I had a conversation with my refined, published far-and-wide poet friend about writer's block. Apparently, since publishing her latest book, she's fallen into an uninspired, even inauspicious relationship with her creative mind. And she feels it physically, the emotional pain of not being able to write.
As a writer, unknown and never-published (okay some ratty journals here and there) I can relate to her inability to write. The condition does not discriminate.
I suggested silly exercises like writing over and over again 'I don't want to write / I don't want to write,' to get the pen moving, thoughts flowing. Or that she switch environments, from her writing study to the kitchen or cafe. Damn COVID! We didn't come to an acceptable solution, not in that conversation.
Last night in bed, just as I was nodding off, I started to write a poem. I have no idea why, what inspired me to write practically unconscious, but I did. And because Cosmic Coconut is, in part, a place for me to explore creatively and non-judgmentally, I'm going to share it with you now, unedited:
that bird
is crazy
it squeals
out into traffic
no signal
there are rules here, little bird
like don't make home on a high wire (electrical)
for its easy access
to the cultural happenings
of the city.
think about where you'll find food.
haven't you had it with trash?
think about where that trash came from.
got an image?
OK, now consider what wasn't thrown out:
books (yes, still valid in 2021), music
(still valid in 2021 if you're into vinyl)
and wine and cheese (top-notch, stinky on purpose)
bird, keep your
feathers together,
worm between your beak.
laugh and let loose on the elitist
bunch
of graffiti art
white filigree (they thought)
who stole the idea
from your very, very white (sometimes grey) droppings