Impatient Verses 12 October 2015 2: 00 Am Poem by Daniel Brick
Impatient Verses 12 October 2015 2: 00 Am
This is the poem that should
not be. It's too late for poetry:
it's time for sleep, and precious
little time is left of this night
for sleeping. A few hours of pre-REM
sleep, nothing further or deeper,
very unsatisfactory, like a sports event
with only half the players on the field,
all visibly too weak to play, hung over
or out of shape, unfocused and droopy,
with no delight in their eyes. Things
are bad all around. It is the dry time,
the drought looms within. But the poems
to be are of another mind, they are
mission-oriented, they are confident
of their voice, love clarion brilliance.
The clock records the time of my
vigil slipping into oblivion with
the machine's reliable disposition.
Meanwhile, my pen scratches across
the over size paper, leaving
a trail of words to spread across
vast white spaces. The hours
stolen from sleep are determined
to post a new poem. Their self worth
depends on it. Their representative
wants me to rip a poem out of
a newspaper, a slice of reality
still wet from creation. You know
the type: reorder the journalist's
words and let sense and nonsense contend
to see which one will prevail.
Instead it's as if I had shot my arrow
straight down a row of axes, through
the top loop of each one, a feat to
make me another Odysseus coming home
to be king. And if you ask me what it says,
I'll tell you to read between the lines.
Or consider this: During my writing session,
I went out on my balcony, and saw a mild day
had become a turbulent night, with lines of
fierce winds thwarting each other as they bent
branches and turned the lawn to a raging sea.
From what invisible reservoir here on earth,
did nature derive such awesome power?
From what depths of being did the winds
draw their strength and endurance?
Who authored this Poem of Force in my backyard?
In the depths of the night, sleep wanting, turbulent surrounding, yet the poet scribbles on a broad paper words the heart longs to express. Who authored the poem...the force within! Great piece. I enjoyed it.
In lieu of a comment: This is the poem that it should be for it's never too late for poetry. Time is precious and so is sleep but none quite so as the 'spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings' in the form of words scribbled on paper when inspiration hits a poet...
I LOVE THIS! You can't contain your energy. YOU, not the wind, are the force of nature up there in St. Paul in the middle of the night. My favorite phrase right now is cyclonic wind. The trees, the wind, the POWER, the writer, are falling into much of the poetry I read today (especially from the midwestern American poets) . The insomniac writer reigns true! Maybe you should have dared to walk outside in the middle of the night with your pen in your hand! Oh wait! You DID go outside. Daredevil! I've never read a poem so fast...the energy was conveyed....WOW.
My new word/concept is boundless and seeing the thick branches of two towering trees bend in that relentless wind fixes the experiences permanently. I was alone during the event and writing but now I sense a third like the mysterious third on the road to Emmaus. When I re-read this poem, when I write another version, this response is my paradigm NOW I know what this poem is meant to do - CONVEY ENERGY! ! BTW POEM OF FORCE is Simone Weil's name for the ILIAD. Thus the Homeric imagery
It is uplifting - that it begins with Things are bad all around - and through NATURE that is falling ASLEEP- paradoxically it finishes with awesome power and Poem of Force! silence make things stronger. Who the author? your angel -guardian?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
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4/30/2024 10:31:03 PM # 1.0.0.1119
This is fabulous! I love the whole battle of trying to create a poem worthwhile to be taking up the time where you should be sleeping - though you could not sleep anyway. a slice of reality still wet from creation. is such a beautiful line. The ending lines are my favourite, the poems spark turns to fire as nature is introduced and portrayed in your words. Some greater poet made the force in your backyard, but you still hold power in being the poet to turn that vision into something more with words. Wonderful.