Barclay’s Hands Flat on the Table

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