Putting the fire fiend flat on his back.

That title is the title of one of my old poems, taken (stolen) from a caption in the Eureka Springs, Arkansas Historical Museum, from a chronicle of the huge fires that blazed through the town in the late 19th and early 20th centuries.  It was spoken or written by someone directly involved, perhaps a fireman; I don't remember.  Anyway, it was too good a line to not steal.

I use that as an awkward segue into wondering where my own fire fiend has gone--the muse, specifically.  Maybe She has appeared again in the cyberspace of this blog, and maybe I should trust that.  It's words formed into sentences, and that's something.  In another other life, though, I was a poet, but in the last year, I haven't written much that I would call poetry.  I've revisited old work sporadically, and I took a local workshop in the fall.  But right after the workshop was over, I put away the poetry again.

I've had a jaded relationship with poetry all along, though, even when the writing has gone well.  A trip to Barnes & Noble is enough to make me 1) shake my head in dismay at all the published poetry out there and 2) feel better that I'm not producing, because so many others are.  I still go to readings, at least; tentatively I'm going to one tomorrow and one next week.  Before, a good strong reading has re-lit the fire under my ass; more recently, I just try to appreciate the poem and the effort.  

I guess if the fire fiend needs to be re-lit or agitated, he will be.  What's very different from before, when I've gone for stretches without writing much poetry, is that now I don't feel guilty--much.  I have to admit that there are many days when writing a poem doesn't seem worth the work.  Does that mean I'm lazy?  Perhaps.  It may mean I'm just unwilling to put forth the effort.

But...there's this blog.

(Now playing: Ten New Songs, Leonard Cohen.)