Insomnia Poems Quotes

The monsters were never under my bed. Because the monsters were inside my head. I fear no monsters, for no monsters I see. Because all this time the monster has been me.

I won't sleep if that's what it takes to not wake up as myself

Somewhere in the night a human being is drowning.

The seasonal urge is strong in poets. Milton wrote chiefly in winter. Keats looked for spring to wake him up (as it did in the miraculous months of April and May, 1819). Burns chose autumn. Longfellow liked the month of September. Shelley flourished in the hot months. Some poets, like Wordsworth, have gone outdoors to work. Others, like Auden, keep to the curtained room. Schiller needed the smell of rotten apples about him to make a poem. Tennyson and Walter de la Mare had to smoke. Auden drinks lots of tea, Spender coffee; Hart Crane drank alcohol. Pope, Byron, and William Morris were creative late at night. And so it goes.

After a night of insomnia the body gets weaker, Becomes dear but no one’s — not even your own.

It is snowing and death bugs me as stubborn as insomnia.

When I dance with him, one of my great loves, he is absolutely human, and when he turns to dip me or I step on his foot because we are both leading, I know that one of us will die first and the other will suffer. The slow dance of what’s to come and the slow dance of insomnia pouring across the floor like bath water.

What we eat is a poem.

I never noticed anything but you But you but you So that I couldn't sleep

Last night, I repeated your name like a mantra before falling asleep. Somehow the simple pleasure of uttering your name, and the added pleasure of hearing your name was heaven for me and I didn’t go to bed until dawn. Isn’t it odd how your name, a single word associated with you, can bring another person such joy that they inflict insomnia upon themselves and call it a blessing?

The rain is, in a sense, The sole sad friend of those who find themselves Thinking, wide awake, until the dawn, Who, in bed, alone, with fevered hands, Listen to it, soothed. They like the company Of its faint moan across the sleeping plain, Its rustling in the garden all night long. - On the Great Grey Road (Sur ce Grand Chemin Gris...)

I weep as I have never wept: Oh it was summer when I slept, It's winter now I waken.

The dismal fact is that self-respect has nothing to do with the approval of others — who are, after all, deceived easily enough; has nothing to do with reputation, which, as Rhett Butler told Scarlett O’Hara, is something people with courage can do without. To do without self-respect, on the other hand, is to be an unwilling audience of one to an interminable documentary that deals with one’s failings, both real and imagined, with fresh footage spliced in for every screening. There’s the glass you broke in anger, there’s the hurt on X’s face; watch now, this next scene, the night Y came back from Houston, see how you muff this one. To live without self-respect is to lie awake some night, beyond the reach of warm milk, the Phenobarbital, and the sleeping hand on the coverlet, counting up the sins of commissions and omission, the trusts betrayed, the promises subtly broken, the gifts irrevocably wasted through sloth or cowardice, or carelessness. However long we postpone it, we eventually lie down alone in that notoriously uncomfortable bed, the one we make ourselves. Whether or not we sleep in it depends, of course, on whether or not we respect ourselves.

A stupid man stays awake all night pondering his problems; he's worn out when morning comes and whatever was, still is.

I will not sleep If that's what it takes To not wake up As my mother

We are all bound together by the Purpose,’ Dorrance said abruptly. ‘That’s ka-tet, which means one made of many. The way that many rhymes make up a single poem.

Insomnia is like spring that way—surprising and many petaled

What is longevity? It is the horror of existing in a human body whose faculties are in decline. It is insomnia measured by decades and not by metal hands. It is carrying the weight of seas and pyramids, of ancient libraries and dynasties, of the dawns that Adam saw. It is being well aware that I am bound to my flesh, to a voice I detest, to my name, to routinely remembering, to Castilian, over which I have no control, to feeling nostalgic for the Latin I do not know. It is trying to sink into death and being unable to sink into death. It is being and continuing to be.

