new old kid on the blog,
with an occasional
old or new poem written off
the old writer's block
No sooner does the light go out and the heavy head fall upon the innocent pillow than the deathless opening lines of an immortal poem stamp themselves "indelibly" into that space formerly known as the mind. This is a routine and fairly predictable occurrence.Experience has taught that switching on the light, batting-about as silently as possible so as not to awaken the other breathers, trying to find a writing instrument, and pursuing these lines onto the page of a notebook, is a course that leads directly to an amplification of the usual insomniac madness.Infallibly, the lines are gone by the following day.What a relief! That much less useless baggage to have to tote into eternity!
The line, the line that appears To disappear, time after time.