The Writing Dilemma

Thursday 22^nd November 2012

As I sit here wondering what will I write today, I’ve decided my offering for today are two poems, one from myself and another from a writing acquaintance called Christine Broe. I’m happy to say I’m in the same writing group as Christine, The Rathmines Writers Group.

Christine’s is a wonderful poem about the dilemma of no poem and she has given it the same title.  Mine is called Letters and it questions the validity of writing in the overall scheme of things:

No Poem

The pencil squiggles-

let it twist,

The line of words that come
come only from the wrist.

Eight bones -
the westerly most
resting on the page
as I face the window.

White space -
if I were a snail
my silvery afterthoughts
at least would leave a trail
to shine
in the absence of a poem.

White page -
product of some tree
sacrificed, bleached,
set out upon a table
for pulp fiction.

In a state of too much mind
where do I find

white space

where words will settle,

where feeling and image will copulate,
cause a silent echo

in their wake.

I am not the vessel for such gift
today.

I put the full stop here

© Christine Broe  2003 (taken from her collection Solas Sólás, published by Swan Press, 32 Joy St. Dublin 4)

Biography:  Christine Broe was born in Dublin in 1948.  She trained as an art teacher at NCAD, and after many years rearing a large family, trained as an art therapist at Crawford College, Cork.  She began writing during a temporary exile in Luxemburg.  Since returning to Dublin 1992 her poetry has received many awards, most notably, the inaugural Brendan Kennelly/Sunday Tribune Poetry Prize in  2001 and from Italy, the Premio Cittia di Olbia award in 2002.

Letters

'Oh it's writing you do is it?

Where do you get all the time'?

A telephone conversation

from a week ago.

'Yes, well, you know, I........,'

I make excuses for this excuse of a life,

feeling the uselessness of words,

the vanity and egoism behind them

and the certainty that they eventually

like ourselves vanish into thin air.

But this vanity, egoism or whatever

I choose to call it has a need or

a hunger to express itself,

And panic begins to form itself

in a heartfelt prayer

'Jesus I need to be good at something.

don't take this away from me please.'

And as I step into  the vacuum,

they call writers block with nothing

left to say, I attempt a bargaining plea,

'well you could always write your words

through me.'

Yes indeed, writing, words, letters,

the letters of the alphabet

arranging themselves across the page

from the A for abundance

to the Z for zilch.

I know the reason for this latest crises

if such a trivial matter can be called such a thing,

I suspect my conscience recoils

 at the luxury of letters.

Pen in hand,

Paper at the desk,

warm clothes on my body,

and food in my belly.

Praise and criticism alike on

the comments page of the website,

While parts of the world erupt in chaos,

and so many do the real work of helping

to relieve suffering.

'Oh, it's writing that you do, is it?'

©Rachael Stanley