Dear Write Out Loud

I am writing to you as you as I feel you really ARE my last hope. I’ve been suffering from what my Doctor, who, incidentally is very nice - if not considerably useless, described as - ‘a Writing Hiatus’. He also mumbled something about ‘Writer’s block’ but we both eventually agreed that Hiatus is, stylistically at least, much more pretentious and better suited when discussing poetry/writing.

I described my symptoms in those sheepish, rather coy tones reserved for awkward moments and he listened, seemingly with an attentive posture and that easy manner I often associate with audiences at poetry readings in Café bars and libraries – you know the type?

My symptoms are rather embarrassing. A slow discharge of foul smelling words and their constituents. The inexplicable disappearance of the desire to ‘perform’ my poetry and thus deflating my ego which, incidentally, marries with the almost involuntarily action of inserting superfluous modifiers into my written sentences. Some of which aren’t even sentences.

I can’t bring myself to rhyme. Not full rhymes. Not like I used to anyway. In fact, a rhyme that I found in a recent stool of writing he called – wait for this – ‘an unintentional running rhyming scheme that’s inconsistent and awkward’. Bastard. What does he know?

‘Of course it’s inconsistent if it’s unintentional!’ I barked at him but he seemed unperturbed. In my experience most medical Doctors are failed writers and I told him as much. ‘You’re a failed writer, aren’t you?’ He moved forward in his seat and fixed me with what I can only describe as ‘a steely–eyed hard-ass stare’. After the perfect length of pause he replied ‘Then we share a common bond – don’t we Mister Thomas’. I knew what he was implying but I tried to deflect his barbed comment with one of those award winning acerbic comments I was once synonymous with. After too long a pause I replied, ‘Fuck you Uncle Salty – stick your P, your H and your D up your bony pharmaceutical industry sponsored ass’ before storming out of his surgery in one of those over exaggerated strops you often associate with big girls or spoilt women. It was only after calming myself down that I became aware of my emotions. How I react to given situations – especially those seeped in confrontation and usually it’s not what I would consider a positive?

I know I’m waffling on but just bear with me… my therapist demanded that I start writing again. In any way shape or form. A probation officer reinforces her view but he’s just a friend and not directly involved as a consequence of how I’ve lived my life. The thing is – since I last wrote anything worth – let’s say a sausage – my life and my thinking have changed considerably. I’m not sure I can mine into those depths of disparity like I used to. And poems like my now infamous ‘Larry the Lobster’ are nothing but gnawed carcasses of notion with no flesh of inspiration to cover them with. It’s shit.

Two nice brothers Sam n’ Harry Tons both suggested that I write to you and your web site. They say that you have a diversified populous of multi-skill level writers who are not afraid to give you their opinion – no matter how they’ve formulated that opinion. This sounds perfect for me as I’m more than capable of talking sprouts. Any advice you or your membership can give will be gratefully absorbed and subsequently dealt upon. I have to go. Medication.

Hahahaaa - proper had me laughing this Darren! That's quality! Funny, ascerbic, self-deprecating - oo look, I talk sprouts too! In fact, that's the title of my next fucking pome. There'll be no rhymes in it though...might be some mushy peas and pud but definitely no gravy. Poetic gravy, that is. Not authentic gravy.

Nice one Darren. And sympathy. Have you tried staying up much later than your normal bedtime? It seems to unlock the subconscious mind sometimes......

bottle of wine dry biscuit an stilton cheese, but don't make much sense next morning.

where have all the right words gone,
long time passing
where have all the right words gone,
long time ago
where have all the right words gone,
gone forever every one
when will I ever learn
when will I ever learn

where have all the rhymes gone
long time passing
where have all the rhymes gone
long time ago
where have all the rhymes gone
gone forever every one
when will I ever learn
when will I ever learn

I've seen this happen before. It's really serious Darren.
You'll need to go back to the Doc and ask for a rantectomy followed by a course of slam allergen suppositories. I think you're turning into a serious page poet.

Dear Darren,

Firstly, let me say how moved I was to read of your little problem. Also by the fact that you should choose WOL contributors to be your on- line confidants and therapists.

