Dancing Across The Cosmos

Have you ever made a grand plan that started out as a good idea, and that's pretty well where it ended up?

I have. I write poetry as a means of keeping my haphazard and over-heated imagination in some semblance of disorder. Whether you think it good or bad depends on whether you're the victim of my muse-ings, I guess - and besides, that's not the point.

I often have to rely on my subconscious to bail me out of a sticky situation, and such was the case when my creative writing teacher invited me to let him in on what my project would be for my final assessment. Until the words came spilling out of my mouth, I hadn't the faintest idea,

'I am going to combine my interest in quantum physics with my penchant for Arabian Dance, and I'm going to write 80 lines, and I'm going to call the piece 'Dancing Across The Cosmos.'

No sooner said than undone. I cursed myself for a fool. 'Quantum Physics'???? 'Arabian Dance??? ' 'Both???' I wish I had been drinking and could have used inebriation as an excuse, but no. My subconscious had dropped me in it, and was laughing its head off. 'Take that!' It whispered, as if getting its own back for some deep, and as yet unresolved, conflict of interest.

My tutor was quite excited. We stopped talking final assessments, whilst I explained that I was very interested in the fact that most of the universe appears to be missing, and I would rather like to go and find it. After all, I explained, I had read, and find it to be true enough, that physicists resort to metaphor to explain themselves, and I reckon if they have the temerity to stray onto my territory, then I am in my rights to push back.

'Dancing Across The Cosmos' remains a castle in the air. My Apprentice Piece was 100 lines ranging over Love Lost, Love Found, Spring, and Growing Old, just like everybody else's. I raised my mark for originality to 4/5 by including a poem called, 'Death and Emily Dickinson'. I reckon it was Emily that did it for me, though, not Death. We poets have to stick together.


Death And Emily Dickinson


Pale, this lover climbs the stairs.
Cold, -expectant, –
She pulls back the coverlet,-
And turns her face
To a chill embrace.
Death covers her moans with a kiss, – to the lips, –
From icy fingertips.
Suddenly ,– as he comes, –
She goes.