Today’s post is very late. I did poetry practice in the pre-dawn dark. But I stayed awake for it, having been out late to a music session in a local pub. We crept in at 3am. My dear husband was sound asleep instantaneously, having played guitar and sung his heart out for five hours solid. I was a bit hoarse, too, from chiming in on choruses. But my night owl clock had got switched back on and so I quietly padded about the house, made myself a cup of tea, and got down to writing away my sleeplessness.
Many, many hours and missions accomplished later (propped up by a triple shot cappucino, bless my barristas heart!) I came back to it at supper time to type up, revise and post the poetry daily.
In the Belly of the Year
This nearly old year is a whale.
It has swallowed me whole,
Jonah-style. I am trampolining
on its liver and lites,
head banging against its ribs.
A whale may supply oil,
but no lamp, no light.
It is the seed of the dark moon
during days that are mostly night,
and the nights full of cloud,
It turns out I am indigestible
whale fodder. However, there is a queue
to wait your time to be purged.
I daydream being spat out
upon a smooth sand beach
along with the seaweed and shells.
To be washed in oceanic
amniosis sounds quite pleasant
after being in the belly of a whale.
And will I come out holding a seashell?
An oyster, perhaps, rubbed down raw
with sand and grit, with a pearl within,
the gift from the parting year.
Copyright © Bee Smith 2018