Blank

Since I was traveling this past week, I am posting a day later than usual! When I returned home yesterday, the first paperback copies of my third book, Shadow and Memory were waiting. This got me thinking about today’s post.

Most of the poems in Shadow and Memory were written in 2022, one of the most challenging years I’ve had as a writer. In the book’s introduction I explain that 2022 was a time of transition. I started pushing past what came naturally to me: seeking new vocabulary, trying new forms, reaching for new imagery. In addition, six of the journals I submitted to declined to publish my poems. (I have since learned this is not very many submissions or rejections. So, more to do on this front). All in all, I found myself a little disoriented and lacking confidence, which made writing more difficult. That said, I’m pleased I was still able to write enough poems to self-publish a new book and a chapbook.

In some ways, I’m not out of this season. Ironically, something that really helped was my most recent rejection from Iron Horse Literary Review. The rejection included useful and generous feedback; the editor said my poems were a joy to read, that they very nearly printed one, and that they hope to see more of my work in the future. This was as encouraging as being printed. (By the way, IHLR is known for giving great feedback free of charge, so I highly recommend submitting to them). Soon after, I wrote a series of poems based on Mozart’s Requiem, and am really pleased with how they turned out. While I’m not out of whatever woods I’ve been in as a writer, these things helped me move forward.

Given the transition and struggle underlying Shadow and Memory, it includes more than one poem about writer’s block. “Blank” is one such poem and turned out to be a favorite. The imagery in “Blank” contains sensory confusion and reflects the disorientation I felt when trying to write last year.

Blank

The bedroom window,
empty and dark,
shares my mirror.

It is one of those nights
that is so cold
sound is frozen
silent,
and moonshine
rings
in the ears of a world
straining to hear
the imagery
of a mind
gone blank.