It’s a good day, I said, the sun angling through the red gums hooking our attention.
I don’t know, he said, Friday was pretty impressive too [referring to the hailstorm]
then he looked at me, knowing I’m a poet, and said, you gunna write about it?
& I said, without thinking, when I get time, Mark, when I get time
& I thought about it afterwards, how you could write about almost anything at all
even the least bit startling — a rock maybe metamorphosing into a frog, the hurtle of creekwater rounding a bend, a screech of cockatoos tearing up the sky
there’d be so many you wouldn’t know where to stop. You’d be writing all day
& the night would hold some surprises too — a spider abseiling down a branch, a fuchsia sunset or a blood moon, the soft sounds of love —-
everything offering itself into words: there’d be no end to it; in the end you’d have to
avert your eyes, close your mind, do what you were told never to do and NOT listen
to the Muse; only then would you get some peace, the world so ablaze with glory
the problem is not too little but too much.
is that the problem with your writing — too much to write about?
or is it writers’ block?
how do you deal with it?
