Barclay’s Hands Flat on the Table
formally subdued by the selfish pleasures of lazy
consonants
Barclay surrenders with his hands flat on the table
experiences
a crisis of imagination
the perennial detour
it is a failed attempt at an exercise in trusting the
sacred duty
locating specific coordinates of semantic tangles on a
steno pad
it is one thing to live in modest house aside hostile mountains of hope
it is quite another to faithfully render yourself helpless
to bleak subjects
at a creative intersection
it is a state of grace
to covet the badly drawn anxieties of abandoned light and
lost possessions
to comprehend the concise expression of last embraces of
fruitful characters
Barclay’s hands flat on the table
the uncertainty wrings and twists in his heart
one last sentence dancing in flames he cannot touch
cracks through his knuckles
poetic parlance politically incorrect
a contrarian view the hour of the lamb
Barclay yields with his hands flat on the table
head hung mouth dry soul
empty tongue tied
writing carried to the
extreme
woeful for last words to
come
ill served consumed
relentless
Barclay’s hands flat on
the table
while he waits for words
to reanimate
**
I want so desperately to write. But, I feel a weight. A
heavy weight pressing down on me, feels like it’s stopping my heart. I can’t
identify the source. Sadness maybe? Depression? Loneliness? There are so many great ideas rattling around
in my noodle but I can’t seem to get them on the page. I see the stories, hear
the voices, long to write but I just can’t get it out of me. I start/stop, get
excited then become complacent. I read books, watch films, I daydream but I can’t
seem to settle any of that dust on the page. It hurt. Physically, spiritually
and emotionally. How can I call myself a writer if I can’t maintain a healthy
flow of work? Are you a writer if you’re not writing? I manage poems. Small
snapshots but I want meaty stories, character development, dialogue, plot and
the apex. I live for writing yet I cannot summon up enough courage to be
inspired by anything. Except that I cannot write. It’s a boring complaint, dull,
whiny even. Worse when all I can write about is not being able to write – hence
Barclay’s poem.
I’m in a rut. It’s a long-lasting one. Scary. Unhealthy.
Damaging. Soul-crushing.
Help.
In propinquity,
Nic
