To be honest, there is something of a mindset involved in blog writing which involves the words, the will, and the intent to compose a post, and mine has been set elsewhere. Apologies for my absence.
There is yet, however, a fog that lingers, hovering over my will to write even one poem. I have had gentle nudges and hints of prospective verse, but none have given me urge enough to follow.
So, I am where I have been many, many times before; floundering with my boat and oars on the arid dunes of disuse. But, hang on! Here I am writing again with this simple act of laying down words.
Finally come the riverlets of inspiration groping through the sand. Slowly my dingy begins to float. Soon my paddles have something tangible to work with, and I begin to propel myself into deeper water.
Free for the time being of those wasteful dunes, I can venture to say that I am back! Lesson learned, again: get these oars moving and continue to row anticipating that more fresh water is on its way.
That is, until the next dry spell. Such has been the recurring lament of this poet. At this point, some 55 years into writing, I should be able to recognize such wastelands for what they are: the restlands.
I’ve been wondering whether that exhilarating fever of being enthralled with my muse and producing substantial work as a constant wouldn’t actually harm me, permanently burn me out.
One shouldn’t suffer countless bouts amid the sorrow of the doldrums and glee atop the crests of creativity with a victim mentality. Better to make peace with the tides and accept them.
It’s all out of my hands, anyway. Why not make peace, practice patience and respect that the boat will rise again. In the meanwhile, I choose to hang out with the greats in my field wherever they are.
So apologies again for the dry spells: they’re just part of the paradigm.