i do not remember my dreams
21 October 2009
8 comments
They say write what you know.
I do not remember my dreams
I know they are there,
as if through frosted glass,
yet I do not know their story
I have hints that there are
pools of red in seas and sierras
of gray, and of flying
I know there there are battles,
won and lost, with dragons and soldiers
and spaceships, and there is falling
When I wake, in the haze of
still-weary eyes and confusion
of this new day, a place still remains
where a guest sat and visited
yet I do not remember their name
I fancy myself a poet (although iambic pentameter doesn’t really give me a thrill, and I find mindlessly cadenced rhyme to be more like a something for a child or a limerick than true art, so if any of those are required to be classed “poet,” then move along,I got nothin’ for ya).
Your free verse is none of the above, and I like it. Stream of consciousness in flavour, like the images it evokes, all fuzzy and difficult to bring into focus. It would be a lot of fun to take to a class and analyze en masse, because it’s chockablock with hidden meaning, both to the author and the reader.
I am frequently chided by my readers that if they know much about me, they cannot come to my writing “cold.” That’s tradespeak for knowing a tad too much about the writer to allow a story to take on its own life and speak in its own way. I tend to be a painfully open book to those in my life, so anyone who knows me will know a lot behind my choice of subject, my selected image, my turn of phrase, my message. And thus they “read me” in my writing. It’ll be fun someday to have strangers read my stuff, to see what they pull of me out of it. I suspect they find themselves there, and I am but a chameleon, channeling what so many know and feel but cannot communicate onto paper, or into words.
Here’s some of what this writer/poet pulls from your poem, writer by a closed book himself: wistfulness, exclusion from self and from others, mystery, and weariness. What would heal the writer? He doesn’t even know.
You said you wanted offerings in kind; here’s one of mine.
Blunt the Blow
Like mercury,
Splitting, slipping, shattering,
I try to escape the expected outcome.
Ignore it, excuse it, drink it away,
But my fate
Still waits.
I flee to You
Because what I desire lives there,
But there is no room at Your inn.
Like the tired and ancient mythology,
I am born of no man.
No Man’s Land.
So I seek a nomad’s safety,
Exposed
With nothing there to
Blunt the blow
That’s coming.
Smacked back
Into reality
While traveling behind the speed of light.
You two are Brilliant.
Mine won’t even compare.
Most of mine are either really sappy or really dark.
This one isn’t quite either.
The Pre-Curser
Dreampt again,
And woke up- drenched-
In the sweat of fear.
Collapsing back into
My quilted cocoon-
Heart racing;
Mind chasing;
Rushing back-
Back to the dark,
The fear,
The suffocating terror
Of the unknown.
The dream catches me
And sends me
Plummeting over bridges,
Down cliffs and slippery crags-
With no support-
No machine-
No wings.
Just me,
Falling.
Falling.
Falling.
Into nothing-
With that stomach-jarring, sickening
Lack of control.
This flight in the dark
Is more than fantasy-
It is my minds eye catching
At hidden truths.
This is my future.
And when I hit the bottom-
I am dead.
Sufferin’ fuck, Em, what are you so dark about? That is one long slide into oblivion, literally. I would call this quite dark; it begs the question of what pushes this Morpheusean phatasm.
Well THAT made me LOL. Those “falling dreams” are indeed a long slide into oblivion.
Regarding my “dark side”- there is the long story and the “readers digest condensed” version. Which would you like?
As an indulgent- I dug. I dug deep and found these two that were’nt too long, too sappy and were happier. The only other one I have that qualifies is about sex. Not posting that here.
Ardor’s Cadence
Chasten your heart to what is true-
Honest ardor doth reach for you.
In ethereal devotion she kneels and prays-
For skill to enliven all your days.
Gliding through precarious skies-
Fervor encompassed in her eyes-
Sharp sword lifted, shining bright-
Intrepid- the insipid mercenary to fight.
Deception falls with admissible ease-
Impunity ceased! Riotous hate decreased.
Apathy and scorn now fall-chaos cannot stand:
Misery slinks away at the Muse’ command.
Ardor now regains your heart; serenity returns-
Your Muse inhabits the incognito she sojourns-
And there appears in human form the ardent nymph compressed
E’er watchful o’r your heart and minds contentedness
Love Precipitous Cadence
The first time we touched-
I felt a spark-
Like sulfur-
When the match is struck.
When first I stood
Within the circle of your arms-
The magnetic pull
Rivaled the moons persuasion
On the Earth.
And now-
Whenever you are near
It is the most natural thing
To gravitate
To the irresistible pull
Of your soul-
And be consumed
By your heart’s fire.
See- the first one has all this great language, but the third stanza looses the pentameter. Totally sucks.
I still like the imagery but- meh.
Second one- penned off in 10 minutes after my first date with Greg. At least it’s happy. I still like my dark stuff better. It always holds together well, regardless of the style, and it’s my outlet of all things dark, bad and otherwise not generally defined as Emily…hehehe.
Danny- my FAVORITE part about your poem is that it is such a “boy” poem and it is also very “Danny”. Otherworldly with the red seas and gray sierras, and then the “true boy” part with “wars won and lost”, “dragons,soldiers and spaceships”. That makes me laugh, enjoying the idea that men are still little boys in their dreams. I think it’s sweet. It is also very “polite”. The language is so friendly and inviting; like “look- this is a bit hazy, can you make it out?”
Deb- in yours I love the language and imagery. And knowing you I would assume that the “You” is not God, but I can see someone reading “God” into it and understanding being let down by expectations of God. But I also see “YOU” as a lover or friend who lets one down. Beautiful words.
Em, you are amusing a bit. I don’t read gender into Dan’s poem at *all!* Each reader puts his/her own spin on the material; it’s the great thing about written art. It applies to visual art as well, as long as it’s not performance/performed art.
You read “let down” into mine? As the author, it was rooted more in inevitability. I toyed with including a Fate’s name (three of them, no matter the culture, but my favourite are surely the Greek’s moirae — even Zeus was fearful of them!). Clotho is probably my fave; she’s the most innocuous of the three, just spinning, spinning, spinning. Some XENA episodes feature them prominently as well. Yum, yum, yum. But I digress! I decided adding a Fate would skew the poem, and your read proves I was right to withhold her.
Your comments about “all things dark” and “things not defined as Emily.” Isn’t it *all* Emily? You do yourself a disservice, I think, when you push off parts of yourself and ostracize them with negative descriptions. We are *all* dark and depraved, Em. Some of us just corral it better than others. And some of us can let it out upon paper, like black blood to paint into words.
Uh Deb- first you said:
Sufferin’ fuck, Em, what are you so dark about? That is one long slide into oblivion, literally. I would call this quite dark; it begs the question of what pushes this Morpheusean phatasm.
Then you tell me:
Your comments about “all things dark” and “things not defined as Emily.” Isn’t it *all* Emily? You do yourself a disservice, I think, when you push off parts of yourself and ostracize them with negative descriptions. We are *all* dark and depraved, Em. Some of us just corral it better than others. And some of us can let it out upon paper, like black blood to paint into words.
So uh? hmm? Yeah.
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This is the personal website of Dan Sanders, IT Security Officer-blogger-game designer. I created the World of Atkelem fantasy setting (see WorldOfAtkelem.com). Feel free to send me a note if you have questions, and thanks for visiting.
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