Ever felt like this?

[Leanne]

It is less than two months since I last swore off writing poems.  I still have not written a poem, unless you count a couple of rude limericks and a rather angry verse that repeated the word "fuck" several times but didn't really say much else.  So, no poems.  The world has not fallen apart.

 
But I have.  I've still carried on life much as always, making sure that I get information from myriad sources on as many subjects as possible to stay informed and ahead of the game if possible -- but without poetry, all of these things have been dumped into my brain with no way to download them.  Poetry, I now realise, was my way of making sense of the world and in its absence, I have lost myself beneath piles of unsorted horrors, injustices, hypocrisies and the occasional kitten video.
 
In the absence of poetry, I have found excuses.  I have become the whiny, annoying person who can't help undermining all the goodness in others because I can't see it in myself.  I have actively sought reasons to avoid anything that might make my life easier, or anything that seems remotely creative because I mistakenly conflated my ability to write poetry with my underlying creativity and thought I needed to turn my back on both.  My anxiety has increased and my empathy has been reduced to virtually nothing.  
 
And so today I sit and write this with a wish that I had a poem to fix it all, and realise that the well is too muddled with pollutants to yield anything pure.  All I have are disconnected phrases and an overwhelming sense of cliche.
 
This morning I realised that to be human, I need poetry -- and it's gone.

From my blog

[rowens]

When I first came to this site I said I believed that the world is nothing but poetry, the rest is raw animal pain. The fact that I've never succeeded at anything in the literary world only means that I'm a failure in the literary world, not that the world isn't nothing but poetry. When I spend most of the day or night writing something that no one may even read I feel like I'm digging toward a spiritual world that may not be there. An irony that never pays off. But the struggle always pays off, because the struggle is the only thing that's real. Most more practical things than writing poems and stories and all the experiences that go into working on these things aren't worth the time and effort.

[Achebe]

...without poetry, all of these things have been dumped into my brain with no way to download them.  Poetry, I now realise, was my way of making sense of the world and in its absence, I have lost myself beneath piles of unsorted horrors, injustices, hypocrisies and the occasional kitten video.....

So poetry is your conscious dreaming, your untangling of thoughts, feelings, and associated shopping lists. This is interesting, because for me poetry is pure escape. When I was younger and brighter, I was happiest with a blank piece of good quality paper and a fine tipped pen. Whether writing poetry or drawing doodles of the fictitious Mount Gazooka, or trying to prove that x^3 +y^3<>z^3 (which was always beyond my abilities), with my simple tools I could withdraw into a secret world.
For you, though, poetry is very much a part of the world you live in. 

That is an observation.

Not that you're looking for a solution, but given that your sense of the sardonic hasn't weakened, perhaps you should write a few Monty Pythoneseque sketches for posterity.

[tectak]

It is less than two months since I last swore off writing poems.  I still have not written a poem, unless you count a couple of rude limericks and a rather angry verse that repeated the word "fuck" several times but didn't really say much else.  So, no poems.  The world has not fallen apart.

 
But I have.  I've still carried on life much as always, making sure that I get information from myriad sources on as many subjects as possible to stay informed and ahead of the game if possible -- but without poetry, all of these things have been dumped into my brain with no way to download them.  Poetry, I now realise, was my way of making sense of the world and in its absence, I have lost myself beneath piles of unsorted horrors, injustices, hypocrisies and the occasional kitten video.
 
In the absence of poetry, I have found excuses.  I have become the whiny, annoying person who can't help undermining all the goodness in others because I can't see it in myself.  I have actively sought reasons to avoid anything that might make my life easier, or anything that seems remotely creative because I mistakenly conflated my ability to write poetry with my underlying creativity and thought I needed to turn my back on both.  My anxiety has increased and my empathy has been reduced to virtually nothing.  
 
And so today I sit and write this with a wish that I had a poem to fix it all, and realise that the well is too muddled with pollutants to yield anything pure.  All I have are disconnected phrases and an overwhelming sense of cliche.
 
This morning I realised that to be human, I need poetry -- and it's gone.

From my blog

Stop whining and write a bloody poem.
From Tom the Pom (Hell, your moaning monologue was poetry in itself. Just punctuate it to perfection,  chop it up in to bizarre enjambments, centre justify it and post in Serious. Of course, there is always the possibility you have suffered a micro-stroke, Can you stick your finger up your bum and whistle "Dixie"? In tune, that is )

[ellajam]

Hey, Leanne, I can't quite put myself in your place because I think art for me comes after the processing. It is more my way of grabbing private time when I am fully enveloped in my own thoughts as in Leave me alone, I'm concentrating on this, not the rest of you.

I haven't been finishing anything lately, edits go unposted, each occasional new piece temporarily abandoned. I've been reading fiction more, which is nice, and I bought a new iron and have filled my head with quilting patterns but haven't picked up a needle yet.

I don't stress about it, I know something will start up. I'm looking forward to NaPM, writing bad poems sometimes leads to a good one.

