Sometimes I think it’s gone forever
I want to write a poem, Seamus Heaney says, but I have no poem to write.
Nothing to say. Not a word. (Beckett? I think it was Krapp.)
The Silence. It happens. It comes to us all. (I may be kidding: I don’t talk about my writing, or even my ‘writing’, let alone my Writing. This might be about three months ago. Or years. Or even yesterday morning.)
It is there, gnawing at us, knowing nothing, like Helen Dunmore’s speaker in the desert.
We feel its presence. Its absence. Which is the presence of something not yet solid, not yet called (I like that, ‘called’, I might use it) into being.
We want it to come. It does not come.
We follow the great Ken’s advice: we ‘mooch about…mucking about in a library with no particular book in mind…going on a journey; finding silence; entering places where English is not spoken…’
It refuses to come. We actually get on with our job, the one we are paid to do, somnambulant, giving it everything. All the while there is a ticking, an itching. It is the pebble in our shoe. The lump in our throat. A kind of homesickness. Frost.
We are in a meeting and we say: Frost. We should have said Freud, perhaps, or: statistics. Or ‘I don’t agree.’ There is a shuffling of paper. A cough.
You notice: There is one fly.
Poems surround you, their echoes mocking. Poems that have actually (last week you heard yourself say ‘literally’: literally) been written. Books. You remember those.
Nothing doing. There is TV. The weather. Books by others. Poets. Do you hate them? You think you might.
Ken again: ‘…sleeping a lot and dreaming; encountering strangers; recording strange events, consulting oracles, collecting images, getting drunk, staying sober, attempting to cleanse the doors of perception or forget what I know.’ (I like that ‘doors of perception’: how cheeky.)
Nothing to show. Admin. A party. Another party. A voice that is actuallyliterally (most unlikely) yours says: Oh, yes, fine thanks, great, quite a lot, actually. That’s quite a lot of commas, even for a party. You can’t even blame the wine.
And then. And then.
Only kidding. (That’s right. Nothing.)
You pray that Ken was right: ‘Over the years I’ve learned not to sweat it. To relax and let it go or come as it will, and conclude that my purpose in life is not to write poetry but to live my life. Therefore I do that.’
Ken Smith quotations from How to Publish Your Poetry, Peter Finch, Allison and Busby, 1985.