Today, after a long pause in my poetry-writing (actually, I was quite convinced I'll never write a poem again because, you know, I'm too old for that ;)), this poem came to me, very clear, almost lucid one. I could tell you when and how but actually it doesn't matter.
It does not matter.
It is like dreams. At some point, you learn that dreams are actually composed of your past experiences put together in a more or less random fashion, and you do some excercises to prove that, yea, the element A I saw yesterday, and I did B just before going to bed while worried about C, so this is it, it's my dream, just a bunch of memories my mind is stashing on the floor before piling these things up in their respective shelves.
Except dreams are almost never random, they are almost never just pile of unrelated images with no meaning at all.
The poems are the same, they never come quite as you expected them, they can never - and should never - be explained and sustained by the circumstances that "created" them, because it's not the circumstances or the ideas. Every poem, and every dream, is a tiny miracle that we are trying to catch by it's flaring tail while it's dashing away to hide from our awareness and our memory.
I wonder, if the poems we remember and write down are the reckless miracles, the immature and playful ones, what magnificience is there beyound our awareness, what beauty and wisdom engulfed in the age-old miracles that know better than to surface and get caught in the fishnets of our minds.