This Thing We Call Poetry

I haven’t been interested in writing poetry for a while now. When I feel like writing, I get anxious and feverish, not because of what I might write but because of what I know I won’t be writing. The phase-out that comes while you’re writing isn’t there lately. And I’m trying not to be pushed.

2007 seems not to be my year for writing. Not in the first 6 months of it anyway. I haven’t written very much that I’m thrilled about. All of it is … mediocre? Just kind of there. Nothing that fizzes.

I guess that means it’s time of collect and make sense of. Because also there isn’t much impetus to write poetry. Nothing is moving me particularly. I mean, political events are but I vent that stuff in class or, at most, here in this blog in prose. I won’t be writing an Ode to Lal Masjid any time soon. And love is getting boring, which will happen if your love life is on rince-repeat.

I’ve written some things. But I have no idea of their quality or originality, except the sneaking suspicion that they’re not so good. That a computer programmed to “kyla-style” might not have done better.

Addendum: I read this title for a blog piece just now and suddenly felt that inner writerly lurch. Man, that’s what I want to write. That’s where I live. Damn!

Goodbye Mother Theresa

I hope the kids settle down

I must head for the Chinas

Pray to God I don’t drown

Stumble it!