Why is it that so often, the poems you try to write, Poem by Ernestine Northover

Why is it that so often, the poems you try to write,

Rating: 4.4


Why is it that so often, the poems you try to write,
Only come into your mind, in the middle of the night,
Suddenly, a really wonderful, sentence comes to mind,
And then you start to mould some more, and that is when you find,
That come the morning, it has gone somewhere within your brain,
And however much you try a recall, it will never come again.
But if you get up to jot it down, it's not at all a good idea,
As once you've become wide awake, your sleep is never near.

Why can't we have a file in there, to which these 'flashes' go,
And with a www.poemsinthemind.com, we could reproduce them, so
That every time we start to think, we need not have to fear,
For then, when we get a super line, it's kept for all to hear.

© Ernestine Northover

COMMENTS OF THE POEM
Jim Valero 26 December 2005

The wish of many a postmodern poet, I guess. This business of writing poetry is very well described in your poem, which, I think, probably came in the middle of the night? Fact is, one is sometimes lucky to hit on a good line, a promising line, which has the feel, the rhythm, & image-quality to be developed into a full-flown poem. Sometimes a word or two come to the mind. Sometimes a complete line, or pair of lines. In many ways, the poem writes itself after that first line or image, the poet not exactly knowing which way the poem will finally go. It is this process of unfolding, of discovery, that is part of the pleasure of writing poetry. In the process, one is forced to look closesly at the experience the poem is to embody. It is then a process of self-discovery, of coming into close contact with one's true feelings, impressions, & reactions. Amazing that it all begins with a simple assambly of a few words! Thank you for this inspiring poem, Ernestine :)

0 1 Reply
Duncan Wyllie 18 February 2006

I think that you write brilliant and beautiful poetry and always something wonderful contained for us to read.It's like opening a treasure chest of ideas thoughts and feelings and we the onlooker are truly honoured to see.Love Duncan

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Patricia Gale 15 April 2006

Yes how well I know the feeling. Try to keep a tablet beside the bed and jot, but come morning the moment is gone. You captured this so well! Patricia

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Esther Leclerc 17 July 2006

As soon as you get this sorted out, I'll be the first to sign up! This happens as I'm drifting away at night and when I'm rising to consciousness in the morning. Frustrating, and you've expressed that so very well! Esther : ]

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Melvina Germain 29 August 2006

Ernestine, I thought I was the only one with that problem, now look it's every poets frustration. I think I have it beat though, I bought a mini tape recorder, of course that's the only kind you can find nowadays. I keep it on my bedside table and record into it during the night. I also carry it with me in the car etc. etc. etc. it's wonderful, 'problem solved'---Wonderful poem---I still want to be a member on that site though (Smile) --Melvina

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Stone Granite 21 June 2008

Fun, entertaining and very witty. I truly enjoyed it! ! Be happy Ernestine, for you at least good lines come into your mind, for many like me good lines enter the mind not at all! I'm not sure who has it worst. Great stuff.

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Meggie Gultiano 13 January 2008

i can also relate to this, Ern..I always have with me a small pad paper and a pen..if ever i forgot to have this around, i just pray and ask the Lord to make me remember, and presto! it works..ha ha. Thanks for this wonderful write you've shared to us.. Love, Meggie

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Elysabeth Faslund 12 August 2007

Clever girl! ! That would work so damned well! ! A notepad and pencil hung on the wall by your pillow may work...if you can understand the cunieform the next morning! Good going...keep em coming! ! xxElysabeth

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fanniesson - 11 August 2007

I guess every poet could relate to this one I enjoyed the read mike fanniesson

1 1 Reply
Francesca Johnson 17 April 2007

Poet's amnesia - seems we're all afflicted with it. Witty and wonderful write, Ernestine. Love, Fran xxx

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