A turn to the inside, draws out liquorice laces, long and sweet to suck and chew; This turn to the inside locates in other corners of the paper-layered drawer small tacks of past stings
Scheduling a poem every day for a month (from 18 Jan. to 19 Feb.) made me feel impressively productive. Now I’m suffering for it. I have been writing long form copy for another project, but the poems seem to have stalled to less than a trickle. With this faint drip I’ve approached my notebook. I’ve tackled lines with my ballpoint on the tube and at my desk. In hopefulness, I’ve carried notepaper and pen with me on my wood walks.
Blossoms, crocuses, narcissi and daffodils announce the onset of spring. Why can’t my creative output bloom similarly?
A friend echoes my sentiments. It may soon be time for a fallow season. A poet who writes in the winter, might benefit from some respite in the spring. Let me see what happens come Thursday. Perhaps by then the tap will flow once again.
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Missing your BeadedQuill fix? Make sure you’ve got a dose on your bookshelf. There are two published books from which to choose:
Emily’s Poems for Modern Boys
Shining in Brightness