Self and reality. Symbol and language. Myth and image. Memory and consciousness.
Dream and unreality: locus communis.

Sunday, February 3, 2013

insomnia— again

The baby woke after only an hour of sleep tonight. I calmed his night fears, then rocked him into deeper slumbers. Now, three hours later, I am not only restless, but wide awake, wired. Tonight's bout of sleeplessness falls in a territory of undefined behavior— tomorrow's chores only involve light grading and formulating a lecture for a Tuesday class— no major issues or dates. No parties, no football games, no socializing. A large list of "no's"...

I suppose working on one of the few remaining projects is not unwarranted, but the head feels slightly foggy, a portion of my self is not quite fully functioning. Typing itself is no matter. At this stage of my life, it is habitual. An instinctual, second act— like breathing. Creating poetry, on the other hand, needs that full awareness from my right side of the brain— that side of the head which is currently drowning.
Picture source: "Singing game." Wikipedia.


Looking at the sheets of the most recent poem, my most political verse to date, I am in a bind with identification. Its title currently reads: "Twenty-six Verses from an Apocryphal Psalm" — yet, it suggests allusions to Medieval caroles, referencing children dancing in a centuries old church or temple. For instance, near the center of the piece I wrote:
12/ When we hold our child, we support him as a holy text, a book of reverence, a book of hours, his body bound by our hands,

13/ by definitions we establish, the prayers we utter at night on bent knees seeking a faith, a stronghold in the darkness—

14/ or then, perhaps as a procession of children casting down fresh palm branches in church aisles, the trembling, narrow descent of green

15/ —even light trembles for a moment before a candle is lit, just as we tremble in darkness at the prospects of the world, as we watch a sleeping child.
Later, the work mentions the children dancing in rings, laughing, wearing tunics.

My point: I am slightly torn with identifying the poem as a "psalm" while I have the notions of a carole in my mind. This slight bump in the process creates a roadblock in terms of completion for the final lines. Yes, I realize that the biblical Psalms were intended to be sun to music, perhaps even dancing.

The main problem is I do not know if I have a problem. My issue could be that I am wanting to have a problem in order to justify my stalling... and frankly, the more I think about this, as I type out these words, I am realizing, there is no issue. I just need to bring together some appropriate phrases for closure.

153 / for the moment, a cup rests on the side of the desk— empty, save for a thin ring of milk, lingering inside the rim’s blue shadow —

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