I've been able to write very little this last week, after a long period of inspiration that produced 5 or 6 really decent poems (a good average), and a lot of stimulating blogging. It's been one of those periods when as the Motorcycle Boy would say, "California got in the way"--although in my case that's only a metaphor!
There's been too much death around; I can almost feel the Grim Reaper breathing his stale cigarette breath on the back of my neck. First my friend's friend died; then another friend's daughter reported that her best friend at school had been murdered; now someone I know, a nice kid who has called me dad ever since we met, has miscarried her baby. With so much sadness around, my mind is too heavy, too disjointed, for writing poetry. I have been pulled into the world-- head, hands and all. And there's this woman, but--I don't want to tell too much about her yet. I'm too concerned that I may yet look a fool.
I sit down with pen and paper, or wait with finger poised over my keyboard, but the poems just aren't coming at the moment. Still, I won't label this creatus interruptus as Writer's Block. I'll just keep writing, however formless or uninspired, however flat the language, and work my way through the Doldrums by sheer force of my persistence. And in the meantime I'll keep my eyes out for the Reaper. I understand he bears a strong resemblance to Keith Richards of the Stones.