It would only seem
( I can't be sure
whether this is THE thing)
I can't persuade other writers
to agree ( readers aside)
their experiences
are not mine
they might know more
and could be right-
in my not-knowing
alone I stand
but to doubts
I don't bow
I write
in order
to know
and to understand

is a poem reasoned
it's its birth-place the left-brain
the logical and analytical locus
that spawns the poetic thoughts
and outpourings? A mechanical outcome
a product from the conveyor-- belt
when the factory's button
is switched on
by the eager writing hand?

is a poem born
from a test-tube
a microscope
or a clinical trial
with the poet
as scientist
or progenitor?

An avant-garde poet
(just an acquaintance )
to me he wrote to advise:
'  You must sit down
   and plan
   you must map
  your thoughts--
  don't forget
  your are an engineer
  a scientist
or architect--
  
words are your tools
  have your dictionary
  and thesaurus around
(your tool-box so to speak)
you would need the hammer
the nuts and screws, the spanner
a welding machine or a cutter
nail your words
and thoughts
think of a factory-line
let your every phrase
and sentence
line in sequence
as the railway carriages
follow the running train
if you fail
try and try again
all works-in-progress
would end as finished products
ready for the market'

but
I was not trained
and would be pained
under the weight
of rigorous constraint
I would be imprisoned
the best part of myself I would lose
all my poems would then
weep unrestrained
perhaps I would not write again--


is this THE thing
that does the intuiting?
a feeling stirs within
(its whereof I have no inkling)
it won't go away
and begs to be listened to
a strange mood descends
and guides my hand
I write
(I don't reason)
the words from
some stream
of half-consciousness
rushes to fill
the empty writing-
paper that lies awaiting--
I am reborn
my energy begins its soaring
to a celestial- beyond- time unfolding
(what beauty and radiance
that follows without reasoning!
the feeling
embodies
the ultimate meaning
undoing
all conscious thinking)-

then the poem
by the heart's purity endowed
springs into a life of its own
and comes into resplendent flowering