Insomnia

Cohen, Marc

I had meant to mention the shadowy

and stark windmills of Holland

(their bleakness) in Hitchcock's

Foreign Correspondent, in addition

to Joel McCrea's fine performance,

but as I told you, I forgot.

(What about the cryptic note

"Nice Back! "-written in pencil

on a ripped piece of Manila paper

stuck between the pages

of the Max Frisch book you loaned me?

and what about the partial numbers

on the other side, with the partial results

of various subtractions?)

Then I was beginning

a book (my own)-having tossed

the week's newspapers into the fireplace

(with some satisfaction) one by one

not only to spur on the damp logs,

but to help rid myself of yesterday's interests,

which, granted, might be of some use today

but were already taking up too much space.

Suddenly I hear a thud,

and looking up from my notebook,

and through the sliding-glass door,

see that a small catbird

has misjudged the clearness

how the space is completely filled up

and now is grounded and motionless

on the wooden deck. "Bad omen," I say.

Something small (an insect? a rodent?)

crawls under autumn's fallen leaves,

frozen in winter, now warm, but

still crisp in this wet snap of summer.

Delusions settle in,

and take on a life of their own,

while exhibiting the same potential for betrayal

as when I describe myself.

I prod the catbird

with a red, aluminum stake

it flaps its wings once,

then doesn't move.

"Don't do this to me, little bird,"

I say, "there's too much riding on this

my sanity, for instance."

I go back inside,

where I am greeted by the sounds

of Webern's String Quartet op. 28.

I close the sliding-glass door.

(Webern plucks

the inner recesses

of short and quick space

most of his pieces

as brief as Mahler's are long.

After World War I, he dropped the "von"

from his last name, but kept his first, Anton:

the name that she gave to her pet iguana

how I loved that scrawny lizard!)

It is not uncommon for a tree

to grow several feet higher,

after being struck by lightning.

I return to the deck,

prod the felled catbird again.

This time, it flutters its wings,

then stands on its feet.

("Hallelujah! ")

It glides to a pine tree branch

as if nothing has happened,

as if the pine needles are magnets,

and its hollow bones are filled with steel.

Then it uses the branch as a springboard

in order to begin the flight through a gap

in the surrounding oak leaves,

through the light mist

and heavy air,

toward the low-hanging cloud-cover.

After lunch, it's back to work.

It was nice not having to consider

my actions these past months

and now I can be totally unaccountable,

and remain alternately short-tempered and aloof

so unlike someone who usually bears witness

(responsibility?) as the hero or fall guy.

The bed is dreaming now,

so are the pillows and satin sheets

perhaps cherishing

a new-found emptiness.

The table, the chairs, the windows,

the freshly painted walls

and sliding-glass doors

have said their prayers

await what they believe

will be a pious sleep.

The front door and mirrors,

half-asleep, toss and turn,

while the ceiling

keeps an eye on us all;

knows the one who will not rest

until daybreak;

reads the poem out loud

as a way to invalidate,

exorcise the ruddy demon

with the fine weather on his face;

be the other man's floor.

Don't worry though,

because it's all over for now,

but be careful,

for it has seen your face!

Copyright World Poetry, Incorporated Jul/Aug 1996
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