WRITER'S BLOCK OR A CONVERSATION WITH AN INCREASINGLY IRRITATED MUSE

Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite:
Fool! said my muse to me, look in thy heart, and write.
Sir Philip Sidney



silence. silence. a hush. only the wind whispers
or maybe, maybe I’m just too tired… the lights of the city
have swallowed the stars. nothing's left to inspire… the moon?
I can’t see it… time has stalled … if only I could reverse
its insistent crawl around a dot of stillness

Again we meet. A desolate motel
of whining, prayers,
linguistic fluff and sloughs.
I'll guide you out.
Surrender and prepare
To meld my friendly flogging
with your craft.
But keep in mind, we goddesses
Get bored
When artists disregard our…


time's so slow… nights used to swallow cities, you know.
stars reigned above

Yes, go on.

a mantle of anonymity concealing
the left bank of the Seine… the candle has almost
burned down… words spinning,
but nothing solid, not even pain, just din …
dripping wax, not lacy, more like scars, but
nothing drips off the pen… except a trickle of doubt,
a longing for the lost kingdom of stars, and silence

It's dark with possibility, my dove
This rheumy pile
Of hedonistic angst.
It is a soul un-cuffed
A fragile strength.
It is a splintered vision
Of great…?


if I were a painter I’d spill this night onto my canvas... no, not in black,
it is silver with silence… and maybe a splatter of orange... because
it's more like a gauntlet than a glove…

And?

again I'm stumped.

Enough!
Really, your only problem
Is rhyming your work with love.