She laments her lack of inspiration publicly, asks for advice about how to find her poetry again. For reasons I am at first unaware of even to myself, I don’t believe her. Surely you can write a poem if you need to it’s just that it could very possibly be shit. That’s the block. It isn’t a true standstill it’s a standoff with the words. They are always there but if you think you can stare them down into cooperating you’re cute and also delusional. This is why writing is a relationship and a tough one at that. The words are teaching you about yourself all the time and they will use whatever brutal tactics necessary to keep you on your game. To break you down and rebuild you when it’s time. You can have your poetry just not on your own terms. Poetry is an engagement with a cosmic thing, a strange and wild and insistent miracle cloaked in the shape of a random stranger, a nameless passerby on a dirty crowded city street. Seemingly unrecognizable, and yet there is something in the way it catches like a hook at the corner of your eye and makes you turn around. It’s the uncanny familiarity that knocks you off guard. Can you stand to look at what is looking back at you. That depends. You have to care entirely too much and at the same time not at all. Drop the ego, drop the pretense, drop to your knees. You have to learn to trust in something which is invisible, impossible to see or explain. It isn’t that the words won’t come. It’s keeping the faith in what they may reveal that can slam you hard against the wall you hadn’t realized you constructed brick by brick yourself.