At the entrance

danced a number 
of deep purple 
poppy flowers,


Clock 
     ticking-
rain 
     dripping-

my wife tossing, 
and turning 
in a creaking
blanketed bed 

She is disturbed that I am not there,
that I withhold my warmth

I cannot sleep,
darkness will not 
embrace me.

Morpheus 
let me be,
send no more wing'd
liars through that
gate of ivory.

clock 
     ticking-
rain
     dripping-

each
dull 
rhythmic
drip-tick
seems as 
if something 
is tapping 
on the 
ceiling 
of my 
skull.

something is tapping 
to escape its cage,

something is longing for
a voice of its own, 

something I have neglected
for far too long,

Tick
     drip
Tick
     drip


Tick?


9 comments:

  1. So deep and intriguing, this is my kind of poetry!

    ReplyDelete
  2. I am so grateful that sleeplessness of this sort is now rarely a part of my life. There is a desperation to it I find especially painful.

    ReplyDelete
  3. there is am ambivalence here, isn't there? maybe whatever might be tapping on the skull for entrance is inspiration or vision -- but we lose the warm bed with the warm wife in order to have it....

    is that the deal that any artist makes with the night? (but then, it isn't really a choice, i suppose....)

    ReplyDelete
    Replies
    1. No, no choice. I appreciate your reading, and insight into this.

      Delete
  4. Oh this poem is something Fields, so emotional that I am practically choking with it - and you know how I adore that - i love the drip-tick thing as relevance to you mind, how something is caged. God I feel that all the times, like words are whispering to me to make them known. And sleeping how I crave sleep, even now as I write this I wish I was sleeping but just sitting in bed with the lights off in blackness I hear sounds, the rush of airplanes the feelings as it the world is shaking as they fly overhead. The cars as they race by the soft wind as it sways the blue chiffon curtains in and out. It is enough to drive a person to madness most of the time; but I think it is that madness consumes the very best of humanities artists, it morphs they're work into something to be revered and that drip-tick, the lack of solace, is simply the price of such works.

    Oh, yes P.S. I have awarded you the Liebster Award, copy and paste the http, below to go see what its about.

    http://annaaainafairytalee.blogspot.com/2012/03/liebster-blog-awardee.html

    ReplyDelete
  5. I found this speaking directly to me. I was particularly struck by:

    something is tapping
    to escape its cage,

    something is longing for
    a voice of its own,

    ReplyDelete
  6. Very nice to read your words...I can hear the clock ticking and rains dripping....when I can't sleep, I write until I get exhausted ~

    ReplyDelete
  7. what is this thing that we are, this paradox of body and spirit, as though each repels each?

    leaving comfort should never be something we hesitate to do:) but again, how the body loves it, those warm mornings close and knit.

    xo
    erin

    ReplyDelete