No Puedo Escribir
Tonight I can't write the stubborn lines.
Write, for example: "The night is windy and the stars have buggered off,
To laugh at me in the distance."
The wind revolves in the night sky and giggles.
Tonight I can't write the stubborn lines.
I could write, and writing loved me too.
Through nights like this one I held rhyming in my arms.
I wrote again and again under the endless sky.
The page loved me. Sometimes I loved it too.
How could one not have loved it's space for stubborn lines?
Tonight, I can't write the stubborn lines.
To think I can't finish it. To feel I can't do it.
To feel the immense lack, still more immense unfinished.
And the words skim off my soul like dew off steel.
What does it matter that I cannot write it?
The night is chilly and the words are not with me.
This is it. In the distance, someone is writing. In the distance.
My page is not satisfied that I am not writing.
My sight tries to find inspiration as though to bring the page closer.
My heart looks for ideas, and the words are not with me.
The same night is blowing leaves off the same trees.
But my pen of that time is no longer the same.
I no longer want to write, that's certain, but oh how I wanted to.
My pen tries to touch the page to find inspiration.
Another day. I will write another day. As I could, before exhaustion.
Mu voice. My bright analogies. My infinite rhymes.
I no longer love this, that's certain, but maybe I love it.
Some poems are so short, and writing them takes so long.
Because on nights like this one, I wrote rhythm and rhyme for hours.
My soul is not satisfied that I cannot.
Though this is not the last time I'll complain about it,
And these are not the last verses I'll write on it.
[It's never too early to start writing about writers block! This is a parody of my favourite Pablo Neruda poem - "Puedo Escribir." The original can be found here: https://www.poemhunter.com/poem/tonight-i-can-write-the-saddest-lines/ Though it's not the best translation!)]
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