A writer’s block is equal to A poet’s clog… says who – says s1ngal. Although, a poet is a writer too and hence it’s a-okay for em to have a writer’s block but I’d still want to come up with a similar phrase. Hence, the poet’s clog. Author’s gridlock! Screenwriter’s cork! Speaker’s choke! s1ngal’s broke! All right, I’ve run out of my phrasal creativity.
So now, why the poet’s clog and how. It’s been a while since I have wanted to write a poem on a metaphorical storm that seemed to be brewing out there. When I’m not typing on my keyboard, it seems easy to be writing this poetry in my mind. However, the moment I step up to actually WRITE it, it never gets done. NEVER! It’s a total clog!
Last Saturday, this metaphorical storm was supposed to hit us. We prepared for it, planned way ahead as to who would be responsible for what. We had our emergency kit ready, our evacuation procedures in place and then we braced ourselves. We were ready for the storm to hit us – and us, we waited. It was quiet, kind of eerie quiet and I knew this was the calm before the storm.
The calm lasted a bit too long for us to realise there wasn’t going to be any storm. We were devastated. The storm never came. Despite knowing that it would have been a disaster had this metaphorical storm hit us, we still felt bad – like we were robbed/ deceived/ cheated.
Were we sad because the storm never came? Or… Were we sad because we had prepared so much for nothing? Had the wait been so agonizing that a brutal storm could have felt better? Is it the knowing that we never got to know what would have happened, that caused the pain? What devastated us more, we know not.
Did we want this?
Being human means being confused, it’s what we’re eternally condemned for, I guess.
The preparation, the wait, the calm, the eerie quiet, the unbearable stillness of (storm) brewing – all added up so much that my only way out was to write ONE poem. Which, too, like the storm, never happened. At the end of the day, like they say “one man’s poison is another man’s cure” and so it happened – the poetic poison became the blogging cure.
Some day, I may be able to pen a poem on the pain of the wait for nothing but for now, I’m happy I’ve got something to post.