STUMBLING THROUGH THE DARK

You know...
I went to bed last night
Fully intending to get up
This morning
And write a poem.

But then,
I got up in the morning
And writing a poem
Was something
That I didn't do.

I even had a topic
To be poetic about
In mind...

Because the images
Had been bouncing
Around
Inside my head
For pretty much all of the evening
Since I got home
From the hospital.

But then I went to bed
Listening to the very last game
Of the international cricket summer
Being played
In this fair land of ours.

And it got dark
And it got cold
And then I slept poorly

So I woke up
With the kind of fog in my mind
Which usually means
That I can't be bothered
Or I don't want to

Do anything.

There was still a chill in the air
The pounding rain beat once again
Against the skylight
As another summer
Finally faded into history.

And so,
As I stumbled through
The pitch darkness
Of my home
On a new dark day
The desire to create
New poetry went away

Now, I know that I am
Not much of a poet.
As a matter of fact
I'd go farther than that
And say
That I'm really
Very, very little
Of a poet

Indeed.

It scares me,
It frightens me
I don't really trust the form
Or understand it
Or even read it through
Properly
On a page.

Poetry has always
Kind of passed me by
Fizzing past me
On its way to smarter,
More intelligent,
Better minds than mine

And yet...

A single line
Quoted
From a longer poem
Can move me in ways
Which surprise even me.

So I didn't write a poem today,
Instead I wrote some words,
And broke them down into lines
Which looks like poetry to me,
But isn't really.