3:15 Experiment, Day Twenty-five

Until the matter's settled
we will wait here and expect
something amazing will happen
and waiting's not so bad as it used to be

3:15 Experiment, Day Twenty-four

temperature find temperateness
the polarized degrees
hit the skin like poison
that book- ingested via the skin
my pores and lungs
in comes the wild change
the night is a strange time to live

Magnificat

*reposted because it is too amazing to be buried

Magnificat
(for Sian, after thirteen years)

oh this man
what a meal he made of me
how he chewed and gobbled and sucked
in the end he spat me all out

you arrived on the dot, in the nick
of time, with your red curls flying
I was about to slip down the sink like grease
I nearly collapsed, I almost
wiped myself out like a stain
I called for you, and you came, you voyaged
fierce as a small archangel with swords and breasts...

you commanded me to sing of my redemption

oh, my friend, how
you were mother for me, and how
I could let myself lean on you
comfortable as an old cloth
familiar as enamel saucepans
I was a child again, pyjama'ed
in winceyette, my hair plaited and you

listened, you soothed me like cake and milk...

when we met, I tell you
it was a birthday party, a funeral
it was a holy communion
between women, a Visitation
it was two old she-goats butting
and nuzzling each other in the smelly fold

Michele Roberts

3:15 Experiment, Day Twenty-three

the trouble with two
is that two become interchangeable
equally loved/needed/whatever
the possibility of not

necessity of watching
need to know need to know
employees only
do not disturb, DNR

the thing about poetry
growling imagination imagery
open yourself up to terrible thoughts
let the witch lead you to her den

3:15 Experiment, Day Twenty-two

intricacies of a firefly
how does she glow?
take flight to spread messages
not all night power rests
with moons and stars and men

3:15 Experiment, Day Twenty

eugenicide
postpartum
stuff us all back
in the mother womb
patron saint of gimps

Handwriting

The big trouble with the 3:15 Experiment is that I can never seem to read my handwriting when I wake up.  And I do a lot of typos and misspellings (i.e. "two" versus "too") but feel I shouldn't correct them if I'm to keep them in the raw.  But what to do when I can't read what I have written?  Especially when I write something phonetically similar but with such a different meaning ("con-like," I'm pretty sure, was meant to be "dog-like").  Something appears to say "askance" but I didn't know what the word actually meant until I looked it up ("With an attitude or look of suspicion or disapproval"), which doesn't even make sense in the context.

In any event, the month will end soon and I will fix up the poems all pretty.  I like that I'm getting many night poems again.  I might try to put together a chapbook on night meanderings.  Which may mean extending the 3:15 Experiment for my own personal use.  Lack of a collective wakeful writing mind, but still that stealing intention from dreams.  Or, as of late, nightmares.