0303 Diary Of A Poem

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