30 Poems in 30 Days 2009: Day Two
September 2, 2009 by J.C. Hewitt
I’m not the sort of person who has vivid, odd dreams at night. I used to have very visual dreams when I was younger, but over the past few years they have become a rarity. Last night was an exception though. Last night I had the strangest and most colorful dream. It combined the creepiest elements of an abandoned truck stop, a malfunctioning and possibly sentient computer, and a foot and a half tall fairy that bore no small resemblance to Tinkerbell except she was dressed in blue. David lynch could not have set a stranger scene.
For all that oddity though, it is pointless to try to describe the dream to you. People love to talk about their dreams, but no one really wants to hear about other people’s dreams. It is one of the great conversational paradoxes. Dreams are only truly interesting to the people who have them.
Part of the problem is that no one seems to remember a dream particularly well. The nature of dreams is to be fragmented. Coherent narratives are rare. Additionally, dreams get forgotten quickly. The dream that seemed almost real a second after waking evaporates with each passing moment until you are struggling to put together the details. This is why many creative people keep dream journals. Dream journals are great because you can write down your dreams as soon as you wake up. Your dreams are still fresh in your head and you can keep track of the details. Best of all, because you wrote it down, you don’t actually have to tell anybody your dream. This saves countless lives.
So, the great question is, will a poem about a dream of yours be as bad as trying to tell your dream as a story. Writing about a dream is certainly a challenge, but it has worked before. “Kubla Khan; or, A Vision in a Dream: A Fragment”, a poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge, is one of the most famous poems ever written. Obviously, if done properly, you can write a poem about a dream. The challenge is that the poem must both be interesting and relatable. There has to be more of a point to it than simply relating the latest crazy dream that you had. The poem must have some larger meaning. Also remember that as a poem, your recollection of your dream does not have to stick to the original dream. You can add, subtract, make it more real or more unreal. As the poet, you have those choices.
Today’s Poetry Prompt
Write a poem that begins with you waking up.
Just as She is Reaching out to Me
The cat marches over my back and turns to face me
Big green eyes staring straight into mine
I shove him off the bed and return to the dark
Trying to recapture my dream
A few seconds later he is back again
I repeat the process but it is pointless now
My body has taken over
And I am on my way to the bathroom
Giving the cat his wish
A companion on his journey to the food dish
The thought of going alone is too much for him
By the time I am back in bed
The remnants of my dream have scattered
And my back is sore from lying on my side
I lie on my back and stare at the ceiling
If I am tired enough my body will shut down
Only to snore itself back awake
Forcing me back on my side
Sooner or later
I ache too much to sleep
And that cat comes back
To force the day upon me
No more dreams for now
John,
Of cats, I quite understand. To be awakened by a the inquisitiveness of a cat is one thing. To be rudely interrupted by a cat lnding on one’s belly is another. But even these are more pleasent then how the cat’s actions sometimes wake me. It is these less plesent that serve as the inspiration of the following poem.
Tango Dreamed
Her diamond necklace and low cut lines
draw my eyes toward her deeply sensuous curves.
With James’s Bond’s beautiful black bow tie,
tucked under my chin, I’m daper, chisseled, tall.
Above the clinks and chatter by the drinks
a bandoneón and latin beat propel the heart.
“shall we?” eyes raised a nod, a tender smile,
a flourish of her skirt, I grab a rose.
Hands clasped, breast to breast and eye to eye,
my hand rests on her waist. We spin apart;
her feather boa brushes across my face,
a flourish, an embrace, the dance of Love!
She smiles, and wraps the boa around my neck.
She winks, and pulls me to the marbled stairs.
Then nibbling at my ear she disappears,
I jolt awake: my cat has killed a squirrel!
Funny Stuff James
I am really enjoying your post, I won’t bore with my stuff. It ranks right up there, so I’ve been told with “jingles”. Got me working a little though and that is a very big deal…to me any way. Keep up the good stuff.
marell
Funny now, but it was not funny when my wife woke up with a dead squirrel by her face! Let’s say her awaking was more pleasant than mine, as her abrupt vocalizations and insistance of immediate removal had me jumping in a hurry.
Later, much later, next day later, she muttered something about dreaming of soft fuzzy pillow that she was snuggling into when she woke up to the dead squirrel.
Dare I say, I tool some liberty with the dream? The idea of waking up repulsed by something pleasent and desirable just a moment before seemed to fit well with the idea of love.
The thoughts never stop,
And I am in
Slippery halls of fools gold,
Lined with new fast food and old bits
Of what they thought was learning.
I am here, I am present,
The bells are soundless saviors
And I am dreaming of days without tedium.
The crunch of feet on new-polished floor,
Endless spiraling thoughts quit it and curl
Like a dog on the floor,
Lingering by doors like phantoms,
Students who were never there.
The crackle-whisper of leaves and friends falling,
Changing their colors as you stand an inch from a cooling window,
Bathing eyes in what may have been,
And what once was,
As we prepare for the future
With copied math and cobbled sentences-
Limping home, after hours sitting still
To start another day.
Hmm, got the cats in but not a dream. I might come back and do a second one for this prompt. Meanwhile(and this is autobiographical!) –
Waking Early
Ah, the light is music
The world new alive
Golden through the edges of the curtains.
