The last poem I wrote (excluding those I have facilitated / collaborated on with Stories of Hope and Home) was the previous year's Christmas poem, published just a few days into 2023, so this is not a recent problem. The odd line or phrase or vague idea has flitted through my mind at intervals, but whether due to a lack of inspiration, or head / diary space, or discipline or all of the above, they went no further. Some made it on to scraps of paper (or the digital equivalent) others not even that.
There has also been very little art recently either, nor in fact most things that feel like they would have needed any degree of creativity. I signed up for a course of writing prompts through advent with the aim of trying to recapture some creative energy ... and failed to complete a single one. After a while, I stopped even opening the emails.
Some of this is about actual, objective, busy-ness. I do not regret the time and energy I pour into my work (although I do wish there weren't quite so many emails!). I put much of my energy into sustaining relationships that matter to me, however imperfectly. I have turned a house into a home. I have juggled many different balls: I have let some of them drop, caught some by the tips of my fingers, but kept many of them in the air.
But I am not naïve. I know this is not really, or not only, about objective busy-ness. If that was all, I could waste less time on social media and pick up a pen or paintbrush instead. I know this is also about the energy it takes to wrestle with the right ways to respond to a society and world that is on a collision course with destruction. I know it is also about watching people I care about struggle and suffer and choosing to use my energy to try and walk alongside them. I know it is also that there are no words or colours to easily capture much of what I see around me.
Beating myself up for not being creative isn't going to solve any of that, but I do believe that finding little spaces where I can find a creative spark is also part of the solution. So a couple of Sundays ago, I carved out some time. I attended a Writers HQ writing retreat, set myself a goal of "having something on a page" and spent the day doing just that. It was fairly self-indulgent, and weirdly tiring, but very satisfying.
There were glimmers of ideas, at least some of which might turn into something. Some might not, and that's ok. In the midst of the "something on a page" there was the beginnings of a poem, about there not being a poem. A couple of weeks on, it is ready to be shared.
There was no poem this ChristmasNo rhymesTo neatly captureThe sentiments of the seasonNo wordsTo celebrateThe word made flesh
There was no poem this ChristmasNo rhymesTo neatly captureThe suffering and the struggleNo wordsTo adequately witnessTo other people’s painNo rhymesTo break throughthe overwhelming tide of tasksNo wordsTo somehow sum upThe chaos and the conflict,The brokenness of our world
There were just empty pagesResolutely blank
There was no poem this ChristmasNo rhymesTo neatly captureThe families and the friendshipsNo wordsTo adequately witnessTo the sparkling of the lightsNo rhymesTo break throughThe ebb and flow of conversationNo wordsTo somehow sum upThe chaos and the communityThe rebuilding of our world
There were just empty pagesResolutely blank
There was no poem this ChristmasNo rhymes,No words.
But the Word was presentAnd made flesh
As well as empty pagesThere was GodResolutely alive.
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