But for you, using poetry to live, I'd suggest you stop making yourself miserable, if there's a form you haven't perfected dig in, or see if you can write one haiku you like, it might take about a million. Choose to be happy, and if you need poetry to do it, best do it. If you can't right now make a serious effort to learn another art that will do at least some of the job. I know it sounds like bullshit, but choosing joy is real. Rise up. xo

[aschueler]

Ok, I hesitate to post because I am quite the newbie, plus I dont pretend to be good at poetry, but yes I can relate.  

Not to get autobiographical, and skipping a lot of detail not needed, when I was an undergrad at UF, I at least felt that I had to choose writing or medicine.  So for about 20 yrs I tried to stamp down the writing part of me.  It doesnt stamp down.  Day to day it goes on unabated, so I toss these things around in my head until they get written.  Even if no one sees them.

So, my firm belief, impossible to prove but I can go on and get close to proof, is it cannot be stopped anyway.  You just temporarily altered it.

God knows why you swore off writing, its like saying "Today from hence forth, I will no longer poop".  Now you are constipated.  Have a big stinky one and then you're cleared out.

[ellajam]

Ha, thanks, Leanne. This thread made me go back to a site where i used to write on fist line, last line threads and threw off a few. It felt good.

[Todd]

This morning I realised that to be human, I need poetry -- and it's gone.

And it will come back.

Yes, I feel this way off and on. I was reading, Best Words, Best Order by Stephen Dobyns, and he framed writing poetry and fiction in a way I hadn't considered. Paraphrasing (and probably going too high level to give his position any justice): If he hates people and the world he can write fiction but not poetry. He needs to at least love others or their plight to write good poetry. I don't think that has anything to do with the content of the poetry (which can be all over the emotional spectrum and the content can be biting) just the impetus to write in the first place.

I go through what your talking about each year at some point. The reason differs: life's demands, skill deficit, not inspired, inability to get the right level of distance, or a variety of who knows why reasons. There are times, I feel like I can write anything and other times that I can't make anything come together. I've been more in that latter camp at the moment, but it always comes back.

[Grace]

Don't worry - your next poem is an arrow. You are drawing it back on the string of your bow.

[milo]

It's like quitting smoking, the first 2 months are the hardest.

[ellajam]

I understand not writing, but I've been thinking about the why of swearing it off. If it's because most poetry is shit, well that's no reason, the ones that work are wonderful. If it's dissatisfaction with your own writes, that doesn't seem a reason not to write, just keep going until something is satisfying. If it's because you want to throw out the keys that work for you we do have that suicide thread you can write in where as long as all is despair and misery you're in. If it's because you want to prove to yourself that you're stronger than other humans and don't need to be soothed, good luck with that.

So, you've made me think of reasons to swear off something, probably none of which apply to you, but I wonder why you would take that stance.

[Leanne]

This is why I stopped:

TS Eliot smoked himself to death. At the end,
he was more kipper than man, fit only for
consumption by his own cats. They were –
like the continuing and eternal success
of poetry – to remain in his imagination.

Lungs and poets have a poor relationship. For
Shelley, that didact and dire romantic target of Eliot’s
contempt, contemplation would have been more
profitable were it of sea-legs rather than those without
trunks. Even lovers cannot breathe the ocean.

Dante died in 1321. Another didact, TS said. Politician,
partisan and papal agitator, a rough baptism in tempestuous
Spezian seas might seem preferable to a narrowly-
escaped burning at the stake, and the unavoidable
eventuality of febrile seizures and malarial termination.

Despair does not overtake the world at the death
of a poet. When Thomas went ungently under
the influence of alcohol and smog, he left behind him
₤100 and villanelle. A life filled with words, reduced
to a repetend. And on.

But at least we know their names. A thousand poets
every year cough their last, from smoke or drink or
drowning or disease or nothing more threatening than
despair. And Ashraf Fayadh waits for death in a prison
defended by the allies of freedom. Of freedom.

Yes, Shelley, poets may try to legislate – but all the laws
are lost. The world shrinks and the bites get bigger. Words
fade behind the gunfire that is masked by the white noise of
spluttering justification. But it comes to this: when you
can do no good without dealing in evil, you can do no good.

And the good can do nothing.

[Leanne]

God knows why you swore off writing, its like saying "Today from hence forth, I will no longer poop".  Now you are constipated.  Have a big stinky one and then you're cleared out.

More like "henceforth I will no longer masturbate" Newbies are more than welcome to offer input, especially when it's clear they're in the right place.

Stop whining and write a bloody poem.
From Tom the Pom (Hell, your moaning monologue was poetry in itself. Just punctuate it to perfection,  chop it up in to bizarre enjambments, centre justify it and post in Serious. Of course, there is always the possibility you have suffered a micro-stroke, Can you stick your finger up your bum and whistle "Dixie"? In tune, that is )

If I stick my finger up your bum, how good will your attempt be?

But the struggle always pays off, because the struggle is the only thing that's real. Most more practical things than writing poems and stories and all the experiences that go into working on these things aren't worth the time and effort.

