0303 Diary Of A Poem Poem by Michael Shepherd

The Indians have a word for it, of course -
'sphota' - not too unlike our 'photo-flash' -
meaning, an explosion in consciousness:
as you recognise it in a flash, it's not yet words,
barely an idea; just that curious urge, for it to be;

You try to get it down - the first verse is a mess,
just like your bedroom as you try to pack
a weekend case that covers everything -
but you really need it, all the same, to get to second base.

You don't know where it's going, but
your intentions are - the best;
and if Dame Fortune smiles
(a clichayed phrase, but who else can you blame?)
there comes that moment when

some mechanism in the mind
slips into auto-pilot: and you don't know
whether the words which now are lining up
are true or untrue; inspired poetry, or the mind's
rubbish-bin; just like a radio that's not been tuned;
but better something, as you think,
than nothing... then, that joy-ride stops,
as if you'd floated in some breeze-blown, fine hot-air balloon
and the moment that your feet touched solid ground,
the memory of the ride itself is gone...

Better sleep on it; you'll be
a slightly different person in the morning:
you may be grateful; groan; or get quite fond of it.

It's all in the lap-top of the gods.