Your juices won't flow. It feels as though you will never write again. Or the things that used to get your writing going, just won't do it any more. You've got writer's block.
If you're not suffering from it at this moment, cast your mind back to the last time you were blocked. Imagine the block as a figure, a person, a voice, or an image...it might be anything. Write something from the point of view of what's blocking you. Jot down a few things it might say to you.
Or....put down what freaks you out about not writing. And carry on from there.
Or....is there a physical sensation when you think of being blocked? Let that be your starting point.
(Don't forget if you start getting too uncomfortable, get up, take a walk around, drink some water, talk to a friend)

Sue Aldred, 20th June


Old Knebworth Lane

In Old Knebworth Lane
I walked alone
under the black
sky with its stars
in a wonderful order.
And as I looked up,
deep under the stars
was
God.

Dennis Tomlinson

Narcissa

At the stream’s edge she is lying on oak-tree roots,
her arms in the icy current,
trying to cool the fever of her wishes.

She is a tyrant to her boyfriends.
The marks on her wrists state her displeasure.
She is a princess, queen in the making,
and doesn’t yet know the meaning of second-best.

It is a fast stream, that comes from the heights
of Dinas Bran. She can see through it
the shapes of the boulders and fishes.
Her scars are soothed in the flood she can’t measure.
How can she be anything but beautiful?

She says it is the expectation of others
that makes her scream, no, I am not that.
Those lovers, those enemies, wanting her to be
something before she can tell her own mind.
Searching her reflection she finds a worse fate:
no-one is there.

Sue Aldred



Poem To Go Here

An opening that’s
sharp and pointed,
without stabbing you repeatedly in the eye, saying
look at me… and stop screaming.

No, it must have subtle touches
that stroke you like a curious gorilla,
a simile or two,
that memory of the rain.

Nothing stolen from that book you’re reading:
your own voice, with the dull parts
carefully omitted.

It has to get from A to B
without repeating A or B
and going via C.

It must not have long, overcomplicated, prosaic lines with too many syllables.

To be good enough for competition,
no rhyming or repetition –
definitely no repetition –
with words that skim from line
to line with effortless abandon
after the fourth draft.

Nothing too heavy, nor pleased with itself,
not too many unwieldy,
expressive, over-emphatic
adjectives,
a fixed focus,
a sense of purpose,
a sense of form,
a sense of fun,
a sense of truth,
a sense of rhythm –
use all five senses,

words that bite (for the love of God, no clichés),
real emotions,
sensitive thought,
avoiding lists…
and end with a twist.

Don’t swear, and avoid all that
postmodern shit.

...

No more than one side of A4.


David Van-Cauter


Swallowed

With a notebook under my eyes
I am talking to myself.
My words drip from my lips onto the paper,
making rigid stains.
I switch on my computer.
The white screen gleams.
It feels I’m in a waiting room
in a train station.
I type my words and the letters follow
like ants.
But when I close the file
they are swallowed into a tiny byte
and become invisible.

Outside girls are laughing.
Their voices are bouncy.

Yuko Adams


Not Touching

It comes over me
like the flatterned muffling
squark of Blackbird flight
left to right across my cheek.

My elbow will not bend
to touch; thumb too numb to feel
the not touching touching
you left all over me.

I've carried the scar struck
silver on my skin
it's dry weight
flaking falling and reforming
time and time again.

Water peels me
holds me close
turns me blue to red
my tingling palms
retrace the mark
where I wish you were not
not touching.

Charlotte Harrison