Frustrated Writer

I was thinking about my reasons for writing. It’s a narcissitic activity. Adding yet more words to the already huge word mountains we try and tackle each day. Let alone the forests and lakes of conversation we try to navigate. From the beginnng of my writng this blog I’ve had in mind the image of joining up the dots of my life in the hope that others will see familiar patterns. (And “dot” pictures aren’t always buttercups and daisies. There are stinging nettles and brambles as well. But they have their place.) So this week I wrote what I’ve called A Prose Poem about Writing. I hope you like it. Feel free to add your own lines. About why you sing; or dance; or paint. Or simply about why you live.

I write

“Write. What shall I write? I’ll write for departed that they may rest,” said the priest.

“Write What shall I write? I’ll write for my patients that they may mend,” said the doctor.

“Write. What shall I write? I’ll write for the children that they may learn,” said the teacher.

“Write What shall I write? I’ll write for the people. That they may know the Law,” said the judge.

“Write. What shall I write? I’ll write for the poor that they become rich,” said the politician.

“Write. What shall I write? I’ll write for the lonely that they may know joy,” said the composer.

“Write. What shall I write? I’ll write for the land that It may flourish,” said the gardener.

Write. What shall I write?  “I’ll write for the future’ said the poet”

 Write. What shall I write? “Here I stand,” said the writer “I can do no other.’

I think therefore I write.