It would be pleasant to be drunk

Today is National Poetry Day and fittingly for me it started with just that at 2am. This is from the works of Anne Sexton, a book I keep my bed in case of such sleepless nights. Poetry at night helps clear my mind of the troubling thoughts that keep me awake and, as in this case, it sometimes contains useful advice, for I did indeed 'try it shortly', pouring a large glass of whisky to help me drift off.

And to exploit a slightly tenuous theme, here are two poems of my own, both on the subject of insomnia, one written way back in 2004 and the other from February of this year. The latter, I'm pleased to say, not only has better rhyme and metre but is also a tad more optimistic...

The Clock

Ticking away, my brain de-constructs a life
wasted in endless hours of darkness.
With nothing to see but my own faults
I analyse every crack, defect and weakness.

So tired, yet restless, I make boundless leaps,
thinking over the day's events and my history,
discarding all logic in a trail of thought
to despair and a future painted in misery.

And so, alone with no-one to put my mind at rest,
no one to reassure me, nothing to break the circle,
my confessions alarm no audience but me
as I pen my unwritten journal.

The clock spins round like my mind working out
the connections between this failure and that.
In the black night it all seems so clear
with no background noise to block it out.

Soon sleep seems a waste:
all it brings is the day and another pointless routine
another late morning to recapture the hours
and the following night, I replay the scene.

The same numbers on a dial, the same mistakes,
a perpetual disk of dreadful eternity.
I see no way out or even to stop.
Lying afraid, I despise my own entity.

In the warm light of day it doesn't seem so bad:
screens and speakers distract my wandering mind,
but in blind silence with only thoughts
my hope drifts away from me quickly as time

5.15am

On restless nights like these I find
to ease this tiresome mind of mine
it helps to think up little rhymes
compose my thoughts in structured lines

When hope has long since gone of sleep
and I've grown bored of counting sheep
I search for verses hidden deep
to pass the ghastly hours I keep

I ponder how many a budding bard
has - like me - found it hard
to be at ease and lower guard
when the moon is out and the sky is starred

And though I suffer for my art's sake
with eyes that strain and head that aches
I accept the tiring toll it takes
for my best work comes when kept awake

So I wonder if my subconscious schemes
and keeps me up under lunar beams
to write on these nocturnal themes
with inspiration from the edge of dreams