It’s been a while since I wrote a poem. There’s many reasons for that – I’ve been doing paid work as a Simulated Patient, and other creative work which takes away from the energy I have to give to new poems, and I’m pouring energy into my relationship with my son while we do remote learning. It’s not always positive and it’s exhausting. In any case, here, finally, is the next in my pandemic poetry series.
The Waiting Place
At first it was frightening and new
And writing was a salve
For the crush injury of lockdown
Then it was blessed rest
A time to reflect
But now there’s no need for nursing wounds
With verse anymore
And we’re cursing
How soft these feathers feel
Because the wind in our face is what makes us real
And we’re clipped
Once we slipped off our roost
And ducked and weaved
And lived and breathed
There’s no going back
To the nest
Comfortable, yes
But uncomfortable in that comfort
Even my poetry perches
Tremulous
On the edge of branches
Words refuse to come unprompted
Like getting blood from a stone
When there’s nothing piercing my heart
In the waiting place
This space is not for reaching out of
I keep starting sentences with when
When, I think
Not if (surely not if)
I’ll unfurl my wings
And we can
And then
But whenI think
I think
Therefore I am waiting
The void fills you
So you fill the void with words
But what is language
When you have no-one to speak your truth to
In the waiting place