Why did I stop doing what I love?
I used to love writing long poems. They were the perfect playground for me as a writer, letting me experiment with form while messing around with images and narratives. Then, inexplicably, I stopped writing them. Poems became shorter, boiled down and pared to the bone, while longer pieces morphed into prose short stories.
I do enjoy the short poems and stories, but I miss the hook of the long poem. When I look at novels becoming novellas and blog posts replacing poetry, I yearn for those meandering stanzas even more. Maybe they could be the bridge between slop and literature, the gateway drug to whole poetry collections instead of doomscrolling memes and kittens and propaganda.
Last week I forced myself to write one. It didn’t work. The muscles were dead. I cut and cut and cut until I had but a cool sonnet. No long poem. No muscle rebuilding. But, the urge grew stronger. Ideas and snippets accumulated in my notebook. I have reached the point where I am ready to sit down and give it a serious try.
Sharing this post is a warmup. I’m stretching here, getting ready for a real workout.
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