I’m trying to do more writing, and sometimes I find myself writing at odd hours. Not so much at night, but before dawn when much of the rest of the world is still fast asleep. And there’s something that happens in those moments of reflection, in the dark, which is unlike anything else. Carl Dennis captures that beautifully here.
Writing at Night
This empty feeling that makes me fearful
I’ll disappear the minute I stop thinking
May only mean that beyond the kitchen window, in the dark,
The minions of the past are gathering,
Waiting for the dishes to be cleared away
So they can hustle supper into oblivion.
This feeling may only mean that supper’s done
And night has the house surrounded
And the past is declaring itself the victor.
It doesn’t deny that tomorrow I’ll wake to find
That the usual bales of light have been unloaded
And distributed equally in every precinct,
That the tree at the corner will be awash in it
And the flaming yellow coats of the crossing guards.
This empty feeling could be a gift
I haven’t yet grown used to, a lightness
That means I’ve shaken off the weight of resentment,
Envy, remorse, and pride that drags the soul down.
A thinness that lets me slip through a needle’s eye
Into the here and now of the kitchen
Without losing a button.
An emptiness that betokens a talent for self-forgetting
That lets me welcome the stories of others,
Which even now may be on their way,
Hoping I’ll take them in however rumpled they look
And gray-faced as they drag themselves from the car
With their bulky night bags and water jugs.
It’s late. Have I gone to bed? they wonder.
And then they see the light in the kitchen
And a figure who could be me at the table
Still up writing.
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