A poem is an escape.

It comes to a mind.

It is not commanded there.

It is a glimpse.

It is a thought.

It is a burning urge.

It is a waif of an idea.

The beauty is in the ability

to fly in the mind,

before pen, before substance.

Just a precious idea,

an emotion, a verse but

not a plan.

 

A whole poem, in the mind

but the page is a blank.

A void full of meanings

but not a line in place.

Not an idea shared.

Can it be held there?

 

There is no plan.

There is no need.

There is no plan,

there is a single purpose.

There is only joy.

There is only creation.

There is only driving fear-

of losing the idea.

Losing the moment.

 

The blanks,

a mirage for the thirsty.

The ability of the written word –

to catch up with the imagined ones.

A word found, the joy of discovery.

There can be no plan.

 

The poem in the writing,

a driving force,

a sublime urge,

a shout in a canyon.

An echo of creation.

The joy of pure flight.

The fear of failing.

A cry in the night.

 

The moment.

A piece of paper,

a pen.

The words elusive.

The words staining paper.

The simple idea.

The simple words.

The words.

A word.

 

Only an idea.

There can be no plan.

Antithesis!

 

David Garlick, Sidney, July, 2007