Poetry is not a profession, it is a destiny. Mikhail Dudan
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POPPING POEMS AT MIDNIGHT
by
Jamie Dedes
There must be something about
the witching hour, magic after all,
when – from sound sleep – I so
suddenly awake to the silent
scratching and rough shaking
·
of a poem dropping in, uninvited
and just about fully formed, from
some unnamed peculiar heaven or
hell to disturb the languid luxury of
this rare blue somnolence. A poem
·
from neither the horn nor ivory
gate that snatches me from the
welcome arms of Morpheus, from
the land of Demos Oneiroi*, where
I long – an elegant ache – to return.
·
I chew on it like a baby chews
new food, trying to define shape
and character, to hold the memory
intact until morning when I can –
perhaps – name it. I … repeat it …
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repeating, repeating, my mind
wrapping itself around the poem
like my arms the pillow, hugging
the sensation of it, enjoying the
silk and nub and color of it, not
·
willing to let it go, unable to sleep.
At a chill pre-dawn hour, give
up and get up and taking the laptop
in hand, lay out the poem on a fresh
white page, ready post of the day.
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* Demos Oneiroi – the land of dreams
Artwork – Morpheus and Iris by Pierre-Narcisse Guérin, 1811
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INTO THE BARDO
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