Get Up Before Dawn

Yesterday, I did a seven-minute automatic-writing exercise with the students in my creative-writing course, "Songs and Poems Were All We Needed" (it's a poetry and songwriting course). Then I had them do some things with the texts they'd written, which led to each of them having one sentence to write. We put all the sentences together into a poem, added a few conjunctions, and gave the poem a title and an author: Rose Thornton, who was also well-known as a war correspondent in World War II.

Get Up Before Dawn

Rose Thornton (1914-1984)

I just sit on my floor in the spot that gets warmed by the sun,

and my problems are my own to solve.

I see my neighbours’ rose garden.

To some, nightfall brings nightmares and fears; to me, it brings comfort and ideas.

So I eat, eat and eat.

Then, if I could, I would fly amongst the stars, unburdened and unfaltering.

Soon, my right hand starts cramping, and I find that quite annoying.

I can’t stand people before dawn, if ever,

yet the warmth of her bed still lingers on her skin

while I’m unhappy. In conclusion, same shit, different day — but at least tea’s ready

because the dragons bring the ashen rain. The world is dying, but my heart’s aflame.

Talk instead of touch, and that’s all right. The week goes by, and we meet again.

So I carry the financial weight of our little family.

It’s as if there’s something in the darkness waiting for me to wake up.

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