It was freezing, but the cold effortlessly numbed my feet and aching hands. I walked quietly, barefoot, to the end of the block, leaving my shoes behind to remind me how to find my way home. I stood at the end of the street, catching snow in my mouth, and laughed softly to myself as I realized that without my insomnia and anxiety and pain I’d never have been awake to see the city that never sleeps asleep and blanketed up for winter. I smiled and felt silly, but in the best possible way. As I turned and looked back toward the hotel I noticed that my footprints leading out into the city were mismatched. One side was glistening, small and white. The other was misshapen from my limp and each heel was pooled with spots of bright red blood. It struck me as a metaphor for my life. One side light and magical. Always seeing the good. Lucky. The other side bloodied, stumbling. Never quite able to keep up. It was like the Jesus-beach-footprint-in-the-sand poem, except with less Jesus and more bleeding. It was my life, there in white and red. And I was grateful for it. “Um, miss?” It was the man from the front desk leaning tentatively out of the front door with a concerned look on his face. “Coming,” I said. I felt a bit foolish and considered trying to clarify but then thought better of it. There was no way to explain to this stranger how my mental illness had just gifted me with a magical moment. I realized it would have sounded a bit crazy, but that made sense. After all, I was a bit crazy. And I didn’t even have to pretend to be good at it. I was a damn natural.

War The trembling finger of a woman Goes down the list of casualties On the evening of the first snow. The house is cold and the list is long. All our names are included.

У меня в Москве — купола горят! У меня в Москве — колокола звонят! И гробницы в ряд у меня стоят, — В них царицы спят, и цари. И не знаешь ты, что зарёй в Кремле Легче дышится — чем на всей земле! И не знаешь ты, что зарёй в Кремле Я молюсь тебе — до зари! И проходишь ты над своей Невой О ту пору, как над рекой-Москвой Я стою с опущенной головой, И слипаются фонари. Всей бессонницей я тебя люблю, Всей бессонницей я тебе внемлю — О ту пору, как по всему Кремлю Просыпаются звонари… Но моя река — да с твоей рекой, Но моя рука — да с твоей рукой Не сойдутся, Радость моя, доколь Не догонит заря — зари. 7 мая 1916 At home in Moscow - where the domes are burning, at home in Moscow - in the sound of bells, where I live the tombs - in their rows are standing and in them Tsaritsas - are asleep and tsars. And you don't know how - at dawn the Kremlin is the easiest place to - breathe in the whole wide earth and you don't know when - dawn reaches the Kremlin I pray to you until - the next day comes and I go with you - by your river Neva even while beside - the Moscow river I am standing here - with my head lowered and the line of street lights - sticks fast together. With my insomnia - I love you wholly. With my insomnia - I listen for you, just at the hour throughout - the Kremlin, men who ring the bells - begin to waken, Still my river - and your river still my hand - and your hand will never join, or not until one dawn catches up another dawning.

despite my trembling. Let me call my anxiety, desire, then. Let me call it, a garden. Maybe this is what Lorca meant when he said, verde que te quiero verde— because when the shade of night comes, I am a field of it, of any worry ready to flower in my chest. My mind in the dark is una bestia, unfocused, hot. And if not yoked to exhaustion beneath the hip and plow of my lover, then I am another night wandering the desire field— bewildered in its low green glow, belling the meadow between midnight and morning. Insomnia is like spring that way—surprising and many petaled, the kick and leap of gold grasshoppers at my brow.

For your information—from your pharmacist Do not take this medicine with dairy products. Do not take this medicine with any medication containing aluminum, calcium, bismuth, iron or zinc. Do not take this product with vitamins or minerals. This medicine may cause dry mouth or arrhythmia. This medicine may cause diarrhea, nausea, vomiting, hair loss, dizziness, sore joints. This medicine may cause insomnia. Discontinue this medicine if you black out frequently, if your heart stops or if you cannot breathe for half an hour. Discontinue if death ensues. Otherwise take four a day. Continue until medication is completely consumed, or you are.

We do not like what happens when we are awake, because it too closely resembles what happens when we are asleep. We understand the ordinary business of living, We know how to work the machine, We can usually avoid accidents, We are insured against fire, Against larceny and illness, Against defective plumbing, But not against the act of God. We know various spells and enchantments. And minor forms of sorcery, Divination and chiromancy, Specifics against insomnia, Lumbago, and the loss of money. But the circle of our understanding Is a very restricted area. Except for a limited number Of strictly practical purposes We do not know what we are doing; And even, when you think of it, We do not know much about thinking

