Make Art, Not War

Sunday, April 24, 2011

creative constipation

The poem did not reveal itself to me.
Instead, I got a letter, a syllable, an unidentifiable shape of a thing
and then nothing
but a wanting
a deep ache, a frustrated inability to communicate.

It was a lump in my throat for days.
Every time I tried to say something- something else- it was there
stuttering. Every time someone would ask me how I was,
it was suffocating me,
flicking at the back of my neck with its finger.
I was considerably distracted.

The poem did not ask to be written.
It was unsympathetic to my struggling with it,
and it would not be treated like a hassle.
For something that must be- for the sake of my own life-
it would not go easy on me.

I thought 'if I can just give it time, wait it out' but no.
Pushing it away like that only made it worse.
Like a plaster cast left on too long
that itch that drives the wearer to the brink of madness
this poem would not wait for me.

So, I got shit faced and staged a break up.
I said "I've had enough!
When push comes to shove, you only want more!"
"Yes!" the poem said to me "And you will give it!"
And that was all.

I sobered up and found a pen.
I fumbled through a first draft
and then I laughed at what I'd written.
I decided to get back at it by giving the poem a silly name.


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