Not a short story, essay, haiku or limerick

In keeping with both my promise of more work, and the recent theme of restlessness inherent in the drought of writing, I give you:

Not a short story, essay, haiku or limerick

It feels, tonight, as though
I should be writing,
penning a short story,
a poem or two, an essay—
for God’s sake,
at least a haiku or limerick.

So I prepare my mind
for the task at hand in my
pseudo-traditional way,
scraping together a stiff drink
of gin and club soda and lemon
(as I am out of tonic and lime)
and heading outside to enjoy
this and a cigarette in the
cool night fog of summer.

I light with a cardboard match
from a hotel book, douse it
with the dew settling on the
table, and press my pen
to the paper. And wait.
And sip. And
drag. And swill.
And wait. And
pull. And gulp.
And blow. And
wait.

Finally, after the cigarette
is burnt to a nub, and there’s
not a gulp’s worth left in
my low-ball glass or a word
down on the page, I sigh
and lean back in my chair,
trying to figure out whether
that bright speck in the sky
is Venus or Jupiter. Eventually,

I open the white storm door
and head back inside, not yet
convinced that tonight was
not meant for writing, but
that I will need a bit more
coaxing before anything
spills out onto the page.

Quite frankly, I’m still waiting…

Un écrivain va mourir

After an entirely-too-long-absence from the Blogosphere, I’ve decided to return and put a few more original pieces up. Look for a new poem everyday for the next few days. But, as for this latest work:

An old compatriot of mine dropped me a line recently. A fellow poet – the below-mentioned “Mac” – thanked me for my comments on his work, but scolded me for being self-deprecatory of my own work: I had hinted at the fact that I had been experiencing something of a dry spell recently, then spit the last two lines of the poem below at him. Little did he know that his comment would spur me on to write for the first time since August. (If you don’t speak French, I suggest Google Translate.)

Un écrivain va mourir

In the midst of a group
of young academics discussing
Irish writers and their politics,
or lack thereof,
or the complications thereof,
or the pretension thereof,

I find that the thumb of my left hand
trembles uncontrollably, rattling
the page like boots sloughing
through the leaves rotting on the ground.
Those around me turn to look
as I pretend to search for a pen
or a book, until the fit ceases.

Hier, un écrivain est mort à son lit.

It is a drab November on Earth,
and though my years have been brief,
I feel as feeble as a man far advanced,
beyond the petty difficulties of literature
and romance,
but unable to tie his own shoes.

Aujourd’hui, un écrivain meurt à son lit.

You seem to think I’m modest about my work,
as though I’ve been clandestinely churning out
poems for the odd months that it’s been since
we last bantered and prated. But you should
know by now that I’m a real pig-headed bastard.
And that I’ve eked out five poems in as many months.

That’s one reason I admire you, brother.
If I were as prolific as you, Mac, I’d be
a god-damned writer by now.