Monday, May 25, 2009

If I could remember the things I've forgotten, I might be a well-rounded person, instead of just round.

Yesterday I worked a bit on a rantpoem I have been mulling over in my head, and I must say: I have forgotten how to write. Not in a can't sign my checks type of way - although that might be more helpful - but in a I have the words inside my head and yet nothing I commit to page looks intelligible.

Maybe I am putting too much emphasis on intelligible?

Seriously, I remember twenty years or so ago I used to flow poetry from my very veins, and it was painful not to write. Now I am dried up, a husk of an ambition, and it basically just sucks.

Where is my voice?

And what is stultifying me into silence?


I have committed myself to a project this summer: working through Writing Down the Bones again. I am also holding my other long-ago bible, Bird by Bird, as well as a place to find a way to communicate again.
Maybe some of my exercises will make it here.
Stay tuned.

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