Dreamless Nights Poem by Leah Ayliffe
Dreamless Nights
What once was my favourite time of day, the dark blanket of night,
has been ruined by the thoughts of you occupying my mind without warrant.
The traces of a kiss's mark, the right touch,
endless warmth coming from the skin next to mine
like a trail of footsteps where you hear the echo growing fainter as each day after passes.
I can't remember the last time I fell asleep comforted by the self-made movies of worlds I've created in my own head.
Not to accuse you as the source of such tragedy, however partial a factor you may play into its demise.
It's not that you meant to be mean, I recklessly left my sacred box unlocked, key to my darkest fantasies gleaming inside.
You just happened to sweep me off of my feet like you promised you would
bringing me down to the physical world,
a version of reality where I found myself smiling.
Who needs dreams when life is beautiful and good?
You see, I do.
I am not used to being here, bound to the ground.
I need pixie dust, Neverland, fairies and mermaids
in sparkling green lagoons.
I rely on other spheres, galaxies, spaces reflecting the same yet altered idea of the world you and I walk around.
To imagine is my only charm, only power,
the one thing I have to survive all that is real in your physical realm.
Somehow it's fallen into your hands,
I didn't mind for a little while..
Then you walked out of the hotel door and I was left with a white space in my mind which used to be painted and decorated with whatever pretty picture I needed to simply get by.
It's a strange hour sitting on the edge of my bed
waiting on dreams
'Cause you brought me down to a real world I could get down to in both your mind and body.
But like a mermaid lost out of sea, I cannot be.
My man, since you're no longer a glittering lure of distraction by my side,
a temporary cure to make life beautiful, easy and fun,
I need my well of wishes back.
I need new material to create bounds of other lands.
Sleepless nights without a muse to inspire
is such a sad core way to waste time.
My eyes are burning and my mind is yearning
for another world to fly away to and reside.
If you're as kind as you're body is warm
send me the key to my dreams.
I'll be waiting anxiously for your letter in the mail.
You know Wordsworth's famous definition of poetry from 1799: EMOTIONS RECOLLECTED IN TRANQUILITY. I still love his poetry but this definition is outdated. His assumption of TRANQUILITY being the creative atmosphere is belied by the image of you sitting on the edge of your bed trying to recover your dreaming powers. THAT is not a picture of tranquility, which is a mind impossibly still. Yours is racing, burning, grasping, panting, etc. And the energy of the poem comes from that immediacy of your mind in a creative upheaval. And Wordsworth clearly means RECOLLECTION as a passive, receptive, quiet frame of mind. Wouldn't that be sweet if we could summon such an inner balance - that would put psychologists out of business, and maybe shut down churches that preach salvation. And EMOTIONS as the primary subject matter may still be true, but at the beginning of the 20th century, Rilke argued poetry is made up of EXPERIENCES, which is at least one step beyond emotions, maybe more. This very poem we are both inside of is one of experiences, not just the emotions which are its energy source. This poem is concerned not just with emotions which rush through the body and soul, but rather how the body and soul will use that emotional energy to create an inner world that is satisfying, restorative, creative, fun-loving and that will run parallel to the outside world with its inevitable let downs - and those tiresome evenings sitting at the edge of the bed. These thoughts are the result of my self-talk over DREAMLESS NIGHTS, but I don't think they misrepresent the mood and thrust of your poem. Whatever it is that we wait for in the solitude of the night - day dreams, night dream, visions or a warm body nearby - whatever keeps us from the oblivion of sleep, it is the crucial experience that produces our poetry.
To imagine is my only charm, only power that I realize with imagery here shared with powerful expression. Wonderful sharing....10
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/27/2024 7:27:01 PM # 1.0.0.1119
It can happen that the more your loving bridges to the transcendent mystery, the less it involves the particular person; instead, the quality of their inner resonance. It can happen that the greater your poetic vision, the more you live with a constant cycle of approach and withdrawal from glittering lures.