Not Wanting to Write
by Bill Yarrow
I don't want to write about suicide
or surgery, fantasy or accidents,
inheritance or reduction in force. I don't
want to write about the body indulged,
desires denied, tortures invented, pleasures
innate. The instinct to wickedness. The pull
toward God. I don't want to write about need
or drinking or apathy. I don't want to make up
specific details of universal experience or recall
the smells of childhood. I don't want to ransack
my imagination for booty or autopsy society's corpse.
I don't want to crawl into corners, investigate attics,
or poke in holes. I'm done with ambition,
with all the strings and pulleys of art.
I just want to lie down
inthe sunrise of your heart
inthe garden of your heart
inthe orchard of your heart
inthe river of your heart
inthe forest of your heart
inthe harbor of your heart
inthe village of your heart
inthe chapel of your heart
in your heart
in your heart
or surgery, fantasy or accidents,
inheritance or reduction in force. I don't
want to write about the body indulged,
desires denied, tortures invented, pleasures
innate. The instinct to wickedness. The pull
toward God. I don't want to write about need
or drinking or apathy. I don't want to make up
specific details of universal experience or recall
the smells of childhood. I don't want to ransack
my imagination for booty or autopsy society's corpse.
I don't want to crawl into corners, investigate attics,
or poke in holes. I'm done with ambition,
with all the strings and pulleys of art.
I just want to lie down
in
in
in
in
in
in
in
in
in your heart
|
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Author's Note
A version of this poem appeared in Eunoia Review. Thank you, Ian Chung.
A version of this poem appears in Blasphemer (Lit Fest Press 2015).
See Yeats' "The Circus Animals' Desertion": http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/172071
Other stories by Bill Yarrow
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Nothing is ever as we wish. Doesn't mean we can't seek to make it so.
"I don't want to write about suicide / or surgery"
Me either.*
In the sea of your heart, in the molecular pincushion of your heart. in the vacuum of your heart. In the whizzing by at light speed comet of your heart. In the Frankenstein virus of your heart.
At least ennui remains to be written about.
one of those days when the feeling of not wanting to write becomes the writing itself.
wtg bill
The older I get the more moments I have like this. Days like this. When I understand this is what it's all about. *
Oh yes. Another dimension - the there that's not there. I like this.
excellent stuff.
Thank you, Gary, Amanda, the other Gary, Jamal, Mat, Sam, and Neil for your excellent comments.
This is pretty funny. Fave. I'm glad it appeared in Blasphemer — that's apt!
Is life a stike-through? *
I remember reading this or one like it with strike-throughs in Eunoia. What a fine poem! *
This is great, and what makes it great is the end where things are crossed out. It really makes the point, painful, beautiful, urgent.
Thank you, Smiley, Daniel, Ann, and Darryl. Your comments are all great and I appreciate them.
The eternal conundrum.
Bill, I feel this one deeply. Ha. You've really captured that certain state.
*
Thank you, Larry and Deborah!
Ain't the literary life just peachy? ***
Amen and screw it. ;) *
Thanks, JLD and Rene!
I love this, Bill. Smart, swift work.****
Thank you, Jen! Nice to see you back here!