Jimmy Burns

THE OTHER BLOC

During my career as a teacher I often worked with reluctant writers who often cloaked themselves in the excuse of writer's bloc. For more than twenty years I wrote every day and encouraged my students to do so also. During March 2005, I suffered a massive stroke. As a survivor, the writing became problematic.

For two weeks after the stroke I lay in a hospital bed in Wichita, Kansas able only to make slurred sounds with a jumble of words from my head. Prior to the "horizon event" I had been a published poet with some success. I feared I would never write another poem. As sick as I was I still composed poetry in my head with no escape from mouth or by my hand possible. My first poem after my horizon event was about the rhythm and poetic nature of the hiccups I experienced after my stroke. Brief and skinny, the poem rolled around in my mind and was repeated over and over until it was stuck in my brain. The second poem born from trauma was "composed" during my 800 mile transfer to a recovery center near my home in Texas. The ambulance attendants' leather jackets smelled of cigarette smoke as they loaded me to a gurney for travel. During transfer from cold, snowy Kansas to springtime Texas I counted the many potholes which the ambulance rolled over and composed a poem about the cigarette smoke upon their jackets. The recovery of my poetry began.

Upon arrival to Health South Rehabilitation Hospital, my home for the next two months, I slept most of the day. The next morning I awoke with a wheelchair parked next to bed. A Hoyer lift put me to my chair for therapy which included teaching me how to sit up, how to transfer from bed, how to dress myself and other skills needed for recovery. During therapy, I continued the process of mental construction of short poems in my Mind. I had difficulty speaking to the point that the staff called me the "quiet man." Gradually my communication skills returned. Still it was impossible for me to write coherent sentence with pen and paper. My writing appeared to be scratches painted with black ink. The crude art of poetry eschewed.

The hospital sent me home in early June when my insurance ran out. I was weak but attempted to write without any success. Still the poetry rumbled in head. I continued to recovered, but my pen remained mute. I openly question whether I would ever physically write another poem. On August 9th the catalyst for my return of written composition. My Father died. The day after his funeral I sat at my desk armed with a yellow legal pad, a pen and the keyboard of my computer to write with my usable right hand. I copied poetry recorded from my ordeal. Later, 5 poems written during this day of starting over were submitted and published.

The story didn't end there. I continue to experience this "other bloc." There are days I don't write because I don't have the stamina to sit at my computer. Frequent changes in my prescribed medicines affect my ability to tap the source of my inspiration. I usually don't write on the day of visits to my doctors because I am tired. Since my initial stroke, I have been hospitalized 12 times, mostly for congestive heart failure and pneumonia. I write when I can in the hospital to be "translated" later to my computer.

Other writers complain about how disabilities cut into their time to write. I too, share this experience and not able to generate the output I once did. Disability challenges the poet with physical road blocks. Some you hurdle, others you go around. By accepting these challenges the poet increases his choices as a writer. As for me I will write poetry until I no longer can.