and I am left scribbling on the bus,
stuffing poems into cracks
between two walls
of academic sound.
What of the city keeps me pent
like water suspended before rain?
Is it the sky closed by the building-line,
the absence of marshwind through my heart--
the certitude of movement
that renders it boring and
unworthy of a thought?
But every snow piles upon me like
another failed downpour--
another reason to keep rewriting,
if only to warm up the clouds
for the flood.
It's been a rough time, lately. Too much to think about, future-wise, and too little time for scribblings. It'll get better, right? I hope, anyway.
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2 comments:
I think this is beautiful, Bernard. There can be such an odd beauty in tension. Two walls of academic sound.
As for the future, it is not murder. Don't let anyone brilliant and famous tell you so.
I loved the second verse/stanza, trying to place blame on your natural surroundings for writers block, in a beautiful poetic way, that is ironic in that writing about not being able to write is always ironic? I am exhausted I hope what I wrote makes some sense... I really enjoyed this poem Bernard. Thanks for sharing this Bernard.
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