for no real poem has a first line
any more than a real book
has a first page
it comes out of a dark lost forest
or a bright unknowing cloud
or an unbearable pain
so unbearable that even
if you wrote the poem on a piece of paper
and threw the paper away
it would ease the pain
or a childhood so miserable
that only a complete change of life
could recognise one single beautiful thought
or an astonishing moment
when you knelt and prayed
for the first time in your life
to a god you did not know
with words you did not understand
for they were not even words
or the moment when all the horror of the world
faced all the love and beauty in the world
and both were so taken aback
that they could only embrace
and later, speak
or a nowhere and a nothing
so stark that only poetry
without a first line
Oo er, missus, you've got some source, Mr Shepherd. ; ¬) Danny
A highly imaginative tribute to that creative muse that lurks in the depths of despair and in the farthest star twinkling in the night sky. Mr. Shepherd your penning is glorious as usual. love, Allie xxxxxxxxxxxxx
...so true, Michael. Our writings are indeed the expressions of the forces that play those, seconds, minutes, days, weeks and years, co-mingle-ing chemistries that produce (at times) some powerful poetic energy. Blessings, Debora
Michael, this is an inversion of the Derrida problem and may well have played into his hands - language that's almost beyond our ken and an absence of it which we can identify with to perfection. Brilliant as usual. If it isn't actually here with us, that first line is certainly more than present in spirit. Fiendishly clever. jim
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
This poem is breathtaking in its imagery and its truth. I read the title and had to know more. You are right in everything you said. Martha