I'm not sure that I'm a poet anymore. I'm not sure of too many things these days. I mean the inkling or creative urge to write doesn't seem to surface much anymore. It seems stifled by the logic that I have very little to show for several years of devotion to poetry. My detractors will be saying at this point that I finally have seen the light and that thankfully I'm not writing poetry anymore. Perhaps they were right all along. I have very little in the way of proof to the contrary.
And although I am sure that a workshop - whether online or real time - would probably definitively resolve the question as to whether I was meant to write poetry or not, I am at a loss as to why I am not participating in a workshop at this time. I was saddened to see that the Gazebo had become a derelict. This has left me with no creative place to go online. I long for a time when I would visit an online poetry workshop and revel in how a writer or reader could completely misconstrue the gist of a poem or worse yet MY poem.
I have been reading about bloggers who are changing directions. I believe that Sandra Beasley is right on when she asserts:
A blog just...waits. Like a plant waiting to be watered. Except if this plant dies, you can't just surreptitiously pitch it down your building's trash chute in the dead of night, swearing to yourself that you'll do better next time. It's a little more public.... Blogs aren't the place for firm conclusions, at least not for me. I see them as organic structures, plants with dirty, messy, unstoppable roots. You can feed them, or tear 'em out by those roots when the time comes.
Yes...no argument here. I've tried to tear this blog out by the roots but have been unable to destroy what has now turned into a four year labor of love???? There is a part of me in every post and yet I'm no longer that person that wrote this blog four years ago when I could barely keep up with responses to the blog or ideas for another post. Turning to Facebook hasn't worked for me. It hasn't reignited my interest in poetry. That lack has been translated into my recent posts and I get the feeling that people come back to this blog out of a morbid curiosity and no longer to read what I have to say.
The odd thing is that I keep getting invitations to submit my work, but I don't know quite what to say. My shoulders hunch and the air seeps out of my lungs till the last breath.