I have never been a fan of the practical... I've often been criticised for a lack of emotion in my writing and I suspect that's part of why I feel my voice is lost. Also, maybe it's that it takes me less time to write a poem now, so I'm not appreciating the effort. I barely raise a sweat

Hey, Leanne, I can't quite put myself in your place because I think art for me comes after the processing. It is more my way of grabbing private time when I am fully enveloped in my own thoughts as in Leave me alone, I'm concentrating on this, not the rest of you.

I haven't been finishing anything lately, edits go unposted, each occasional new piece temporarily abandoned. I've been reading fiction more, which is nice, and I bought a new iron and have filled my head with quilting patterns but haven't picked up a needle yet.

I don't stress about it, I know something will start up. I'm looking forward to NaPM, writing bad poems sometimes leads to a good one.

Aaargh, the idea of poems not finished is physically painful to me! I don't get OCD over housework or keeping my desk neat (to the chagrin of many), but leaving words half-punctuated and hanging over an abyss -- that's a horrible thought. I envy you this ability.

Don't worry - your next poem is an arrow. You are drawing it back on the string of your bow.

Thanks Grace

Yes, I feel this way off and on. I was reading, Best Words, Best Order by Stephen Dobyns, and he framed writing poetry and fiction in a way I hadn't considered. Paraphrasing (and probably going too high level to give his position any justice): If he hates people and the world he can write fiction but not poetry. He needs to at least love others or their plight to write good poetry. I don't think that has anything to do with the content of the poetry (which can be all over the emotional spectrum and the content can be biting) just the impetus to write in the first place.

I go through what your talking about each year at some point. The reason differs: life's demands, skill deficit, not inspired, inability to get the right level of distance, or a variety of who knows why reasons. There are times, I feel like I can write anything and other times that I can't make anything come together. I've been more in that latter camp at the moment, but it always comes back.[/font][/color]

Oddly enough, I've always written my funniest stuff when I'm most miserable and hating everyone. When I'm content, I can't write for shit. I suspect that's not because poets aren't supposed to be happy, but because that contentment is a veneer through which poetry has no wish to seep. I am not content to be content...

It's like quitting smoking, the first 2 months are the hardest.

I never started smoking, but you know, some times a cigar is just a cigar.

[Leanne]

At the end of the day, this is not intended as a thread about me. I will cheer myself up or I won't, and the world will go on. This is about you: what makes you question yourself? What does poetry really mean to you and to your world? Is it art or just another method of jerking off?

And when you jerk off, is milo's picture in front of you?

[milo]

I can't remember why I quit
Smoking, maybe it was for my health
Or maybe I had lost the joy of it,
I can't remember why. I quit smoking
For the money - thinking I could save a bit.
Today I do notcount my joy or wealth -
I can't remember why I quit.
Smoking, maybe it was for my health.

[ellajam]

In a little life
one almost smile is worth the day.
A heart breaks, almost heals
then breaks again
and heals.
I take mine out into the sun;
anyone repulsed by the scars
does not have to look, but I bask
in full view absorbing the light.

Some jigsaw pieces may have slipped
under the couch cushions, still
I can admire the whole, I know what fills the holes
and can see the picture filling the emptiness.

Could I dig up stories of other people's joy
to prove that all is not despair?
Sure, but why prove the obvious?
Instead I will give my brain room to bubble,
pluck the points I choose to dwell on
and two-step over the rest.

[ellajam]

At the end of the day, this is not intended as a thread about me.  I will cheer myself up or I won't, and the world will go on.  This is about you:  what makes you question yourself?  What does poetry really mean to you and to your world?  Is it art or just another method of jerking off?  

Since when is art not jerking off? At least it starts out that way. Nothing wrong with pleasuring oneself.

And when you jerk off, is milo's picture in front of you?

Not when I want something to come of it.  

[Leanne]

I went to school one day, followed a rule one day
ended up losing my head
play me some threnodies by the Dead Kennedys
make me mourn music instead

Seventeen antelopes fried up with cantaloupes
smothered with luminous rum
whingin' and bitchin' while stuck in the kitchen
and Jack's got a hold of his plum

It means what you find, it has nothing behind
but the front of the page and your eye
you never recite it, you only invite it
to breathe, to be heard and to die

[tectak]

I went to school one day, followed a rule one day
ended up losing my head
play me some threnodies by the Dead Kennedys
make me mourn music instead

Seventeen antelopes fried up with cantaloupes
smothered with luminous rum
whingin' and bitchin' while stuck in the kitchen
and Jack's got a hold of his plum

It means what you find, it has nothing behind
but the front of the page and your eye
you never recite it, you only invite it
to breathe, to be heard and to die

Fuckin excellent...forget Dixie...I never did know the tune...but for someone else's finger I guess I could pick it up.
Best, best, best,
tectak

[Leanne]

My finger's stuck up Tectak's bum, hooray, hooray!
It makes it hard for him to stand
or sit or shit, poor Tectak,
It's stuck, it's stuck, it's stuck down south in Tectak.
In muck, in muck, in muck down south in Tectak.