Tuesday, November 20, 2007


Okay. FIrst there were things, small children's things-- poems, or spelling words-- on wide blue-lined paper. The paper became dirty snow, where two young men, dressed as 17th century peasants, caps, blousy shirts, dark, rough pants-- were sleeping. They appeared to have been drugged, or poisoned. I thought they were French or Italian, but from another century. A modern Chinese soldier in a brown army uniform had dropped them off from his vehicle, and now wondered if he should kill them, or let them live. He sometimes let them live. But not this time. He took an ax he carried and neatly and gently (as easy as cutting through butter) sliced through the belly of each man. At first there was no sign of their wounds, but then bright red blood began to gush. The two men sat up, seeming unaware that they were bleeding to death. Then one of them began to sing a nursery song, very softly, in English. Their deaths seemed to me to be very humane and painless. I thought how if it was me, I would rather die outstretched, face upward, so the very last thing to fill my eyes would be the sight of the blue sky, and I would die filled up with blue, and that would be good. Then it all went back to the words on the wide, blue-lined paper, words some little child had written-- was writing-- even as I woke up.

So. Figure that one out, Islanders.... I've heard it said that in dreams, you are every character, as well as every object, etc. I am the dying peasants, the Chinese soldier, the ax, the child, the paper. A poem:

ignis fatuus

in the illustrated
that happen each night as
the curtain
behind my eyes rises
fugitive people move
catbirds of life changing
skins under my closed eyelids
under my quiescent hair
on the pillow

skimming inscrutable
geographies of
words like flat stones
across the grey-
green water of mind
that sprays like sea

or resident birds
that babble across an
overflowing of bells

I sleep
in ciphers
that no one explains
mutable, exploding
at the pinions

and vulnerable to light
as vampires

(A question: Do you dream in color? I do!)



Christine said...

Your dream could fuel a night-long discussion. I've heard the same thoughts about dream interpretation. i think it's part of the Gestalt school. It makes sense, since we are the dream maker as well as the dreamer.

Your poem is full of dense imagery. I need to read it a few more times. Very interesting.

pepektheassassin said...

I started writing up my dreams on another of my blogs called "my mind's I" -- I thought I'd see if there was any coherent thread of consistency, whatever. A MESSAGE or something. So far there doesn't seem to be any!

Lea said...

Both are great. There are so many ways of working with dreams... another theory is that when you share a dream it becomes the dream of the listener/reader as well...

I do dream in color and feel, smell and hear as well... do you?

tumblewords said...

Fine post! The first prose (dream) is rather kind in a strange way. The poem is stunning in descriptions and metaphor. Dream in color? I'm not sure, now.

Jo said...

I lost my comment.......your poem is superb, just superb. And yes, I dream in colour.

keith hillman said...

Loved the prose, enjoyed the verse! You've made me think. i really don't know if I dream in colour or good 'ole monochrome! I must remember to remember in the morning!

jadey said...

I know that I have vivid and colorful dreams that is for sure lol. This is a good write thanks for sharing.

UL said...

In the dream, one is the hero, the lead, the villain, the object - how true - why dont we realize that in real lfie, I wonder...I really enjoyed this post. I dont know what I dream in, but I do dream in different languages...sometimes even the ones I cant make any sense out of ;)

gautami tripathy said...

That is a complete story in itself. Takes us on a long journey with twists and turns!

z-silverlight said...

What were you reading? Or had seen on TV? A dream is just your brain trying organize completely random thoughts. I pay no attention to mine.