Now I'm sure you're all aware of the slightly dubious excuse given by Coleridge for turning out such a truncated version of his mighty, imagined 'Kubla Khan':
"The Author continued for about three hours in a profound sleep, at least of the external senses, during which time he has the most vivid confidence, that he could not have composed less than from two to three hundred lines; if that indeed can be called composition in which all the images rose up before him as things, with a parallel production of the correspondent expressions, without any sensation or consciousness of effort. On awakening he appeared to himself to have a distinct recollection of the whole, and taking his pen, ink, and paper, instantly and eagerly wrote down the lines that are here preserved. At this moment he was unfortunately called out by a person on business from Porlock, and detained by him above an hour, and on his return to his room, found, to his no small surprise and mortification, that though he still retained some vague and dim recollection of the general purport of the vision, yet, with the exception of some eight or ten scattered lines and images, all the rest had passed away like the images on the surface of a stream into which a stone has been cast, but, alas! without the after restoration of the latter!"
Now what has all this verbiage got to do with this Wednesday morning in London?
Well, I was reading Derek Walcott's poem, 'Forest of Europe', on the tube. I hadn't slept much last night and this poem, with its profound sweep from "the lemon Neva" to Archangel and on to Los Angeles, Oklahoma and beyond, got me thinking. And then feeling. So when I stepped out of Starbucks with my soya chai latte (no water, thanks) I became overwhelmed with my own feelings and thoughts. A sort of flood of political, geophysical and emotional imagery and feeling, both global and intensely personal. It was so strong that I had to stop. The light and motion in the street was a distraction, so I closed my eyes. I was rocked by the feelings, so I had to find a wall - just to touch, to maintain my presence in the present. I stood and let it flow over and through me, waiting for it to emerge as words.
And then this voice said, "Are you alright?" End of visionary moment. I snapped awake and looked at the lady who'd crossed the road to my rescue. "It's just that you looked as if you were ill."
I had to laugh. "This is going to sound so pretentious. I've just been reading a poem and I had to think about it." She laughed. We parted.
All I have left is the feeling of it, eddies, aftershocks, echoes. But my God it was a great moment.
