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I begin between these black lines--
white spaces blinking back--
my two hands outstretched
I cannot write;
tea cup emptied,
usual tricks limp--
my muse bereft,
I am alone with
the fulsomeness of it.
My Gods are all adrift.
My well's dig down
out of reach;
my mind's fount's dry--asleep.
in this chronicling.
Poetry's realm from me retreated
a cruel feeling;
that which came so easily before
is now silhouetted dimly.
a dry uncryable tear.
a new cup of cold tea.
Whatever this is
come to me
now feels greater than
my writer's grief.
I want to see
the outlines the specter is
to write nothing when nothing's there
no driven ideas
no words span
no creativity transformed or fixed....
I lie down with it;
exhausted on my bed of paradox--
it's experience embraced.
I allow myself to be swept to the surrender
of writing about the nothingness
at my pen, now shaking.
three drafts done and then;
a small epiphany:
Ample is experience
such that no blank lines will ever reach
or witness and this is all the artist needs.
my last lines written
after 2:53 :am;
from listlessness and nothing
surrendering into expressions of same--
creates the minor miracle;
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Reviewed by Christine Tsen 7/4/2011
This immediately becomes a lesson in confronting and contemplating our resistances and expectations for creating, and you write of it so profoundly and intimately.
I have been away...mama died.
Reviewed by John Flanagan 7/1/2011
Minor miracle indeed - well above minor, Lonnie;
this is timesheet of personal becoming
and invention in the very best sense.
"I am alone with the fulsomeness of it'
Reviewed by Regis Auffray 6/30/2011
A most compelling way of "looking" at writer's block it seems to me. Well done, Lonnie. Love and peace to you,