This Isn’t a Poem Tho It Looks Like One…

A TRANSITIONAL OBJECT…

is a beloved and reassuring

item that stands in for Mom                                        

when she is out of sight.

 

A late bloomer, I still have

need for Mom, but my own

transitional  object is a book.

 

I tried to meditate tonight

but metaphors came to mock

the books which lined my shelf.

 

They made fun of the flying monk

who flew around the church wearing

no underpants and became a saint.

 

Graves, Yeats, Mann and Leibnitz

believe in the monk, as he is

described in Wilson’s The Occult.

 

At twelve my uncle gave me An

Experiment with Time by Dunne,

and how we dream of future events.

 

Hillman’s Dreams and the Underworld

scared me out of my Jungian analysis,

with hints of archetypes come to life.

 

Wilhelm Reich knew that his patient

had an abortion when she reported a

dream of a book standing upside down.

 

Strangers to Ourselves, The Whisperings

Within, and  Sam Harris’ Free Will all

assuaged my need for companionship.

 

Wilson’s Consilience stirred my mind

and my heart, even though the friend

of a friend says he’s a misogynist.

 

Intellectuals alerted me to the fact that

Rousseau placed his five newborns in

baskets and left them, unnamed.

 

Discovery of the Unconscious tells of

a  fox who possessed a sick woman and

refused to leave without a fine meal.

 

I become anxious when’ere I discover

myself all alone and with no security

blanket to comfort myself.

 

Then I remember blogland.

 

 

About Nan Mykel

I used to think I would be a child prodigy, but then I got old. Formerly I had fantasies of rubbing elbows with cultural and academic leaders but that did not come to pass because I did not become a cultural or academic leader or any other kind of leader, for that matter. I am not even an "Alpha Dog," a term learned from a friend who had to become "Alpha Dog" in order to influence her own pet. (When gazes lock, she never looks away.) For years I expected to become a published author, but in passing I could not avoid the fact that I had little to contribute to the world's bulging dumpsters. I'm embarrassed to report that I also considered my primary process artistic productions powerful, rather than mildly neurotic. Which is not to say that I disrespect myself, only that I am beginning to doubt my potential for making a mark on the world. If I focus on strict self discipline I may be able to keep my garbage removed on a weekly basis, to keep the kitty box changed, the clothes cleaned, the dog watered, fed and walked, but that just catches me up to the starting mark again. When writing I physically grapple with words, wrestling them from their indifference into attempted chunks of awareness. I sit heavily on my chair; I breathe in artificially cooled air; my ear drums note the tap tap of the keyboard and the steady uninterrupted sound of the air conditioner, What is that sound? The roar of the ocean from 30 yards away...Inside, my thoughts are are balls in an electronic game machine, bouncing hither and yon from lever to lever. I am a little grim and intent until I recall a dream related by a black man in the prison where I once worked. He said that when he was a small boy, back home, he dreamed he was standing on his front porch pissing, and that he suddenly found himself pissing stars...
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2 Responses to This Isn’t a Poem Tho It Looks Like One…

  1. “I become anxious when’ere I discover
    myself all alone and with no security
    blanket to comfort myself.

    Then I remember blogland.”

    Wow. This hits home.

    Like

  2. Nan Mykel says:

    Thanks for the company!

    Like

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