I am awake at once.
The cats recline on the bed.
He, black panther, waits.
She, grey puma, mews for their food
Low and plaintive.
Outside, my wind-chimes
Peal and reverberate
Reminding me of a long continuum
Of Spring mornings.
The heart leaps now
Just as it always has
Alive, alive, alive – and glad to live
Glad to be awake
On a Spring morning
With cats to feed
And the man in the bed waiting
For me as the sun rises.
Hello Rosemary.
Good to ’see’ you again.
Well, before I start on my submission, I would like to say two things: Firstly, this is slightly difficult, because for me, ‘waking up’ equals to slamming the alarm clock, jumping into school uniform, and running off to catch the bus. Rather… unpoetic in comparison to the much more relaxed ones you guys seem to have.
Secondly, I really dislike time zones, and being about (approximately) halfway across the world, which makes it a big headache trying to figure out what day is it over there, and whether it’s Day 2 yet. Why must Singapore be so far away?
Hi James!
Here is my dream poem for this prompt. Just for fun – and because I’ve been wanting to play with this form – I made each verse a shadorma.
Recurrence
The old dream
Startles me awake.
So often
In childhood …
But why does it return now,
The dream of falling?
Falling deep
between rocky walls,
a chasm.
Too slowly.
And faces leering at me –
Distorted faces.
Was it Hell
that awaited me
far down there?
A child’s Hell
Of fairy-tales – Grimm horrors –
And my inner dark.
I can’t know.
I never landed;
Kept floating
Down and down.
What demons now reclaim me –
Now that I am old?
Damn! Sorry, meant to capitalise all first letters of lines; I see I missed some. I thing I haven’t done before (well, not since childhood) and decided to do now for various reasons – one being that it’s hard to indent on computer if lines run over, so the capitals help indicate the line beginnings.
Well, mine is a (kind of) factual account, school-related again:
All Because of That Alarm Clock
Ring!
There it goes again
that alarm clock
invention of the devil
Eight?
Oh no, I’m late:
(throw everything in my bag)
time to run like mad!
Crack!
Really, now, God
must you do this to me?
Rain, thunder – just for being late?
What?
Why’s the gate closed?
shouldn’t it be open?
but… wait a moment!
Oh!
I see it now
that’s why it’s closed:
it’s SATURDAY!
Away from me
In utter darkness
With complete blankness
I reach out my hands
To the empty space
Where you should be
I open my eyes
Consciousness returns
I glance at the clock
And I remembered
That you were a continent away
Lights flick on
I sit up in our bed
Looking at the empty space
I wonder what you are doing
Away from me
Dragging my sluggish self
I start my morning routine
Making two sets of breakfast
By sheer force of habit
For you and me
In front of the shoes rack
I glance at your missing shoes
And I wonder if you knew
How much I hate
Having you away
And I wonder
If you missed
Waking up
Without me
Do you?
Sheer,
I recall all too well the burning questions, that some call romatic desires, of young love. Young, not in terms of the person, but young in terms of the relationship, which is infused in your words. How rich it is!
With time and continued love, these questions are answered, and the burning questions become more mundane, like realizing that you forgot something because the routine is changed, or the hoping he (she) did not forget something because the routine has changed. This wondering even disappears, and continued time reveals that he/she WILL forget something, and you know exactly what it is. This is when a kind hearted lover takes gentle steps to help the soulmate along the way, even while absent. How much righer now?
These thoughts got me writing…
Picture Paintings
In a flash,
you are captured,
Every bit of you ensnared.
From then on
you enhance the view
ever changing ever growing.
The artist within
using actions and words
will paint the picture love.
Puppy love:
Innocent! Cute!
A dabbling in water colors.
Young love:
Romantic! Elegant!
A black and white charcoal sketch.
Committed love:
A work in progress.
The sketch with paint strewn about.
Ancient love:
Beauty! A work of art!
An oil portrait in a guilded frame.
In a flash,
I was captured.
Every bit of me ensnared.
I am now
neck deep in paint.
Please, come back in twenty years.
Why?
Why? I wonder, eyelids still glued shut,
Hanging on still to the last molecules of the
Dream that now fades into the distance
The warmth of my husband surrounding me
I reach back for some vestige of dreamland
Grasp at it with a butterfly net
Hear the kittens pawing at the door
Mewing to explore
Jackhammer sounds outside the window
Screaming as it decimates cement
“I’m the boss!”
People shout downstairs
People stomp about upstairs
I pull the cover over my head
Trying to escape into some silent cocoon
“I love you” is whispered into my ear
I realize I’ve been holding my breath
When air escapes my lungs
And I remember what it’s all for.
Ok, here’s another poem…many days after my first. Oops. I keep forgetting to write, so I wrote two poems today. I don’t know if they’re any good, but here they are.
Between the dusk of dreams and morning’s light
I cling to Dreamland’s shreds.
The friendly warmth of my sheets
Dispells my self-discipline.
The curve of my pillow beckons my head
Back to the shadows of sleep.
Drooping eyelids cloud my vision.
I must get up.
I fling myself from my bed
With resolve I do not feel.
I rub my eyes as Dreamland releases it’s hold on me.
Time for another day.
Please tell me what you think.