Word bakery..

Where do poems come from? The child asked as I put my pen away.

They come from wherever, I replied closing the notebook I had been writing in.

Doesn’t that place exist? Again it enquired.

What do you mean? I aimed in.

Wherever isn’t a place, sure that’s what my mammy said. There’s no such place. Are you a liar?

Not in the slightest. Your mammy is right, there is no such place as wherever. In the physical sense.

Fizzical? Sure you’re hardly telling me that poems have something to do with fizzy orange and coke? Or sour dummies?

Not at all. What I am trying to say is that poems don’t exist the same way that many other things don’t exist, like this stone, or you, or fizzy orange.

What?

Poems aren’t a body, they’re not a hard object like your bed’s wooden end, or they don’t feel soft like the fluff you pull from daddy’s belly button, you can’t find them under your bed like you would a sock. But they are hard objects, harder than your bed’s end but softer than the candy floss you complain so much about when it disappears on your tongue hardly a second after the fifteen minutes you spent queuing up to get it. And, if you look hard enough you can find a whole book’s worth of poems under your bed.

I think you’re telling fibs.

No, I’m not.

Yes you are.

No, I’m not.

You’re talking bollocks; I never found any poems under my bed.

No! No! No! You can’t look for them or then you’ll never find them.

What?

Poems can’t be found.

Then why do you keep telling me that they can be found?

I mean that they can be found in your conscious.

My what?

You’re conscious. Inside your head

Inside your head.

YOUR H-E-A-D!

My head?

Yes, inside your head.

Like, next to my brains and all that? Or, like inside, my brains?

Oh, it’s part of your brain.

What?

Well it’s hard to explain that something is inside or outside your brain as it’s not a physical entity or component in your brain, but somewhere in your brain, as part of the ever flowing and melding memory that stews and blends and flexes poetry is created from the over embellishment of your consciousness with reality, poems are created. Kind of like a bakery but without the flour…

Without flour?

Sure. Could you imagine a bakery without flour?

Yeah, the bread would taste like baby’s shite. Is that what poetry is about?

Tell me this; have you ever baked bread without flour?

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