Venice masks

Sunday 2 June 2024

Malaise: Un-Sonnet - Debra Providence

My work stinks.
It reeks, actually, of failure intermingled with
putrid pretensions of deeper knowledge.
It stenches of vain attempts to write
with the  Walcotts, the Morrises, the Brathwiates,
and rots in  a hole that is called
“the block.”
I wait, like the corbeaux for the line
that  quivers slowly then drops on a
sandy page. I feed, like the
maggot on what is beyond
redemption, nourished,
to produce nothing
myself.

Debra Providence  (20th century) Saint Vincent and the Grenadines
Source: Writing "D"

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