The Indians have a word for it, of course - <br />'sphota' - not too unlike our 'photo-flash' - <br />meaning, an explosion in consciousness: <br />as you recognise it in a flash, it's not yet words, <br />barely an idea; just that curious urge, for it to be; <br /> <br />You try to get it down - the first verse is a mess, <br />just like your bedroom as you try to pack <br />a weekend case that covers everything - <br />but you really need it, all the same, to get to second base. <br /> <br />You don't know where it's going, but <br />your intentions are - the best; <br />and if Dame Fortune smiles <br />(a clichayed phrase, but who else can you blame?) <br />there comes that moment when <br /> <br />some mechanism in the mind <br />slips into auto-pilot: and you don't know <br />whether the words which now are lining up <br />are true or untrue; inspired poetry, or the mind's <br />rubbish-bin; just like a radio that's not been tuned; <br />but better something, as you think, <br />than nothing... then, that joy-ride stops, <br />as if you'd floated in some breeze-blown, fine hot-air balloon <br />and the moment that your feet touched solid ground, <br />the memory of the ride itself is gone... <br /> <br />Better sleep on it; you'll be <br />a slightly different person in the morning: <br />you may be grateful; groan; or get quite fond of it. <br /> <br />It's all in the lap-top of the gods.<br /><br />Michael Shepherd<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/0303-diary-of-a-poem/
