Though the night is still
Three night poems, Public Domain Poetry Project weeks 5 and 6 plus a bonus haiku
’s Public Domain Poetry Project is going line by line through Edna St Vincent Millay’s ‘Travel’, using her lines as inspiration for our own poems.
Last week’s prompt:
All night there isn’t a train goes by
My poem was inspired by a terrible insomniac night I had last week. I’ve been fighting a battle over medical fees and perseverating on the injustice of it all and one night my anxiety was so high I couldn’t fall asleep till almost 5 am.
I think the issue is finally resolved. Which is why I suddenly have the bandwidth to write and post here. My brain is finally free.
All night I am plagued by the cawing crows Perseveration and Anxiety— my thoughts will not roost but flap restlessly, endlessly echoing each to each in raucous roundelay. All night the wind exhales forceful sighs that rattle the roof. It circles round and round the house, brushing its back through the trees, making them wave like river weeds. It roars like a passing train through the dark— full of pale passengers hurrying to undisclosed destinations. Some great beast seizes hold of me. Its jaws clench about my heart and shake and shake and shake.
Last week’s poem makes a lovely diptych with the one from this week.
Though the night is still for sleep and dreaming
I broke Millay’s line in two, but otherwise left the fragments intact. A prayer vigil is a very different kind of sleepless night. And to be honest I’m not actually good at staying awake when I’m trying. For the last year or so I’ve had a regular Wednesday night holy hour where I often nap more than I pray. And yet I wonder if sleep too might be a form of prayer if I turn things upside down.
Though the night is still and snow sifts softly— perfect for sleep and dreaming— I choose to wake, to pray. Or, rather, I choose to sit and slump and nap in an uncomfortable pew in a basement chapel with the little old woman who sits, head bowed, so quietly in her usual place, with the man whose rosary beads rattle and who pops every plosive P in 'Pray for us' as he whispers a litany of the silent saints, with the restless woman who never sits but wanders like a pilgrim, praying as she moves from one statue to another and sometimes she sings. Where the pipes rattle and bang, the wind whistles and I wake with numb hands, prickling painful and a sore spot where my forehead rested against the back of the bench. Here He does not admonish: 'Could you not watch one hour?' But rather reassures: 'Come to me, all who are weary and burdened and I will give you rest.'
And finally, a haiku, inspired by the not-quite-full moon on a night when I forgot my keycard and was locked out of the adoration chapel.
Tonight moon’s my monstrance— Her glory radiates Behind maple’s rood screen
Oh, these are beautiful. Each so different even though they are each in the night.