My Galatea

I’ve encountered the first of the “tough” days this month, when inspiration comes slowly. You can’t force it, of course, but waiting for the flow to begin can be frustrating. Many poets have turned the nature of their (temporary) inability into a progressive paradox, so it seems that I’m at least in good company. Here’s #5, finished not a half hour too soon:

 

My Galatea

I’ve been trying to sketch an image
but tonight my pen must be filled
with invisible ink
because I keep
drawing blanks.

Any endeavor
toward deliberate manifestation
yields spontaneous combustion
as the canvases pile higher,
drab
white
and dangerous.

Grasping for a dry brush
with sweaty palms,
I become the unintentional
sculptor sculpture, suspended
in too many thoughts.

But somewhere
inside the writer’s block,
the living likeness of my muse
draws breath
as I draw blanks

And by her patience
I am humbled.

 

In conclusion, I’m left with a piece of advice from my inner poet: There is a statue waiting to be carved from every writer’s block. Give her patience, and say a small prayer to Aphrodite; your Galatea will come.

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