Aug 22 2013
I pass through dreams
awakening.
Loosely woven cloth
that frays, disintegrates
flutters weightless away.
I try to sustain
this reverie,
amazed
at the warp and weft
of my untethered brain,
which forgets nothing
confabulates the rest.
But before I dreamt
I tossed and turned on a
bed of nails,
my mind
brooding on a single thread;
brooding on a single thread;
rumination, recrimination
regret.
As if transfixed
by a blinding light
in a long dark tunnel;
a speeding train,
or the way out
by a blinding light
in a long dark tunnel;
a speeding train,
or the way out
a glimpse of day?
Like a lens
funnelling sun to a lethal
point,
as when we were kids
torturing ants
for fun.
My mind
as when we were kids
torturing ants
for fun.
My mind
fingers its worry-beads,
circling, returning
circling, returning
churning with thought.
I try to travel back
re-imagine the whole cloth,
lying still
I try to travel back
re-imagine the whole cloth,
lying still
emptying out.
Like walking with a full
glass
trying not to spill.
But cannot
sustain this fragile trance.
And my problem, lost
in the kaleidoscope
of pink and golden dawn,
in through my window like clockwork.
That bizarre incoherent trance in the morning, as you emerge through REM sleep (Rapid Eye Movement sleep, or dream sleep) into wakefulness, is called the hypnagogic state (a word that sounded horrible anywhere I tried to shoehorn it into the poem!) It makes little sense; but as I've tried to cultivate my dream life -- something I used to deny even having, since I never remembered my dreams -- I've trained myself to lie perfectly still, letting my mind free associate and travel back as methodically as I can through the incoherent logic of my latest dream. Which only takes me so far, of course, before all remnants of the dream disintegrate irretrievably, and wakefulness intervenes.
The night before was diametrically opposite. (What else is new?!!) Instead of a barrage of unrelated thoughts, you tend to fixate obsessively on one: some insoluble problem; perhaps some cringe-worthy humiliation. In my case, the focus lately has often been a lot less cerebral: it's been a very bad summer for bugs, and as often as not I'm preoccupied with itching/scratching somewhere on my badly afflicted body. I may distracted enough by the busyness of daytime not to notice; but infallibly, at night, a barely noticed itch becomes unbearable.
What an odd trick of the mind, not to mention bad timing: to go from this laser-like focus at bedtime, to incoherence and fluidity on awakening. And how frustrating, when night begins: trying to get to sleep, only to find yourself so utterly pre-occupied, pulled back into anxious consciousness. Morning, similarly, has its frustrations: grasping at these wisps of dream, just as they dematerialize, or drift beyond reach. ...Of course, the alchemy of the sleeping brain is that you will often awaken to problem solved; or at least awaken with improved perspective, so if not "lost", then not quite such a problem after all.
There is a bit of a dog's breakfast of metaphors here: from cloth to light (which is the major recurring one) to a full glass; not to mention a bed of nails, a magnifying glass, worry beads, and a claustrophobic train tunnel! So I hope this isn't too busy and scattershot. I think it works well enough. But then again, I'm too close to poem right now to judge. I need to let go, and revisit later.
trying not to spill.
But cannot
sustain this fragile trance.
And my problem, lost
in the kaleidoscope
of pink and golden dawn,
in through my window like clockwork.
That bizarre incoherent trance in the morning, as you emerge through REM sleep (Rapid Eye Movement sleep, or dream sleep) into wakefulness, is called the hypnagogic state (a word that sounded horrible anywhere I tried to shoehorn it into the poem!) It makes little sense; but as I've tried to cultivate my dream life -- something I used to deny even having, since I never remembered my dreams -- I've trained myself to lie perfectly still, letting my mind free associate and travel back as methodically as I can through the incoherent logic of my latest dream. Which only takes me so far, of course, before all remnants of the dream disintegrate irretrievably, and wakefulness intervenes.
The night before was diametrically opposite. (What else is new?!!) Instead of a barrage of unrelated thoughts, you tend to fixate obsessively on one: some insoluble problem; perhaps some cringe-worthy humiliation. In my case, the focus lately has often been a lot less cerebral: it's been a very bad summer for bugs, and as often as not I'm preoccupied with itching/scratching somewhere on my badly afflicted body. I may distracted enough by the busyness of daytime not to notice; but infallibly, at night, a barely noticed itch becomes unbearable.
What an odd trick of the mind, not to mention bad timing: to go from this laser-like focus at bedtime, to incoherence and fluidity on awakening. And how frustrating, when night begins: trying to get to sleep, only to find yourself so utterly pre-occupied, pulled back into anxious consciousness. Morning, similarly, has its frustrations: grasping at these wisps of dream, just as they dematerialize, or drift beyond reach. ...Of course, the alchemy of the sleeping brain is that you will often awaken to problem solved; or at least awaken with improved perspective, so if not "lost", then not quite such a problem after all.
There is a bit of a dog's breakfast of metaphors here: from cloth to light (which is the major recurring one) to a full glass; not to mention a bed of nails, a magnifying glass, worry beads, and a claustrophobic train tunnel! So I hope this isn't too busy and scattershot. I think it works well enough. But then again, I'm too close to poem right now to judge. I need to let go, and revisit later.
An alternate title -- perhaps a better one -- is "Whole
Cloth". I like the misdirection here, as opposed to the absolute lack of
ambiguity in "Awakening". Comments welcome.
(Oh oh. I just looked it up. They have
"hypnagogic" as the state immediately before falling asleep.
Oh well. I'll invoke the universal exculpation of poetic licence, even if my
serenely confident statement of fact is unequivocally wrong!)
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