Night Poem

Griefs unload themselves under
This sky parched of heavenliness,
The bright moon absent,
Cosseted by cloud, unashamed,

Delinquent, lunatic. And I cannot
Sleep. Pills have lost their expediency
And the four walls I stare at are lost
In familiarity, each blemish noticed,

The sad crack in the coving reason
For enchantment. I close my eyes,
Stern as a matador, but nothing happens.
Perhaps, perhaps I could wail

Like the Sirens and lure unexpected molecules
Of blankness into my body, perfect,
Imperfect it does not matter which. Perhaps
I could seethe like Medusa and fetch blackness in.

But is as useless as lost arguments, the starch
Of all words gone to somewhere more important.
All there is to do is wait until the soft pall of the sun
Comes rearranging stars so that I can rise and look again

Through the windows that have no view, just
The wall opposite, ordinary, bland, as I reach
For the gin that soaks another day into minute
After minute of recollect until evening turns

And the bright light of my mind switches on again,
Griefs unloading themselves, my griefs in particular,
And the moon full as a period that stalks my soul,
Energised and luxurious, counting sleep as one

Of the most splendid myths of the world
That has no beginning, no beginning at all until
The very last closure of eyes.

John Cornwall

If you've any comments on this poem, John Cornwall would be pleased to hear from you.