(Nottingham-famous, Tom Jepson, has laid out a challenge to create content, daily, for the month of December. This is day eleven. #Dec19ContentChallenge )
I’ve just spent the last 20 minutes scrolling through my Instagram feed of poems, utterly incapable of even beginning to write anything today. As lucky as I feel to have written all those poems and left them in the open in their fairly-immortal state, it’s difficult to not compare. I remember the effort that went into each of them, some more than others, and yet, all I know is I won’t ever be able to craft my thoughts with that clarity ever again. Any effort right now seems utterly futile, as if someone’s stolen all the rabbits, mid magic trick.
And I don’t mean to be vain or sound in need of any pity but the fear that poetry would slip away from within my hands, like I’d wake up one day and lose whatever voice spoke its way into my mind that led to uncovering a poem, is one that has never left my company, ever. What’s more, I know I’ll always be able to write prose in some sloppy way. But poetry? Who is to say I’ll remember how to do that? Especially, when I never know how I ever found the words for all those poems, anyway?! Perhaps, that’s why claiming myself as a poet, with full conviction, is a stage I run — both — to, and away, from.
Me from a few years ago would never waste time stressing over any such doubts. Poems were merely a collection of words, then. Then, why do I complicate everything, now? Why has poetry become so suddenly important?
Who has the answers in this life?
Until next time.