Written
12: 03: am
I begin between these black lines-
white spaces blinking back-
my two hands outstretched
crafting nothing;
I cannot write;
crossed;
blocked, stoppages,
tea cup emptied,
usual tricks limp-
my muse bereft,
I am alone with
the fulsomeness of it.
12: 15: am
My Gods are all adrift.
My well's dig down
out of reach;
my mind's fount's dry-asleep.
Panic now
in this chronicling.
12: 20: am
Poetry's realm from me retreated
a cruel feeling;
that which came so easily before
is now silhouetted dimly.
I cry
a dry uncryable tear.
12: 53: am
I cup
a new cup of cold tea.
1: 03: am
Whatever this is
come to me
gradually curiosity
now feels greater than
my writer's grief.
I want to see
the outlines the specter is
to write nothing when nothing's there
no face
no driven ideas
no words span
no creativity transformed or fixed....
1: 33: am
Hushed
I lie down with it;
exhausted on my bed of paradox-
it's experience embraced.
I am swept to the surrender
of writing about the nothingness
at my pen, now shaking.
2: 53Lam
three drafts;
a small epiphany:
Ample is all experience
no blank lines will ever reach
or witness.
By this
my last lines written
after
2: 53: am
from listlessness and nothing
to expressions of same-
poetically-
minor miracle this.
Lonnie Hicks
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/written-4/