The Real World' The real word doesn't take flight the way dreams do. No muffled voice, no doorbell can dispel it, no shriek, no crash can cut it short. Images in dreams are hazy and ambiguous, and can generally be explained in many different ways. Reality means reality: that's tougher nut to crack. Dreams have keys. The real world opens on its own and can't be shut. Report canrds and stars pour from it, butterflies and flatiron warmers shower down, headless caps and shards of clouds. Together they form a rebus that can't be solved. Without us dreams couldn't exist. The one on whom the real world depends is still unknown, and the products of his insomnia are avaialble to anyone who wakes up. Dreams aren't crazy- it's the real world that's insane, if only in the stubbornness with which it sticks to the current of events. In dreams our recently deceased are still alive, in perfect health, no less, and restored to the full bloom of youth. The real world lays the corpse in front of us. The real world doesn't blink an eye. Dreams are featherweights, and memory can shake them off with ease. The real world doesn't have to fear forgetfulness. It's a tough customer. It sits on our shoulders, weights on our hearts, tumbles to our feet. There's no escaping it, it tags along each time we flee. And there's no stop along our escape route where reality isn't expecting us.

From the Desire Field” I don’t call it sleep anymore.         I’ll risk losing something new instead— like you lost your rosen moon, shook it loose. But sometimes when I get my horns in a thing— a wonder, a grief or a line of her—it is a sticky and ruined         fruit to unfasten from, despite my trembling. Let me call my anxiety, desire, then Let me call it, a garden. Maybe this is what Lorca meant         when he said, verde que te quiero verde— because when the shade of night comes, I am a field of it, of any ready to flower in my chest. My mind in the dark is una bestia, unfocused,         hot. And if not yoked to exhaustion beneath the hip and plow of my lover, then I am another night wandering the desire field— bewildered in its low green glow, belling the meadow between midnight and morning. Insomnia is like Spring that way—surprising         and many petaled. the kick and leap of gold grasshoppers at my brow. I am struck in the witched hours of want— I want her green life. Her inside me in a green hour I can’t stop.         Green vein in her throat green wind in my mouth green thorn in my eye. I want her like a river goes, bending. Green moving green, moving. Fast as that, this is how it happens—         soy una sonámbula. And even though you said today you felt better, and it is so late in this poem, is it okay to be clear,         to say, I don’t feel good, until I can smell its sweet smoke,         leave this thrashed field, and be smooth. Natalie Diaz, poets.org (5 June 2017)

Winter Insomnia" The mind can’t sleep, can only lie awake and gorge, listening to the snow gather as for some final assault. It wishes Chekhov were here to minister something – three drops of valerian, a glass of rose water – anything, it wouldn’t matter. The mind would like to get out of here onto the snow. It would like to run with a pack of shaggy animals, all teeth, under the moon, across the snow, leaving no prints or spoor, nothing behind. The mind is sick tonight.

The old woman dressing a small child for slaughter In a convent’s school uniform. The ceiling pale as the flowers. The red parrot screaming in the parrot house.

There are times for the tearless cry, There are times for the voiceless words we say.. There are times for the unjustified sorrow.. There are times for the empty diaries And the white similar days.. There are weeks for suspense, Nights for insomnia, And long hours for annoyance.. There are times for folly, others for repentance, Times for passion and others for pain.. There are times unrelated to seasons. There are times for the letters that will never be written, For that phone that will never ring, For the confessions that will never be made, For a lifetime that must be spent in a moment of wager.. There is a wager where we bet our hearts on a gambling table.. There are brilliant players practicing failure with distinction... There are beginnings of years similar to ends, There are weekends longer than all weeks.. There are gray mornings of days unrelated to autumn.. There are storms of passion leaving no place for a tent, And a furnished memory that can't be used for rent.. There are trains that will travel without us, And airplanes that will take us no further than ourselves. Deep inside us; there is a corner where rain never stops.. There are rains that water only notebooks.. There are poems that will never be signed by poets, There are inspiring people who sign a life of a poet, There are writings more wonderful than their writers, There are love stories more beautiful than their lovers, There are lovers who mistook their path to love, There is a love which mischose its lovers.. There is a time that is not created for passion, There are lovers who are not created for this time, There is a love which is created to stay, There is a love that sweeps everything away.. There is a love as fierce as hate, There is a hate unmatched by any love.. There is a forgetfulness more visible than memory, There are lies more honest than truth.. There is me, There is you, There are imaginary dates more delightful than all dates, There are love plans more beautiful than any love story, There is a farewell more delicious than thousands of meetings, There are clashes prettier than any peace.. There are moments that pass as an age.. There is an age dying in a moment.. There is me and there is you, There is always an impossibility that begins with every love.

You don’t block the window anymore. The breeze is cooler without the thick sweat of your breath. Air more fresh, not stained by the dirty words delivered. This space kisses me in ways you never could