Writer's Block

I used to go through periods
of writing nothing at all
and made myself believe
that it was writer's block,
that I simply had nothing
to say--nothing worthwhile
or meaningful, anyway.
So one day I had an idea--
I'd call myself "purple bastard"
after Barney--the purple dinosaur--
who would sing this nauseatingly
sweet song to little kids on
public television:

I love you and you love me
We are happy family…

Yes, I said to myself, that's it.
I'll post something on the internet,
which is totally ridiculous and
stupid, under the alias of
Purple Bastard.
Little did I know of the mess that
I was getting into--
The Purple Bastard came alive
like some bright ray of hope--
yes, I was free to be myself again,
no inhibitions, no stuffy pompous
notions of what a poet is or
what a poet should be--
just these simple words
to fill these blank pages…

Writer's block?  I don't think so.

Perhaps it was always sadness,
those feelings of being worthless,
of being nothing.
For it's up to us what we choose
to reveal or to hide,
it's up to us to love or hate
who we are,
for, after all, Barney is just another
clown, dressed in a purple dinosaur
suit, having no social import.

Whether sincere or fake,
we have to live with who we are,
and every poet is just a painter
with a palette of words,
and when this poem is done,
it's time to paint another one,
taking the chance of being
ridiculed or misunderstood.

Yes, poems wilt like flowers,
with new blossoms budding
each year--
it is only love that remains
constant,
nourished by what we do
and what we say
to each other…

Writer's block?  I don't think so.
 

                                    July 13, 2002
                              --Alexander Shaumyan