My stumbling block is deep inside
like indigestion. I may burp a little
but never a full-blown soul-baring.
I’m unable to write the serious stuff
the fear, the guilt, the real McCoy.
The froth of humour,
the music of metre,
the chime of rhyme,
the sheer fun of poetry
all hide the heavyweight
Mama Zen at the Imaginary Garden with Real Toads reckons that writing poetry is
f-word difficult, and suggests we write about what’s difficult for us. I was at a workshop last summer, responding to the suggestion that we dig deep. A line or two in and I was weeping, and I haven’t been there since. Do follow the link to see what makes other poets stumble.