Bob from Yugoslavia is owed further thanks - it appears as if the poetic inclination I long thought buried for good was only dormant, and has punched its way out of the crypt and into the thick February air.
Reading it again elbowed me to write it again.
Ideas that wandered around the prison yard of my mind for months finally reached the notebook page, and I'm back to writing what I love the most. Sure, few words are less financially viable - poetry has long been locked in the attic of American letters - but there's a satisfying notion to it that I cannot explain.
Better yet, my boss, who never hesitates to put his ignorance on display, has trashed it to me on many occasions. He doesn't understand it, he says - in return, he must demean it and those who do. What better catalyst could I seek for going back to poetry?
Sure, the poems are simpler than the rigidly-formed, impossible-to-understand verse I churned out for years. The topics are simpler still, yet modernly universal - Nigeria princes wanting my e-mail, bringing back the hat for men, posing for digital photos in those rough civil war poses (you had to be there).
The muse has not been revoked; she only took an extended hiatus.
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