Is it because we had a three-day weekend, because the California sky was unusually gloomy, because I woke up too early – we had a power outage last night and our clocks got mixed up – or because I am putting the final touches to my middle grade novel?
I have felt restless and unproductive all day. Unable to write anything that could even remotely express my feelings.
Among the bloggers I read a few are poets. I admire their ability to convey in a few lines, sometimes a few words, their complex emotions, inaccessible dreams, inexplicable fears, invincible hope, and infinite love.
When I read their poems they become mine. Poets, better than fiction writers, are the spokesmen and spokeswomen of the collective human condition.
I used to write poems when I lived in France. I never wrote any since I moved to the US. Not even in French.
Tonight I found a poem by Georgia Douglas Johnson, which captures to the perfection my Tuesday blues. How can poems whisper so eloquently to our souls?
My Little Dreams
I’m folding up my little dreams
Within my heart tonight,
And praying I may soon forget
The torture of their sight.
For time’s deft fingers scroll my brow
With fell relentless art—
I’m folding up my little dreams
Tonight, within my heart.
Tomorrow is another day.
Evelyne Holingue 