This is my current view. If you look closely, you might be able to make out my feet. It’s actually not totally black, just dusky, and shaded by black-out blinds and thick curtains. The sound I can hear is the fan, but below that is a white noise cd of moving water, called ‘babbling brook’.
This set-up is oriented to the needs of my baby daughter, not quite four months old, but it has become my favourite head space of the day. In winter it was much darker, and at a certain time of day she just yearned to be in that dark space, with nothing but my body, and milk, and the water noise to help her into a longer sleep. It became my space for reading or writing poetry, and I cling to it even on these lighter nights.
There are no ideal conditions for writing poetry but ever since my baby gave me this gift of inertia and darkness I have noticed how writers have often sought out these bits of the day. Emily Dickinson in A Quiet Passion asks her father for the hours before dawn to write. (You might want to use the dark of the cinema to write if you go to see that film, it is looong, or it feels long). Similarly, Sylvia Plath allegedly wrote between 4-6am before her babies woke. I literally cannot imagine getting myself up in the middle of the night to write poetry or indeed for anything that isn’t a child who is crying but that’s what makes SP an actual writer. And didn’t Keats write at dawn, naked, before his window? Good for him. He didn’t have to worry about babies at all.
Even if you don’t have a baby, or a paid job, or social media, or even 5 whole serieses of Orange is the New Black to binge watch, it seems that the absence of the light of the day helps you find the handle to that door in your mind that you need to go through to be with your non-thoughts; those friends of your lived experience which flare up as poetry. Sometimes.
In that room I am trying to find if my lit life can speak to me.
Sometimes it does.
It reminds me of the Yehuda Amichai poem, translated by Chana Bloch The Precision of Pain.