Nocturnal

 

I live in a cul-de-sac at the top of a hill.

At night I hear silence, an occasional dog.

Inside I have non-stop jazz on late.

I leave the passage light on, not to trip over.

All night I hear silence, an occasional dog,

and my black, nocturnally wandering cat.

I leave the passage light on, not to trip over her.

Time stretches out vast in the early hours.

Watching my black, nocturnally wandering cat,

I feel my skin start to breathe, my back straighten.

Time stretches out vast in the early hours.

I must go to bed, I tell myself, but I don’t.

I feel my skin start to breathe, my back straighten

inside the non-stop jazz I have on late.

I must go to bed, I tell myself, but I don’t.

The cul-de-sac is alive, here at the top of the hill.

Inspired by a prompt from Padraig O Tuama at the Poetry Unbound substack. He has some novel instructions for creating a pantoum. (This is an unrhymed pantoum, which is not traditional, but in my reading I notice it's becoming a common variant.) I must have subscribed to this substack at some point – and how glad I am that I did – as this post turned up in my email today.  How could I possibly resist giving his method a try?

At Poets and Storytellers United, Friday Writings #209 asks us to be inspired by the following quote by Arthur Ashe: ‘Start where you are. Use what you have. Do what you can.’  While I didn't write this poem specifically to that prompt, its creation and subject matter exemplify the advice.

As a matter of interest, my original lines in response to O Tuama's prompt questions were:

I am in a cul-de-sac at the top of a hill.

At night I hear silence, an occasional dog.

Inside I have non-stop jazz on late. 

I leave the passage light on, not to trip over

my black, nocturnally wandering cat.

Time stretches out vast in the early hours.

I feel my skin start to breathe, my back straighten. 

I must go to bed, I tell myself, but I don’t.

(Not a bad little poem in itself, as it happens – but I do think the pantoum version is more interesting.)