Creative block in Kolkata

My mornings ,these days,begin suspiciously
Like remnants of the last night’s rancid dreams
Words pour forth as though they were thoughts
I stand on the edge of this nineteenth floor room
In the same plane of existence as my eagle-friend
And shout them into the charcoal smoke-filled air
They all come back,over dregs of my morning tea
As so many empty resolutions, so much semantics.

In the Kolkata of 2004,my mornings began with the smoke streaming from the earthen stoves and metallic crow-caws. The days stretched interminably with no poetry in sight .That was when the block was recognised and needed to be tackled .Poetry did not come from the white skies.

When that happens, withdraw and hide.Play with the words and produce a steady torrent of words. Words do not really matter .Because you are not going to save them for posterity. Let us see what the subconscious says. What you say does not matter but say it continuously and in profusion.Streaming of art , that is what they say.