Three and a half weeks ago, I had knee replacement surgery. Since then I’ve dealt with pain or being out of it because of the drug I take to ease the pain. Many writers don’t let physical problems interfere with their work. Flannery O’Connor wrote from her bed when she was too ill from lupus to sit at a desk to write. Stephen Hawking didn’t let debilitating ALS stop him from writing books dealing with astrophysics. Emily Dickinson, who didn’t show outward signs of illness, became a recluse, sending her poetry sailing through the air from her second story bedroom window.
I suppose if my pain continued I would eventually overcome it to get back to writing poetry. Right now, though, I’m in a state of suspended animation. It seems like an eternity since I went walking in the park with my husband and our little dog. Our front and back yards are putting on their spring extravaganza with everything blooming everywhere. Yet, I’m stuck in the house with only a view through the windows to taunt me. My dreary outlook blocks the pleasure I get from being out in nature, even if it’s just the nature in the park.
I did manage to write two poems and I’ve started another one today. It’s not enough to satisfy me, but it’s a start. I have a folder of drafts of poems that I never got around to polishing. Some of them are at least thirty-five years old, but they still show promise.
In the meantime, I’ll keep trying to write something, either by revising an old poem or writing about what I can see from the window.
poetofacertainage 