Ceiling below Minimums

bird and cloud




“At four in the morning my body bumped against the ceiling.”

– Jim Harrison


…and it’s my wounded
inner eye that draws
me up and out of myself to roam.

In the early hours when sleep
rests heavy, a dew-drenched
blanket covering my undiscovered
trespasses, lapses, the eye –
that damned eye! – with vision
softened through it’s pearl
iris, leads me in drafts of flight.
I become a glider without confines.

Last night the poetry failed,
and I fluttered upward on prose.

I have the bruises to prove it.


* * *

This is Day 27 of Jilly’s “Days of Unreason.”  I want to thank Jilly for originating this challenge two years ago!  Jim Harrison’s poetry is not for everybody — it’s for those who see the poetic in the natural world, in the trials of life, and at the edge of insanity.  I have grown as a writer and a poet through my interaction with these prompts.  Thank you, Miss Jill!

“We all know that Art is not truth.
Art is a lie that makes us realize truth,
at least the truth that is given us to understand.
The artist must know the manner whereby
to convince others of the truthfulness of his lies.”

― Pablo Picasso

17 thoughts on “Ceiling below Minimums

  1. Is it our wounded inner eye that makes us pace about in the middle of the night? Is that what makes us fly about the room like some encumbered horse fly, bumping our heads and eating the shit of prose until the poetry returns? Charley you make me question and provide no answers. Poet. Dichter.
    [and do you know of the eye of Harrison?]

    Liked by 1 person

    • I don’t know from personal experience the effect being blinded had on Harrison. However, in one of his poems he speaks of the changes in “vision” his childhood injury gave him. Thanks Z!

      Liked by 1 person

  2. “Last night the poetry failed, / and I fluttered upward on prose. / I have the bruises to prove it.” — that is terrrific! I can read that over and over.


  3. That wounded inner eye that draws you in drafts of flight. Love the image of this. Whether poetry or prose- they both appear to be vehicles of transport. Just make sure you don’t nap in an open field…. we’ll never find you!
    A punchy write!


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