too early to brush your teeth
but not too late to edit a dream
it’s nowhere time
dawn is bubbling away outside
a fertile nothing
floats around the bed
poems ferment in a hollow mouth
a wandering ear
an earthen jar
a spot in a mushy mind
for a constellation
hovering like a scoby
growing itself inside the leathery
luxury of limbo
all you need to catch a poem
is willing eyes, broken ears,
fingers, and a sieve
pic and poem by rachel mcalpine cc by 2.0
For NZ National Poetry Day, 25 August 2017, a poem about poems: poets can’t help doing this sometimes. What’s a scoby? A slimy, ugly, living organism that creates kombucha out of sweetened tea. Like a ginger-beer bug, you know.
And the scoby of all poems is … space, silence, that mysterious state of hypnogogia. For the last two months I have been dead to creative enterprises. Now we’re sorted, I hope, so it’s time to cut down on external stimuli and enjoy the magic of my own mind.
You can tell I’m an introvert, although I pass as normal. Lots of poets do.
Hypnogogia, the state between sleep and wakefulness, is key to creativity — Huffington Post
4 thoughts on “Scoby of all poems”
I guess your poem just dragged me out of hypnagogia. I’ll have to stop leaving the phone beside the bed. Love those words.
That was tough! I’m so sorry.
And I’ve dobbed myself in for lazing in bed reading blogs at 8:00am!!!
Enjoy without shame! I stayed in bed to write that poem and considered it a productive couple of hours. So is daydreaming, right?