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The Insomnia Poems
by Harry Calhoun
Published by: Flutter Press
Published: September 28, 2011
22 pages/16 poems
Cover by artist Gayle Stott Lowry
To order: http://www.lulu.com/product/paperback/the-insomnia-poems/17409837
"The exquisite pain of loneliness and dread of going to bed alone
are captured all too well in The Insomnia Poems by Harry Calhoun. (ETC)
Brooding about his wife's absence, the death of his parents, and
his inability to sleep through the night, he's easy to picture:
lying in bed, restless, suddenly sitting, groping for his glasses,
and jotting down his tortured thoughts. All the while, his beloved
black lab Alex holds the key to Calhoun's sanity, his mournful howl,
his grinning presence, his solid nearby slumber. Somehow Calhoun
gets through, and realizes 'You'll sleep until you wake / you'll
live until you die / and what matters is what happens in between /
and what you dream.' A masterfully-written collection from a poet
who has never been afraid to examine the deepest, darkest, scariest
part of his soul."
Boston Literary Review
Harry Calhoun has had work published at odd poetry whistlestops for
the past 30 years. His books and chapbooks include The Black Dog and
the Road, Something Real, Near Daybreak, with a Nod to Frost and
Retreating Aggressively into the Dark. Recently, he has had two
Pushcart nominations, a Sundress Best of the Net nomination and
publications in Chiron Review, Abbey, Orange Room Review, Gutter
Eloquence and others.
From the book:
Her, Gone, 3 a.m.
by Harry Calhoun
Woke in the middle of a hard starless night,
all dark in the bedroom and chilly cold outside.
I could almost hear the tubercular darkness
coughing hemorrhage. It had gone so wrong
with her death to your presence.
The slimmest moon will not spit its shadow
onto the wall of her absence. Once the gibbous
lit our passage into and out of the shadows,
but now the wolf has its way, creeping
into our old backyard with her new savage wanderlust.
My old faithful dog and I do not like this.
We are not timid but there is much to fear,
waking to bland black water pressing
with the quiet suffocation of loneliness from all sides.
The void with her gone crackles between my ears,
white noise in the radio receiver of the mind.
I place my body like a slovenly bookmark,
a poor offering between the sheets where we
used to sleep. Hope to pick up some wreckage of rest,
adrift on the beach of a hard starless night.