I Can’t Write Anymore

The title of this post may sound brutal but, then, the title isn’t exactly true either. Yet it is what I have been telling myself pretty frequently over the last couple of months.
Usually, it involves looking at an empty page, flinging my arms skyward, cursing, before exclaiming “I can’t write anymore”, “I’ve lost the words” or something similar.
During this time I’ve only written two poems and I wrote hardly anything poetic during September. Well, I wrote one poem during the month but at most no matter how many times I read it I could only categorise it as inoffensive. I can’t feel any more enthusiastic about the words than that. My response to my own work is lukewarm. I apocalyptically opine that I have been deserted by my Muse. Though I occasionally think I can hear her laughing behind my back as I stare at the flashing cursor on the naked flesh of the computer screen.
But then this is what I do. I always used to resent the time I spent writing poetry while I was trying to keep up my daily word count in my fiction writing. It took me a while to accept that I needed to have the creative escape hatch of writing a poem unconnected to the story universe I was writing in while I figured out the problems within the fiction. Sometimes though I used to write a poem connected to the fiction, cementing the atmosphere of a story location in my mind or allowing a character a chance to express themselves outside the restrictive form of sentences, paragraphs and chapters.
But still, in my mind, it was only sentences, paragraphs and chapters that mattered when it came to word count. And a lack of word count was one of my favourite things to beat myself up with as a writer.
To that end can writers not share on social media messages such as “… written 5k words today, best day ever whoop, whoop… ” or complaining “… 11 am and have only written three chapters so far today… ”. Because I can’t relate with that, the more relatable message for me would be “… really pleased, with today’s score Chocolate Biscuits eaten 7, Words Written 8 …”. That’s the sort of message that resonates with me.
Yes, I’m very happy with the chapters that I have managed to write during September and October. I’m especially pleased with the opening sentence of one particular chapter …

… yet I stress myself over my lack of output when I need to look at my creativity more holistically.
I know I need to be kind to myself, yes quite a lot of the time my creativity, the poetry especially, comes out of the stresses and anxieties within my life. But if I focus too much on the negatives I risk shutting out all the other avenues of creativity for occasionally I write about sunlight and warm feelings. Too much darkness will only lead me into a dead-end of zero creation. Word-count is not my friend because I know I need time away from one creative coal-face occasionally to recharge my batteries. And finally if I wake up in the morning and write five-hundred words relating to a completely separate project in a storm of creativity that is because that is the strand of my subconscious that wants to communicate at that moment, I shouldn’t try to silence it and having ideas on one topic can lead to more ideas in time on other projects as long as I am patient with myself, because I need to make-believe. And I need chocolate biscuits too but that is a separate story.

© 2019 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Misbehaving

This is one of my favourite all-time posts and was originally posted on the 18 May 2016. So much so that I thought I’d share it again, hope you enjoy

photo credit: Leda via photopin (license)

photo credit: Leda via photopin (license)

I was forced today, very much against my will, to go for a coffee. The rain was beating down, seriously threatening to move me beyond the status of drowned rat to something far more wretched. And while I wasn’t sure caffeine was the answer I felt there was no harm in at least exploring that hypothesis.

I had work to do, the most urgent thing being meeting a deadline which had less than twenty-four hours to run but even though I had everything I needed with me to do some profitable work, my mind wanted to misbehave. So there I sat in a riverside location watching ducks go waddling past and people rushing by trying to avoid raindrops. While overhead the sky became increasingly ominous.

So I sat there and I wrote three poems, which seem to be linked or at least sit together with a degree of comfort. Not that they are about anything apart from daydreaming and misbehaving.

PS. And I’ve met that deadline too, so not a bad day all in all.

Grey Lady

photo credit: IMG_1158 via photopin (license)

photo credit: IMG_1158 via photopin (license)

No matter how much you disguise
Or hide the beauty inside
You never fail to shine.
In a world of billions of shadows
I’m praying Grey Lady
That one day
You shine your light on me.
 
© 2019 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Somewhere

photo credit: Eyes Color via photopin (license)

photo credit: Eyes Color via photopin (license)

You move in silence
Like an angel.
A halo of gold framing your face
Like a coronet marking that you are
Not of mortal kind.
An elfin beauty, ghost of a smile
Curving your mouth
And setting stars aflame
Somewhere in the unfathomable depths
Of those blue, blue eyes.
 
© 2019 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Linger

 

photo credit: Autumn lips via photopin (license)

photo credit: Autumn lips via photopin (license)

You are something and nothing
The beginning
The moment it all ends
That headlong rush in the dark
The luxuriant feel of summer rain upon my skin
The fear
The pleasure and the pain
The ecstasy
The moment
Your lips first linger on mine

© 2019 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Musings

photo credit: Gustavo Minas penumbra via photopin (license)

She is the primitive fire
That creates a spark with my soul.
That burns with an intensity
Beyond my control.
She is Lilith, my personal demon,
Haunting my dreams,
Showing me visions
Of somewhere beyond Eden.
That in my lucid moments
I try to capture on canvas
In a paint mixed with my blood.
She is curse and trusted companion.
She is my mistress and I am her fool.
 
© 2018 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Return of Light

photo credit: MattysFlicks Smoke art – Droste effect 3 via photopin (license)

Welcome the light
Inside this hollow frame.
This crucible
Gives spark to the flame.
Emotion is oxygen
That gives life to the fire.

Pain is the shadow
That flickers the shine of the star.
Love is the wind
That breathes hot on desire,
That gives me sight
Of the blaze from afar.
 
© 2018 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Make-Believers

Day 13 and a poem of thanks to all the wonderful creative people out there …

Made of sticks and stones

photo credit: donnierayjones Thinking Inside the Box via photopin(license)

To the pretenders,
The make-believers,
The dresser-uppers,
The dreamers,
This goes out to you.
The singers,
The poets,
The actors,
The writers,
For making dreams come true.
Those artists
And dancers
Making it up,
Making believe it’s come true.
To everyone out there, thank you.
 
© 2017 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

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Runaway Train

There is an energy within me,

A buzz.

It cannot be contained or bound

By structures or hours.

It does not acknowledge the rules of society,

It moves with an ever increasing head of steam.

Faster and faster

Pulling everything it passes into the vortex

Created by its wake.

A screaming maelstrom of chaos,

This hush.

 

© 2017 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.

Originally Published 6 April 2015

Heaven help us, he’s been thinking again

I have been working my way through some old notes and came across these few lines.
It is not poetry or anything much of anything in particular, it is just a random thought and as it from old notes, I’m not quite sure what prompted it. Still, I thought I’d share it anyway.

Even if you allow
For reincarnation,
You only get one shot
At this life.

That’s it, no more thinking for now. I’ll go back to some more, aimless, staring out the window.

© 2015 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.