Wednesday, October 19, 2011

How it sometimes happens that i am reduced to writing

It starts in the middle of the night
--the witching hour
--the pull of the moon
i slip from sleep
drawn to the lip of chasm
bend in & begin to
spin down & down
i grow small small
as the cone of the vortex
whirls the colors & sounds
& senses of all i’ve ever known
fast fast so fast i forget my name
around & around the dark
shines twirling tumbling me
sucks out my words
my words my very
life until
it slows slows
& stops i
never know how or when
but the vortex vanishes
& i uncurl in the gentled night
hold in my hand
a small pile of words
a singular piece of


  1. Nancy, I like the contrasting perspectives of your poems around the same theme. Here you are sucked into the creative and exhilarating activity of writing a poem. In "The mouse ate my poem," you awaken surprised with the opacity of what had seemed so clear when you first wrote.