Let me assure you that you are not alone in your heinous hiatus. Why every day my inbox is metaphorically swelled by a barrage of bruised and battered male egos, seeking to out do, outperform out write… but how to stay on top, in such a competitive environment?

Let Aunt Marj take you in hand. In my experience, before a problem can be dealt with, it must firstly be grasped; so publicly grasping your inadequacy is a tremendous step in your journey to recovery.

I imagine you now, sat in a cold garret somewhere, staring forlornly at your pencil, shuffling through blank sheets, packing away your rubber, wondering where it all went wrong…

But let’s stop right there - for I do see a glimmer of hope within your sorry tale! ‘A slow discharge of foul smelling words’ may seem abominable, inexorable, terminal even – but to me it indicates that your creative juices still flow, albeit at a depleted and noxious count… How then to cleanse these juices, put lead in your pencil and flesh on the bones of your lobster?

At all costs you must avoid the misuse of alcohol – particularly at your age. Such over indulgence can only lead to reduced artistic sensitivity, dulling of the imagination, deflation of grand designs.

Avoid all mind altering substances. Absinthe may well have worked for Oscar Wilde but its modern day equivalents may leave you shaking and sweaty, for all the wrong reasons…

Avoid domestic contentment. Happiness is to art what plaque is to dentures…

My penultimate piece of advice is that you should find yourself a muse – one that is unattainable, forever out of reach – imbue this muse with every quality you could ever wish for – then write about your despair.

Lastly, but most importantly; do keep in touch – with yourself – for introspection is a fundamental requirement of any practising poet.

You have been very brave to come on WOL and expose yourself in this way Darren. My thoughts now go with you into the future. Do keep in touch and let us know how you get on.

Yours Marj

P.S. Thanks for reminding me what it is I love about this site :)

Dear WOL
When I was a young man and in my prime I had an erection I could not bend with two hands.
Now I approach sixty I find I can bend it with one.
Does this mean I am getting stronger?

Auntie Marj

You had me choking on me coffee reading that :D :D

Dear Marj – first of all, let me say how sorry I am to hear of your swollen inbox. Metaphorical Swollen Inbox is, as I understand it, a serious debilitating condition – it still puzzles me when I hear some people actually BOASTING of a Swollen Inbox – what significantly diverse and chaotic lives they must lead? I understand sitting for long periods, staring vacantly at a PC screen can help remedy this – and of course there are the usual creams, lotions and alcoholic beverages… I should imagine?

I’m grateful for ALL the advice so far, however, I have taken your particular advice about the ‘mind altering substances’ and decided to castigate both poetry and women from my life. Afterall, you can’t have one without the other. Can ya?

Very funny!

Dear Darren,Don't worry... this is a psychological problem and once you relax, the symptoms should dissipate of their own accord. Remember you can always find found poetry, and then it is found. I suggest checking the ingredients list on the back of a bottle of Bach Rescue Remedy.

Dear Darren

Your comments re swollen inboxes are spot on regrettably, though I'd rather you didn't turn therapist on me - since I'm one of those poets who likes to let my work speak for itself...

I'm not sure if you can or can't have poetry without women - that is one for the boys to ponder. My instincts say that it is much like tea and sugar - it all depends on the palate, and the brand.

Dear Mr Coopey,

I was delighted to read your edifying contribution to Darren's thread. I see that you must have attended many of those cafe/library poetry workshops that he speaks of and are familiar with all the warm up exercises.

In fact, I think I shall you nominate you to be our very own WOL Uri Gella. My advice to you would be - Grow your hair and take some chemical substances. Poetry is without doubt an extension of ourselves - and we must do whatever is in our power to prolong our own creativity.

Dear Donna,

I like your thinking very much. Most problems in life are psychological, I find. Why only just now I ran out of tea bags and thought to myself 'why is that such a problem since I prefer drinking coffee?' Invariably problems are all in the mind and of our own making....

Yours affectionately,

Marj xxx

Dear Donna - thank you for your suggestion regarding 'Bach Rescue Remedy'. I'm not too sure that my problem is purely psychological. Only last month after a trip to Wigan's 'The Tudor House' my body was covered in small lesions that my Doctor said were known in both medical and writing circles as 'Unsightly Clichés'. I hadn't experienced those for quite some time but when I get them - I get them bad. Real bad. They're my biggest fear too. Which is maybe where my anxiety is rooted?

