A Poem About Writing Group by Wendy Bartlett

2004
Alone at Roma

I sit and wait and wonder why
The writers' group ain't comin' by
I scribble here to pass the hour
And wonder why they missed their power.

I know I'm here for myself first
The tea I bought will calm my thirst
For words that get stuck in my pen
I ask myself, do I need them?

I glance up to the door in hopes
That I may feel I'm not a dope
To think they might come here and write
And do their writing like a right.

If they and I remember well
For years all women couldn't tell
The truth that lurks in every vein
That must be written to make a change.

Again I glance up to the wall
A painter friend has come to call
Not me, but him, to show her art.
She's put the horse before the cart.

I nod and say, 'are these by you?'
She smiles and I can say with truth
The paintings here light up the place
And put a wide smile on our face.

For she's a woman who held her brush
Through all her life, in spite of the rush,
And saw her work as but life's cheer,
Her paintings, flawed, but shown and here.

But where is my dear writers' group?
Some are traveling, some out of the loop,
I hope they're scribbling in a coffee bar
In another part of the world, no matter how far.