threads of ink
by jsenn

I discovered this week that when one cannot write,
the bones in the fingers ache. I felt myself to be
a spectre without shadow, an extra, suited for the
making of "Night of the Living Dead."

I wasn't sure what the meaning or the point was,
but I'd begun to understand with clarity that
there is an enigmatic "thing" which weighs upon
the soul/brain/heart, the being, if you will, of
a poet who, for whatever reason, is unable to write.

It felt like an illness yet there seemed to be no
medication for this malady. There was no, "take
two of these and call me in the morning." I told
myself it was a waiting game. (But, I resisted
strongly, using the word, "game." I already knew,
the "game of life," when given free reign over
creativity, can be dangerous.)

Perhaps that's why I was so fearful. Never before
had I felt pain like this. Always, I could begin,
just begin to write and the creative ability
appeared in some manner, at least words could be
written, now there is nothing, no possibility
of ability.

In desperation, I began to read. I read writers
who'd gone before me. They are writers to whom
I'd not for an instant presume to compare myself,
but they knew what I'd been feeling! They
understood. They could describe this condition
within my soul. Then, Ray Bradbury said,
"Not to write, for many of us, is to die."

Enlightenment, for me, is often found in the
simplest statement. It was then I understood the
point, and the awful pain. It was then I knew
that I'd begun to die. I'd already felt the
enclosure and the first agony as the poison
began to seep into my blood. Life itself sought
to kill me, and it seemed there was no escape.

The "mentor poets" knew the illness, but they
also knew the cure. "We must write where we are,
when we can and when we cannot, we must write,"
they said to me. "We must write when it makes
sense and when it doesn't."

Now I understand, this is a battle. It's a
battle with life which seeks to destroy within
its gnashing teeth any vestige of creativity.
One poet said, "we must take up arms, each day,
every day." Sometimes the fight is gentle, but
it's still a battle, and "...the smallest
effort to win means, at the end of each day,
a victory."

What is the cure? The pen is the cure.

these threads of ink I hold
will spin webs of delicate intricacy
and words borne by fears and dreams
will be gold tinged
mine
spirited
free

Joy Senn
7/19/2002
fy/d&l

Quotes in italics were written by Ray Bradbury,
in his book "Zen in the Art of Writing."