Poetry and Sleep
Pseudo Sleep
Pretending to be asleep
Peter Davison
If a man could pass through Paradise in a dream,
and have a flower presented to him as a pledge that his
soul had really been there, and if he found that flower
in his hand when he awoke—Ay!—and what then?
Coleridge: Anima Poetae
1. The Deserted Poet
This part of the country is underpeopled.
Not a word waits in hiding under the ferns
To reach up for my hand and lead me out
Of myself. No words have passed this way this season:
I have forgotten even the sound of their footsteps
Whickering through the leaves at my approach.
Look at my face, never an honest one.
It covers my desertion by pretending
That words have never meant a thing to me.
This face settles for the lie. It put on
Creases of feigned anger between the eyes,
Furrows of mock surprise across the brow.
I wear the mast of an actor who returns
From a long journey to find his wife and children dead.
2. In the Dock
Tried by the day, I stand condemned at night.
The evidence of years of fraud and shame
Waits until darkness to be brought to light.
Crime hangs from every letter of my name.
Each day conceals its treachery and blight
In places no defendant could disclaim:
Beneath the shirt, the mattress, out of sight
Behind the portrait smiling from its frame.
The plant of the wife
W.R.S. Ralston
The wife
Fain would I be sleeping, dreaming:
Heavy lies my head upon the pillow.
Up and down the passage goes my husband’s father,
Angrily about it keeps he pacing.
Chorus
Thumping, scolding, thumping, scolding,-
Never lets his daughter sleep.
Father-in-law
Up, up, up, thou sloven there!
Up, up, up, thou sluggard there!
Slovenly slatternly, sluggardish slut!
The wife
Fain would I be sleeping, dreaming:
Heavy lies my head upon the pillow.
Up and down the passage goes my husband’s mother,
Angrily about it keeps she pacing.
Chorus
Thumping, scolding, thumping, scolding,-
Never lets her daughter sleep.
Mother-in-law
Up, up, up! Thou sloven there!
Up, up, up! Thou sluggard there!
Slovenly, slatternly, sluggardish slut!
The wife
Fain would I be sleeping, dreaming:
Heavy lies my head upon the pillow.
Up and down the passage steals my well-beloved One, -
All so lightly, softly, keeps he whispering.
The lover
Sleep, sleep, sleep, my darling One!
Sleep, sleep, sleep, my precious One!
Driven out, thrown away, married too soon!
Sleep is Supposed to Be
Emily Dickinson
Sleep is supposed to be
By souls of sanity
The shutting of the eye.
Sleep is the station grand
Down which, on either hand
The hosts of witness stand!
Morn is supposed to be
By people of degree
The breaking of the Day.
Morning has not occurred!
That shall Aurora be—
East of Eternity—
One with the banner gay—
One in the red array—
That is the break of Day!
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