! ' Sorry, But What You Write Isn'T Poetry...'
A deep breath; a sigh.. as if
by Michael Shepherd
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…