Jan 10, 2014
The following is an original poem I wrote way back in college when I took a poetry class as part of my creative writing major. I had never been very good at writing poetry. Or maybe I just wasn’t super interested in it.
My professor encouraged all the students to keep a writing journal and jot down thoughts and poems. I would sit in bed with my journal propped on my leg and try to think of something to write, something that could maybe turn into a poem. My mind would wander. I’d think of the sounds around the house, and something would come out of my pen. Something like this:
Nothing
Almost nothing.
The fridge drops.
You know,
that sound—
the clunk.
I hear it every night
as I lay here.
The rest of the house is quiet.
Everyone is asleep.
Wind.
Sounds cold.
But not as cold as the winter—
this last winter,
when the heat was out
and I carried a blanket
through the house.
I rub my forehead,
working to stop
the thoughts―
the thoughts that
keep me up,
the ones that widen
a gulf
between me
and the asleep.
I hear the drop again,
then a new sound.
What was that?
The sound,
it shakes and shudders.
Then silence again.
Now I can’t decide.
Am I hot or cold?
I pull my legs
from the blankets,
then shove them
back under.
Again.
Stop.
It doesn’t matter.
Soon I will be asleep.
I hope.
I know it is not the fridge,
the winter cold,
or the furnace
that keep me awake.
But I can’t think
about it.
Sleep.
Sleep.
Sleep.