the witching hour, a poem

Poetry is not a profession, it is a destiny. Mikhail Dudan

Must be something about the witching hour,
magic after all, when from sound sleep I so
suddenly awake to the silent scratching and
rough shaking of a poem, uninvited but near
fully formed, dropping in from some unnamed
peculiar heaven or hell to disturb the languid
luxury of this rare blue somnolence. A poem from
neither the horn nor ivory gate that snatches me
from the welcome arms of Morpheus, from the land
of Demos Oneiros, where I long – an elegant ache
to return. I chew the poem like a baby new flavors,
trying to define shape and character, to hold the
memory intact until dawn when I can – perhaps –
name it. I … repeat it … repeating, repeating,
my mind wrapping itself around the words like my
arms the pillow, hugging their sensations, rolling
in the silk and nub and color, not willing to let go,
not able to sleep. In the chill before daybreak, I
give up and get up and taking the laptop in hand,
lay the words on a new page, ready post of the day.

© poem, 2011, Jamie Dedes, All rights reserved;  Artwork – Morpheus and Iris by Pierre-Narcisse Guérin, 1811



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