The Seven Sonatas of the Night

The Seven Sonatas of the Night

A Poem by Philip Hartshorn

An awakening adventure through the REM cycle.


 The Seven Sonatas of the Night

The Overture 
opens as the opera of your eyes bursts into song.
Rhythm from the powerful brass of your memories 
steers you up the stairs.
The baton is cast far from your stage 
The Prelude 
plays as your steps echo
in empty halls with void feelings.
The instruments are tuned.
Why accompany when you can listen?
The harp is strung,
the hallway is never-ending,
still avoiding that reoccurring melody
wrought of your own thoughts.
The Bolero
begets the exhaustion of your denial.
Time’s cruel reminder of bed,
and what lies under those tear stained quilts
that wrap you in your own fear.
How unnerving it is to recount those sounds,        
forgotten aggravations played so beautifully,
As you slip into R.E.M.
The Toccata
takes you for a flute,
But you are only a drum.
Even in your dreams you cannot escape the unforgiving beat of
Your own ensnaring repercussions.
Breath is a choir of dispelled distress.
Don't think that you ca wake just yet.
The breaching nightmare is not yet over.
The Serenade
sighs its way into your heart of sorrow.
You think back to the silence,
before the fulminating vocal aura penetrated your dark haven.
But then you laugh at how foolish that sounds,
or are those truly sobs?
How different they are:
the cry of the of the horn,
and the weeping of the bow.
Why can we not sight this antipode?
The Rondo
reminds you of your weakness.
A duet of dreams shattered.
A solo of desperate desire.
A baritone of lost lust .
How capricious these tonic tortures
from your past can be as you expect some new
solace from those raptured memories, even in sleep.
The Nocturne 
nullifies what fleeting feelings were had.
It tugs at your previously secure world
and wraps that phasic illusion around your reluctant awakening.
Eyes that wish they could hear instead of see, 
struggling to lay dormant in that sanctuary for a moment more
keeping safe within those old thought for as long as they can,
however, all things illusionary must come to an end, no matter how lucid.
But even as you rise from the dream you are entangled in those strings,
those chords that forever cry out in the ruthless crescendo 
of reality.

© 2009 Philip Hartshorn

Author's Note

Philip Hartshorn
Artwork by Kojima

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Added on January 28, 2009
Last Updated on January 28, 2009


Philip Hartshorn
Philip Hartshorn

zanarkand, NY

I enjoy a variety of cheese. Jack and smoked swiss, gouda and provalone, and even gorgonzola. Ami du Chambertin and Anneau du Vic-Bilh are also delicious as well as Braudostur, but it's Epoisses de Bo.. more..