I am doing poetic gymnastics tonight:
Inverting, reverting, imitating
Writing backwards, writing across, using
Fake translations, getting drunk: nothing
Is coming out. I am poetically constipated.
Somewhere in me there has to be some poem.
I am made of poems. I have, however,
Extracted every flowery synonym that was close
Enough to the surface to be easy and now,
I suppose, I’ll have to do some real work
To find the next layer of authentic expression.
I think I’ve always known this: that one cannot
Dredge poems from one’s fingers with a little
Bit of exercise. A poem requires a lifestyle
Of heart opening observation and wrenching
Self-reflection, bleeding onto paper.
Tonight, I am too depleted to write a poem.