A guest poem today, from a mysterious poet who wishes to be identified as Frances McEwan. Coincidentally, this is another poem about sleep – or the lack of it – following my ‘The Sleepers’ a few days ago (see Recent Posts).
Tomorrow, bring tomorrow forward now
and take the awful darkness from the night
you know it can’t be trusted anyhow
so turn it off by turning on the light.
Do you dispute when debts of love are due
you fall into arrears and turn away
to search the sterile wall for ways that you
might push aside this painful, loving day?
In the artificial day’s bright flood
you sit and pull your knees up to your chin
though you’ve done everything you should
there’s no way in existence you can win.
Lie back and think of better times you knew
and better times that owe their soul to you.
pic: myUpchar. Cropped and shared in accordance with CC-BY-SA-4.0
I’ve hosted some fine guest poems on here recently, but it’s occurred to me that it’s been a while since I posted one of my own. So I thought I’d share this. It won a small Poetry Nook competition a while back.
TV off, the last ablutions done.
Toothpaste foam and late-night flushings
froth together in the drain.
And, one by one, fingers turn on the darkness,
bodies fold themselves in feather-down,
minds fumble for their off-switch,
curtain eyelids close.
You’d think, after so many years,
they would be good at it.
But in the big room, switches broken,
she and he both see-saw to and fro
from bills and deadlines
to bizarre uneasy dreams, take turns
to snore each other out of sleep.
Across the landing, though, the novices
could show them how it’s done.
The bodies still, the minds away
riding on unicorns or spaceships
as growing brains are seething
with connections, hothousing memories.
They will return to something better than before.