Nothing Left to Write

The pen is dry --

a stately wisp of a thing,

unable to write even the simplest

            of words, images, lines.

 

In this cathedral of stillness,

where light is a candle flicker

and paper is flesh -- needing --

soft white and crisp as nightfall, in places

            where snow still spills in soft drifts,

this room with a view is nothing more

than four walls and a theater screen

            playing the world in Technicolor.  

 

Inkwells line canary walls,

spill black taunts across my desk,

            my floor, my intellect,

but I cannot see beyond the tip

of a quill that begs for aid --

yes aid, because she cannot do it alone,

and I am unable to siphon even

            token thoughts tonight. 

 

The pen is dry --

or maybe it is me -- lacking --

insight, inspiration, intrepidity:

            a funeral dirge plays on a pipe organ

            and I close my eyes in submission. 

 

Morning lingers on a muted horizon,

ready to fan the spectrum of her feathered hues,

but I am still a writer with nothing left

            to write. 

Reviews

[Commanda Panda]

These phases are just phases. Sometimes habitual writers burn themselves out, but the urge to write again usually rears its ugly head, and soon you find yourself itching for a pen and pad. What usually happens with me is I switch forms of expression (i.e. from poetry to screenplays). No matter how you do it I'm sure your voice of expression will always be beautiful.

[Girl Friday (Sarah W.)]

Phases...like those of the moon...that's me :) Thank you, my friend!

[Jack...]

Sometimes this is what it takes to start those engines of creativity functioning again. To write about the inability to write, to lay out for the masses these feelings of emptiness, barren wastelands where thoughts once bloomed. To purge the lack and let it go, on wings of charcoal cellophane, so that we may realize that all this garden needs is a bit of nurturing to bring it back to full beauty. The sadness in this poem is somewhat understood Sarah, though I have no idea what is going on in your life right now, I do understand this feeling. We as poets have a great knack for telling it all without telling a thing.

What I do know is even during this uninspired faze you say you have landed in, your wings are still beautiful, your quill is not as dry as it might seem to you, for we can still see that talent lives within you...there is no lock big enough to hold it back.

Very sad, but very nicely penned.

[Girl Friday (Sarah W.)]

Thank you, Jack...I'm glad that you saw this piece for what it was; a transition of sorts. I'm dedicated, so even when I'm drained of creative thought, I still attempt to force myself to put something down on paper, whether it's fantastic or not. You are a great friend :)

[MsJewel]

The pen is dry, or maybe it is me lacking..
A muse must take a vacation from time to time and yes it is frustrating...
I am still a writer with nothing left to write...

and yet you have written a poem that I could relate to in many ways.
Outstanding poetry my friend. Your talent never ceases to amaze me.

:) Julie

[Girl Friday (Sarah W.)]

You humble me, Julie...truly!

[K. Louis]

A "dry spell" is the brains way of saying the next thing coming needs more time. When all fails, writing about writing works! :)

[Girl Friday (Sarah W.)]

Haha Yeah, that's the trick I was using, K. :) Not sure it worked, though...we'll see. Perhaps tomorrow the well will be filled once again...or else I'll just write another piece about not being able to write.

[Derek Smith]

The mind May Grow restless but never unimaginative. Words may come to bare when the right nerve is it.

[Girl Friday (Sarah W.)]

Thank you, Derek.

[Rita L. Sev]

The pen is dry --
or maybe it is me...

Some days it is like this... we need time to fill the well again. Those dry days are so difficult to bear - we feel abandoned by our best friend... fortunately for you, Sarah, that day is clearly not today...

[Girl Friday (Sarah W.)]

Thank you, Rita...I'm humbly happy with your review; today has been a difficult one.

[Corset]

Inkwells line canary walls,

spill black taunts across my desk,

my floor, my intellect,

but I cannot see beyond the tip

of a quill that begs for aid --

yes aid, because she cannot do it alone,

and I am unable to siphon even

token thoughts tonight.

wow, your muse is speaking in first person here, and I find that utterly fascinating.

[Girl Friday (Sarah W.)]

Thank you so much, my friend :)

[Leigh]

Could you add to the Poems about Poetry group please

[Girl Friday (Sarah W.)]

Sure, I'd love to.

[Leigh]

Thanks that would be great

[Lydia Shutter]

Siphoning token thoughts you say? Hell, these are certainly not just token thoughts...they are wonderfully written lines filled with imagery, metaphor, and emotions. We all feel the words are not free flowing from time to time. Sarah, you have NOTHING to worry about! :) Lydi**

[Girl Friday (Sarah W.)]

Thank you so much, Lydi...really...I'm feeling a little disjointed today and this is all I could muster, so I'm glad you think it is credibly and "read worthy". Humbled...