twilit nights, the moon, Sorrows, radiant sunshine, Genius or capacity for self-deception, Anyway-- Really, what has ever been More uncompromising than poetry? More querulous, hard to please, Stubborn, self-dramatic, Quick to anger, Slow to compromise, And all-in-all Difficult to compose And call one's own? Yet, I suppose If I wait for just a bit, Give it a chance to seem humble As if dropping in on me unawares, Uninvited and unheralded, Then I won't have to threaten it With becoming prosy, With writing a short story instead. ©Victoria Leigh Bennett, 2/28/17
Who knows if I will be able to continue poetry posts in the near future? Yet I couldn’t resist sharing this wry expression of frustration at an at least mild case of writer’s block. Shadowoperator