“You have to approach writing like sex: It’s supposed to be enjoyable, not stressful. If you’re trying too hard, everything will turn out awful and your partner ( the reader) won’t be satisfied.”
How daily prompts annoy!
Poetry, should appear magically:
Like twilight’s fragmented memory,
Or, catnaps in October sun’s luminosity.
Ah! ‘Tis a writer’s block, I have no clarity.
The pen poised on paper
Leaves no words,
Only an irreparable stain.
The blank sheet ruefully
Smiles, nudging me to write.
But, I’m alarmed at the vastness
of space to be filled.
Words spill out.
Is it the muse,
or my mind at play?
Ink stains; and gashes glare,
Wounding words already penned.
Unborn words freeze.
The blankness that
I have slowly filled,
Thoughts hover and swoop.
My mind continues to churn.
Creativity has no Midas Touch.
Where’s the magical nugget,
The poetic particle?
Is it in the gamut of
Evoked by lurking suspicion
And petty jealousies?
Is it in verbal foliage?
Metaphors awkwardly strung together,
Like the shades of feuille morte leaves
Curled crisp in October?
Is it in the fleeting thought,
Elusive as chimerical light,
Passing through autumnal trees:
Or, Fall’s fast decaying leaves?
Is it in the nostalgic
Amber- rustic fragrances spilling out
Of crystal jars and phials-
the mystique of feminine perfumeries?
My thoughts curl up
Lazily, Do most poets
Undergo this degree of torpidity?
I swoon losing out to
Hades’ Oblivion and drugg’d syncope.
I scan the dreaded page
Suddenly, I’m beyond all physicalities.
Space and time
Converge, in euphoria,
And poetic ecstasy!
Mumtaz N K
This poem describes the poetic process, the wavering monkey mind and creativity. It is a journal, hence it is likely to be scratched and cut many times until the poet arrives at the end product in elation.
feuille morte: autmunal shades, crimson, carmine, russet, amber, gamboge aurburn etc.
Syncope: faintness can be induced by drugs
PC: Houghton Library, The Harvard Keats Collection.