If I Can't Write, I'll Write About Why

I haven't written a poem for a long time now, except for that little piece about the jabbering schoolgirl. My mind hasn't been in the poetry zone since I heard I had to leave the Lookout and find another place to live.
What's a poetry zone, I hear you ask? Isn't anything a suitable subject for poetry--moving house included? Yes. But then you have to organise the lines and think of the harmonics and all that kind of thing; and I'm not in the right frame of mind for harmonics.
So it occurred to me this morning that I would use my writing time to tell you about the thing that is stopping me from writing. It probably won't produce very much of literary worth, but it'll keep me busy when I'm not working or phoning estate agents, and my experiences might chime with a few of you out there.
Somebody might even give me indefinite use of a big country house to get my inspiration back on track. They did such things for Gregory Corso and for Ezra Pound. But I'm not holding my breath for that.
Anyway, in the next few weeks I'll be telling you, among other ramblings and ruminations, what happens as I search for Lookout #2. Write and tell me what you think.


Anonymous said…
I give. What makes you called your heavenly abodes "lookouts?" It makes me think of Kerouc's Desolation Angels.
Bruce Hodder said…
Throw in Hunter S. Thompson's "fortified compound" and you're spot on.

It's that combination of poet-in-the-clouds and paranoid survivalist which characterises me so well.