My wife talks in her sleep. It rarely wakens me and never bothers me. Nonetheless, the other night I awoke not to her talking but rather to a couple lines of poetry floating in my head. I wish I could tell you that I am the type of person with the gusto and dedication to jump out from under the covers, snatch pen and paper and commit myself to the task of finishing the piece there in the wee hours of the morning.
But I’m not.
Rather, I’m artistically inclined to allow dabs of inspiration such as this one to marinade for a while, to sink in, take root and settle in my sub-conscious and conscious creative capacities.
Meaning, I just go back to sleep.
Nonetheless, the line did persist and a poem did evolve. Whether my patience and ability to let the work (and myself) rest for a bit and not jump the gun, to to speak, worked or whether it appears I totally missed the bus on whatever brilliant inspiration I may or may not have had at that ungodly hour, well…that’s for you to decide.
Have at it:
Hurriedly she speaks
like the chatter of a mouse atop the hat of a chef
like Moses in his basket, floating down the river
when the world was young, was beautiful, threatening and outside
there is cooking to be done, meals to be made
a life to lead, people to save
but for now sleep comes easy and conversation is lite
So the baby does not cry for fear of discovery
and the words are jumbled together lest
what is spoken in dreams becomes a recipe for life
and the parting of the Red Sea be not a miracle
but a pathway to the conundrum of normality
© BTC 2014