poetry from another dimension

on writing

no writing today
it’s just not happening….

and then away from the desk
neurons fire
images form
words and images flit across the blank page of this mind
they are good ones,
I think

“it was not a good day for writing
it was a good day for editing
cloudy and damp
the house was clean and tidy
the plants watered
the tomatoes from the roof garden ripened on the shelf
it was a mystery, how that happened
narayani annapurna sat down at the desk to transcribe …ah ..,…ah…”

what was transcribed?


is that a word? transcribed? oh no, passive voice
what did she transcribe?

“you are trying too hard”
the voice said
are those tomatoes ripening mysteriously?

/*the experts are not fond of adverbs*/

frozen like a deer in the headlights
(uh oh, is this a cliche?)

what kind of job is this that one sits in a room by oneself
and either restructures ones thought
or doesn’t

wondering what a writer does
on a day like this
where everything feels forced

/*what does a writer do, she wondered*/

can you transmit the flow of thinking
onto the page without judgment or criticism?

this, she cried, is a job for failed meditators
or expert ones, depending on how
one looks at the thing

what the helll is wrong with this sentence anyway, maybe it WAS a dark and stormy night


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