Anyway, need to shoot. A rolling stone spoils the broth.

DEEP THOUGHTS IN POETICAL FASHION
In desperation I sought the loo
A decision I was soon to rue
From a nagging tongue the great escaper
Was doomed to find a lack of paper.
Of my situation I took stock
A victim of the writer's block,
But worse than that was soon clear
An attack of verbal diarrhoea.
I had a pen but that was all
As inspiration came to call,
But I defied my dearest's wrath
With felt-tip over her clean bath.
When finally from the loo I strode
The bath displayed a brilliant ode,
An effort I will swear upon her
Busy hands deserves an honour.

I would not recommend my path,
But I'll accept an Order of the Bath!

Hi Darren
Sorry to learn that you are a bit of a sorry state.

I always use the same method for eliminating ,Writers Block as detailed to me by old wee grannie when she was a prostitute in Glasgow.
Two 100 mg Viagra tablets in a glass of very cold Guinness, stiffens the resolve and besides which whilst waiting the release of pent up anxiety you have something to rest your laptop against. just by way of an aside, I've often wanted to lean against Marj but thought better of it after all there only one Sunday in the week, so my old grannie would say.

Oh you are a naughty man Gus!

There you have some sound advice Darren - Viagra and cold Guinness - mmm sounds like a lot of fun.

And when pray will these young physicians ever bring out hiatus aids for wee grannies, I wonder...

I think it's high time that equality hit the pharmaceutical industry! Just imagine the havoc it could reek on the world :)

What's the good...

What’s the good of money
It doesn’t write you poetry!
Who cares about a job or wife
they’re nothing; to a poets strife!

What’s the good of happiness
It’s devoid of angst or rage.
It leaves the mind, untroubled
offers nothing to the page!

Oh what’s the good, of ANY thing
that doesn’t set your pen to sing?
who cares about a house or car
they know nothing of



pentamatar!



Now where's my monocle?

As a poet I was getting worse
Until I re-discovered verse;
The timeless key that turned the lock
And set me free from "writer's block".

No more to sigh, no more to snivel,
No urge to scribble senseless drivel!
:-)

dear Darren

The dark brown ale and small blue pill
May help you not to feel so ill,
But heed this note if you desire
To re-ignite poetic fire.
To be PC and not risk scorn -
Now scientific name's the norm.
The common name has been deleted,
"Viagra" must not be repeated.
Now, when you're in the chemists, shoppin',
you must request "Mycoxafloppin".

Oh dear - Mycoxafloppin sounds like a bacterial infection rather than a hi-atal decongestant... Do we have a doctor in the house, Yvonne? I've never met a poetic doctor before - though their scribblings might be taken for first draft poetic ramblings.

Hi Isobel

Sibling and progeny pursue the medic's path
But me, I was a teacher for a laugh.
and, bitten by the words which like to rhyme,
I now attempt to make them march in time.

Many of my family are in the teaching profession - they don't all like to rhyme but they do like to make people march...

I see you are a good samaritan to take an interest in a strange man's problems. I have a kind soul, too. Many's the time I think I should cross the road, but no - give, give, give - that's my way. Perhaps I should take a counselling course so I can get paid for it...

Welcome to WOL Yvonne :)

crossing the road is for chickens - I exclude chicken burger outlets from this as their chickens no longer have minds to make up but your strength of resolve impresses me. Of course, it is right to consider some sort of course if you have any anxieties about your donatory desires. I could suggest the golf course where the 'Gimmee' is a regular attender. However, if you local club is oversubscribed ( i.e. has too manny givers) Might I suggest a water course. There are many available at the moment (thanks to Southern Water's lamentable success in the rain dance)and I feel that "adopt a riverbed" could be an excellent money spinner for them. Jump in before it is too late ( or too deep!) patent the scheme and plan you dream home in the sun.

Mycoxafloppin?! A wonderful send-up
of those tongue-twisting medical names the quacks are so fond of - and you can't make out on your prescription when the chemist seems
none the wiser trying to read it.