This nothingness that feeds upon itself:
Pencils that turn to water in the hand,
Parts of a sentence, hanging in the air,
Thoughts breaking in the mind like glass,
Blank sheets of paper that reflect the world
Whitened the world that I was silenced by.
There were two years of that. Slowly,
Whatever splits, dissevers, cuts, cracks, ravels, or divides
To bring me to that diet of corrosion, burned
And flickered to its terminal.—Now in an older hand
I write my name. Now with a voice grown unfamiliar,
I speak to silences of altered rooms,
Shaken by knowledge of recurrence and return.
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Comments
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This poem speaks to me of the misery of writer's block and the relief of its departure.
For a professional writer such as Kees writer's block is a major problem when all one can write on a blank sheet is your name and anything you do write feels unfamiliar and unusable.
"Now in an older hand
I write my name. Now with a voice grown unfamiliar,
I speak to silences of altered rooms,"
Obviously he had overcome his problem when he wrote this powerful piece. -
I can relate to this poem so much. Thoughts have broken like glass in my mind, and pencils have turned to water in my hands. Thoughts have been unfinished, and I have sat for hours in front of mocking pages, empty and devoid.
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good
i like it. It speaks to me. -
I like this a lot- writer's block! I feel this way sooo much, just can't think of anything, can you? Great piece!
Jen
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