Dead of night

Here I begin again
Not knowing where I'm going
Not even wanting to.

I go to sleep late and wake up later still.
I water the plants when I remember.
I have a cat with a cone round his head.

These things are transparent
To my daily pattern-making occupation
My storytelling condition
My meaning making compulsion.

I sleep, forgetting plants and cat,
Forgetting you thank God,
And forging something that
Satisfies me superficially;
Wombed peaks of deception,
Alluring dream contraptions.

Either there's nothing there
And all is our doing,
Or there is too much there
And our task is receiving,
Being
a pair of watchful eyes
Among the furniture, the beasts, the plants, the men,
A pair of wide open eyes
Transfixed,
Obedient,
Barely
There.

◄ Balancing act

After T.S. Eliot ►

Comments

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Cynthia Buell Thomas

Fri 4th Dec 2015 16:06

I totally agree. It has a powerful idea, the imagination to pursue it, and the words to effect it. Very intriguing. I look forward to reading more of your work.

Sonia Gupta

Thu 3rd Dec 2015 11:43

This is brilliant

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