Poet asks a poet - What Do You Do When The Words Don't Come?

Naomi Woodis put up a facebook status that said "what do you do when the words don't come" and a bunch of replies followed - "table tennis! yoga! running! take your notebook and go for a walk! absinthe!"

Poet Nick Feild made a great point

"I think forcing yourself to sit and stare at a bit of paper is a good way to go a bit Black Swan. Also I find free writing really helpful, forget about form and structure and even making sense for a bit and just pour some stuff out and then see what you've got, it's quite cathartic."

we all want to write words with the weight of as many dimensions as possible and we want to write the words that almost can't be said in any other order.

Those moments of brilliance for most of us are few and far between but many of us are living for them!

now here's how poet/writer/singer/nutter Salena Godden answered the question.

masturbation...followed by hysterical laughter...then go to the nearest pub...have a beer or a glass of wine...flirt with the bar man...maybe he won't notice you much as he is wiping glasses...write about it...the polished glasses...you read a newspaper...flicking through the pictures mostly...war and war and tits...watch the sky...that's more like it...write about the lilac light of a february afternoon...then get a warm sense of gratitude...think what a lucky person you are...order soup...enjoy eating too much butter on thick chunky bread...salt...yes...another beer...wine...why not...flirt with the owner...look at the surface of the oak...wonder to yourself... are my friends with normal (working) hours finished working yet? must be soon its dusk...text 'i am in my pub, fancy supper?'...then await replies...order another beer...maybe flirt with the bar staff a bit more...or write about them all...laugh to yourself...how amusing your little story is about the old man in the corner of the pub...he has a nose like a beetroot...the street lights are orange now...its dark outside...rush hour has picked up...the city is changing tempo...vibrating differently...its not afternoon anymore...a new crowd starts to come in...they twitter..they bring cold air inside...they phone each other from across the pub... maybe your friends will come meet you...or maybe not...it doesn't matter now either way..."because the thing you were stuck writing...the block was not a block...you just needed a man with a nose like a beetroot"...and what a wonderful life it is...when we don't write about it but live inside it...