The poems I compose in my head
are refusing to be plastered on paper,
or relegated to cyberspace;
they stop mid-verse and stare.
'I refuse to be committed, '
the poem says instead,
'to words. Word-wise
I'm all in your head.' That's all.
She is not whole.
She has no soul.
'My word, ' she said,
'I'm all in your head.'
In my head,
this is what I said,
and kept adding lines
all in a slow decline:
I am attached
to artifacts....
Today at Friends of the Library,
four books I bought....
Sixty-five of my years
I lived in 'the American century'....
You can't seduce poetry
from out of sheer prose.
Her eyes just roll.
'Ya gotta have soul.'
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A lighthearted jab at that all too familiar thing some hesitate to call writer's block. I lost the rhythm after I am attached / to artifacts... however this is a very clever poem and I sense your frustration. You channeled the feeling very well and I am certain all poets can relate. Thank you for writing, Frank! Please visit my page if you have the time.