A Plea To Sleep From The Sleepless

Poem By Richard Blanch

To Lord Hypnos



Sleep, please drift across the sky, come with the cloudy evening, come softly, weep
With the sweet dew, seep into my poor grinding brain, counting these silly sheep
Hopelessly, finding flocks rioting, rampaging endlessly across deep
Drynesses. Or come swiftly, Leap over deserts, rush me before I know, reap
The harvest of my consciousness, muffle and blanket the constant bleep, bleep
Of awareness even if you keep me yours for hours, for a day, for a week,
Even if you come uncomforting, blowing, drizzling, raining, snowing, sleeting,
Hailing me across dim dark borderlands. Or stroke and seduce me, touch me, feel
My tenderness with your fumbling fingers, steep me in soporific sleaze
Roll me in warm sheets, in strange fragrances, oils, do with me desperate things, deeds
Unspeakably, gaudily outrageous, as long as they exhaust all greed,
All desires, all seeking. As long as they meet and breed a host of feathered dreams,
As long as they take the feverish membranes of my mind and sleekly lead
Me slumbrous and heavy lidded, to your side; comfort me, tease and seize me
Fondle, clasp, squeeze me freely, easily - oh Hypnos come and answer my need!

Comments about A Plea To Sleep From The Sleepless

This is an endearing and seductive ode to hypnos, how can he not respond to this most wonderful plea! Richard, your poetry is a feast for the senses with lush sounds and rich imagery.


5 out of 5
0 total ratings

Other poems of BLANCH

Ephebos

Distant friends laugh, dust blows, wine pours: they call me.
Such sounds fall from me like the blue of my cloak;

I am only what is present:

Minoan- Reading And Writing Landscape

Olive groves- they were here then, underleaf
Silver flickering dark gloss in the breeze:
What’s beneath often surprises what’s above.
Lemon tress, three and a half thousand years

Turkish Cigarettes: An Ode, In The Face Of Untoward Intolerance

With grateful memories of Calverley and all kinds of apologies to the shade of Junkets. And none at all to the new Puritanism.`

Hurled, for their art, from clubs, corridors, pubs, saloons
And solace, these pale outsiders loiter, gird their loins-

Blind Narcissus

Waiting by the stairs, in the hall
Where the panelling is white
With moonlight: one vertical figure, black, upright
As principle.

Touched, Lost, Found.

Snow was piled up against the door.
Mountain air entered in the bracing window panes.
Frosty words fell on the ear with the exactitude,
With the precision of a snowflake.

An Afternoon Of Horns

Unfurling the mind’s filaments feels good-
Freeing them, letting grass-green and wind
Shred them over the fields,
The hills, the cows, the undulant woods,