I wrote this poem around two years ago – the first love poem I’d ever written. It came after a conversation with Pete about how we use the word ‘reality’. So often we attribute it to the things we do – in particular the things we don’t want to do. ‘Oh well, back to reality!’ ‘It’s time she started living in the real world!’ ‘The alarm clock going off again was a real reality check!’ This struck me as a strange truth: isn’t the world of our thought, going on silently and personally inside our brains, the real reality? Isn’t that the thing we are experiencing most of the time: that we wake up with and go to bed with and have to put to one side occasionally in order to attend the far less natural obligations of dentists appointments and meetings with our colleagues?
I’m always resistant towards any way of thinking which strives to make life seem more unpleasant and strict than it actually has to be, and I suppose this falls in with that. Give me the internal reality of books, love and daydreams any day.
Besides that tangent, this is also a sonnet which likens falling in love to the Big Bang. Not that I take myself too seriously, or anything.
Sonnet 212 or Virtual Reality
In over-starched clothes in a blank hotel,
We said the world existed in our heads.
My life began (or really got going)
On a rain soaked blanket, a king-size bed.
The Big Bang banged in a makeshift teepee,
foreign bodies binding; new entities.
Elements exploded; bound you to me.
The solid world around us began to
redefine itself; empty cells imbued
with fireflies and lightning, meaning renewed.
Carbon became two technicolor gods,
Dorothy landing in the land of Oz.
The galaxy lives in your underwear;
In a midnight feast; a waiting room chair.