Transition Girl

Why transition girl?... Best answered by a quote from the Iliad....."The soul was not made to dwell in a thing; and when forced to it, there is no part of that soul but suffers violence."

Tuesday, July 13, 2010


I think I may need to contemplate another meditation class. I am now well into my second month of insomnia and it is seriously affecting my judgement. (Although it is proving to be extra valuable time to write on the second novel.) Today I am sharing a poem I wrote back in 1983. I was but a wee child when I wrote it and only just beginning to learn about poetry and writing generally during a prolonged period of being 'housebound' due to ill health.

A snapshot moment in time. And while the waking dream source of my insomnia inspiration back then still punctures my nights occasionally, the sleeplessness reminds me of it now. Be warned, it is modestly dark piece and not worth reading if you want your mind to stay in a happy place.

I pray tonight I’ll find some peaceful sleep
amidst the thoughts that lurch and creep.
Instead, lie awake, alone at night,
To yet again face the morning light.
No beauty in a dawn seen through weary eyes;
Again there’ll be no compromise.
A sleepless night, the unsteady beat
of a heart that fears the nightmare’s seat.
The heartbeat shouts from its confining space –
flowing out quickly in an irregular pace.

Why, you ask, do I feel this way?
And long to see the light of day –
come creeping, seeping into the room
when the echoes of sleep have refused to bloom.
Shadows of the night crawl, as I lie awake;
watching them restlessly; see what they create:
A tall dark figure, with a knife in his hand –
the thoughts wander, now, it’s blood trickling like sand
From the knife that’s fallen to the floor;
a shadow of rustling leaves rushing to the door.

The minutes are hours, the seconds are years,
time seems eternal when all of my fears
Amplify and horrify the sleepless night
and faces of death grow to threaten my life.
Sounds come crawling along the wall,
to drown the shouts of my echoing call.
For help, for mercy - why do I resist?
The nights without sleep - why do they persist?
When will sleep ever come?
Or will death end the daybreak’s sun?


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