Writer's Block - Feb 11 2023

 

Writer's Block

Feb 11 2023

Not so much a writer's block

as having nothing new to say,

as well as the feeling

there's no one out there listening.

Even though I know

newness is overrated.

And that it can be how you say it

more than what.

Or it's a thought we've all had

a thing we've sensed

but never knew we shared.

Put into words

and heard

with the comforting recognition

you aren't alone in this.

And it doesn't have to be

earth-shattering;

it can be small, diurnal, inconsequential.

Because often all we want is to be reassured

that what we have in common

is so much greater

than what sets us apart.

The smell of fresh cut grass.

The sound of a kettle whistling,

and two cold hands

cradling a hot cup of tea.

A friendly glance

from a passing stranger

on a busy city street.

And the dance of rain

on a hot summer day

on steaming black pavement.

Or looking out at the ocean

as waves roll in

and losing track of time.

How they come

one after another

almost hypnotically.

How the surf breaks

and water washes the beach;

then recedes,

trailing fingers of foam

down the smooth dark surface.

And how, like a finely grained sieve

the sand empties

in the few seconds it has,

settling ever so slightly

as if letting out

a small relieved sigh.

Hard-packed sand,

newly made

with each successive wave.

Even someone

who has never seen the sea

but imagines what it's like.

I'm usually overflowing with ideas. The thoughts and images bubble up, words crowd together impatiently, and the pressure builds to write. It's more about mood than substance.

But today, nothing. A total blank. No inspiration, word play, tempting riff. Although despite the title, I'd hardly call it writer's block; because as soon as those two words entered my head, it was all I needed to get started.

When I talk about small, diurnal, inconsequential, it gets to the heart of what I most like to write: close observation and microcosm. Especially when I can do that, but still draw something universal out of the particular, generalize from the specific. So those little vignettes in this poem are most enjoyable for me. And I hope they spark that recognition I mentioned. Even if you've never seen the sea!

This is what poems do. They tell us we're not alone. They recapitulate — in compressed form, and with attention to the music inherent in language — shared emotions, thoughts, and experiences.

And since I tend to over-think and intellectualize everything, I very intentionally try to incorporate sensation into my poetry. A kind of antidote for my analytical mind. So here,

in the 4th stanza, there is in quick order sound, smell, and vision. And then, in the summer rain, not just the black pavement and patter of drops, but that characteristic and very evocative smell called ”petrichor”, defined by Webster's as the “distinctive, earthy, usually pleasant odour that is associated with rainfall especially when following a warm, dry period.”