Charm Against Insomnia

Albrecht Durer

Charm Against Insomnia

Little mouse, little

gray hunger

that nibbles

the night to a bony

toothpick,

little possibility

of impossible things,

glimmer of nothing

like hope,

little shadow

that dreams,

small genius of bad teeth

and ice,

angel of wire,

of colic, of palsy-

thin kittens,

contain like a penny

or aspirin,

your acids and bitters;

cart off your coattails

those vulture-rich

contrails, your spidery

roses or doses

of splinters.

Bugger and sod off,

blister and suffer,

wither, fester lackluster,

besnuff, beshrivel,

becroak, benight,

belabor, bellbind, be gone!

Hailey Leithauser

from "Swoop"

 

Lack of sleep has been a topic around here lately. Leithauser’s image of insomnia as a little mouse that nibbles and nips away at our sleep is about as accurate as you can get. The idea that there might be a charm we could say to dispel insomnia is wonderful. L. manages to capture both the exasperation of not being able to sleep and the magic of words. I don’t know of any other poet who plays with words quite like she does – beshrivel?! It’s wonderful. This is a poem to be spoken out loud, to be savoured for sound. Possibly to be repeated in the dark, while staring at a ceiling and trying to get back to sleep.

Bad Sheep

Hendrik Kerstens

Bad Sheep

Midnight’s merely blue,

but me, me, me, I’m

through

and through

sloe, cracked soot-

on-a-boot,

nicotine spat, licorice whip.

You can scratch, scratch, scratch

but I stay underskin true

to ebony, ink, crowberry, pitch;

hoist me up by my hooves

and shake till I’m shook, I’m still

chock full of coke, fuliginous

murk.

O there’s swart in my soul,

coal by the bag,

cinders and slag,

scoriac grit, so please

come, comb

through my fleece with hands pallid

as snow and watch

how they grow tarry, raven,

stygian, ashed—

or, if you wish, clean me with bleach

I won’t

flinch, just char

down to a core of caliginous

marrow,

pure carbon, atramentous,

utterly piceous,

shadowed, and starless,

each clumpity clump

and eclipse of my heart raptly

re-burnishing

a woolgather dark.

Hailey Leithauser


"Fuliginous murk"! That's fantastic. If you're going to take a look at the dark side (seeing as it's Halloween), then this is the way to do it - witty wordplay. Leithauser certainly brings out the joy in words. It's hard to be depressed when you are so intricately gothic and picturesque about your evil self. This seems like it might be a good way to crawl out of the hole, in fact. Maybe that's what writers do, keep themselves afloat on a raft of words. 



 

Arrhythmia

beccastadtlander

Arrhythmia

The heart of a bear is a cloud-shuttered

mountain. The heart of a mountain’s a kiln.

The white heart of a moth has nineteen white

chambers. The heart of a swan is a swan.

The heart of a wasp is a prick of plush.

The heart of a skunk is a mink. The heart

of an owl is part blood and part chalice.

The fey mouse heart rides a dawdy dust-cart.

The heart of a kestrel hides a house wren

at nest. The heart of lark is a czar.

The heart of a scorpion is swidden

and spark. The heart of a shark is a gear.

Listen and tell, thrums the grave heart of humans.

Listen well love, for it’s pitch dark down here.

Hailey Leithauser

I don't know. Don't ask me. Poems are puzzles, or mysteries, or something between. But they do unfold, if they're true, even if it's slowly, even if it happens over a lifetime. All I know about this poem is that the words and images are arresting -  they catch me up. After each line, I stop dead and envision it, taste it, and I don't know why it works. 

  

Delerium

angeloangelo

Delerium

Such green, such green,

this apple-, pea- and celadon,

this emerald and pine and lime

unsheathed to make

a miser weep, to make his puny

bunions shrink; these seas

and seas of peony, these showy

tons of rose

to urge a musted monk disrobe,

an eremitic nun unfold;

such breathy, breathy moth

and wasp, such gleeful,

greedy bee to bid

the bully hearts of cops

and bosses sob,

to tell a stubby root unstub, a rusted

hinge unrust, the slug unsalt;

to stir the fusted

lungs to brim, the skin to sting,

the dormant,

tinning tongue to singe and hymn.

Hailey Leithauser

The strange yellow-green of spring is everywhere. "Such green, such green." This poem makes me smile. The extravagances of colour that catapult into effusions of musical language  - it's like a word-dance. Run to the dictionary quick! Musted? Eremetic? Fusted? Get your mind and mouth around those! This is wordplay, Leithauser loves words. Sheer delight, if you ask me.