Maelstrom - Shakespeare's Monkeys

Maelstrom

In the dank echo of the night
this mother will soothe away
night terrors: terrible krakens
rising from the depths of
synapse and bone and
hot chocolate.

Yet still midnight slithers on and
my pages are filled with nothing -
the rarest flutter of breath
in that space between the neck
and the shoulder
and lace.

You come to me, husband,
in this squall of isolation
with your bible of body;
fingers like tentacles wrapping
around my skin, a wave of murmur
telling me there is no time,
there is no poetry.

U668857 -

Some lovely phrasing here - "squall of isolation", "bible of body", "wave of murmur".

It's remarkable that a poem which repeatedly evokes the idea of nothingness - "echo", "space", "nothing", "isolation", "no time", "no poetry"-paradoxically leaves a substantial sense of warmth and comfort. That "bible of body" and those fingers on skin triumph the material over the immaterial, the physical world over the imaginative world.

Who needs reluctant words and ideas when inviting flesh and blood reassures.

Rgds., Alan.

Jasmine Mann -

Thanks Alan! I let my husband read it, and he took it the wrong way. So I was worried that it sounded a bit callous.

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"Milk is for babies. When you grow up, you have to drink beer." - Arnold

"Milk is for babies. When you grow up, you have to drink beer." - Arnold

Leanne Hanson -

Clearly he needs to read more poetry, Jas, I think this is incredibly romantic. (Though I'm a little bit concerned about what you put in your nightmare-inducing hot chocolate...)

That blank page sucks the life out of you, and it's nice to be offered such a cure.