! ' Sorry, But What You Write Isn'T Poetry...'

A deep breath; a sigh.. as if
you didn’t accuse yourself of this
every time you write a poem and
hoping to pretend it’s ‘ stretching
the boundaries of poetry’ etc.
- and whether it’s subsequently
well received or not..

and you reply, with a slightly shaky patience,
‘Well, you define poetry, and
I’ll give you then an answer…’

* *

It begins with some small explosion
(no casualties) in consciousness
(the Indians call it ‘sfota’)
or perhaps, it seems more like
some movement of the heart;
perhaps in delayed reaction to some event,
or perhaps out of that blessed ‘blue’…

and you swear undying faith and trust
in this wee mite, to guard it with your life;
it’s the thrill of a lifetime, but,
can you raise it as you should?

I won’t attempt to describe to those
who know this all so well,
the inner world through which you follow it –
sometimes it’s like some vast building
full of dusty libraries, committee rooms
some a hubbub of argument,
some somnolent; then
you open a door and find yourself
in court, and in the dock - and also witness box…

how ludicrous this must sound
to those who’ve never written ‘poetry’...
our whole life, hanging onto every word…

by Michael Shepherd

Comments (12)

My sister is horrible
This way for poems that way for junk, you must have been born with poetry it's self Michael, thanks for the signpost to sanity.
Yor are so right in describing the attempt to write. My 'Like Shooting Stars' started out as a seemingly small explosion yesterday. Somewhere between the dust from that settling and being half-awake this morning trying to get everything run by clocks in my house to fall back an hour for Pacific Daylight Time, shooting stars popped into my head. Yep. that's how it happens; for better or worse.
Michael - this whole process of stripping oneself naked and standing in full view of the world really can only best be understood by those who are persuaded by some out-of-the-blue power to put pen tp paper. This is exquisite, I like it very much. Thank you Bob
Oh, yes..those blessed 'out of the blues - - ' Where would I be without that errant breeze blowing through my mind, and leaving a fresh breath for me to breathe? I would be lost with all those words floating about in my head and nowhere to put them....Thanks, Michael!
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