6 posts tagged “dreams”

VondelPark

                                                                          I was a hobbit

                                                                          you were an elf

                                                                          we made love

                                                                          in Vondel Park.

                                                                          ***

                                                               The dream yellow and

                                                                                                little hidden

                                                               in the inner low bowl

                                                                                              and most recesses

                                                               of what is opening

                                                                                             into cosmic night.
                                                               Psyche

                                                                           was there, was consciousness, a door

                                                               Psyche

                                                                           who will secret the soul

                                                               (Eleni's bored, uh-oh)

                                                                                                Don't stop

                                                               Just keep the green birds in the air.  Where?

                                                                                              The dream

                                                              is verifiable or tenable

                                                                                              I am pursuing and therefore

                                                             I must content

                                                                                  with the fact that means something:

                                                             patient.

                                                            Is this going to be a poem about Philip Whalen?

                                                            Who is Philip Whalen?

                                                            Undulating layers of

                                                                                           unsaying

                                                            The undercurrent is love

                                                            The current of love...

                                                                                            Transfer those electrons to him.

                                                            Illusion birds in Amsterdam

                                                                                                   where love rules

                                                            there is no will to power

                                                                                                and where power predominates

                                                            love is lacking

                                                                                    the one is the shadow of the other.

                                                            I am thinking of a man

                                                                                            his sole purpose

                                                            is to kindle a light

                                                                                     in the darkness

                                                            by mere being.

                                                            In sleep, fantasy

                                                                                      the form of dream

                                                            but in waking life

                                                                                      we continue.

                                                            On the other hand

                                                                                        I know that if

                                                            on a dream we

                                                                                     meditate and thoroughly

                                                           discern around us

                                                                                 over and over the human existence

                                                           it is a hint to the patient.

                                                          [Prelude to the letter C]

Marion

4 comments

                    I was doing highflying acrobatics with my former stepmother above an outdoor restaurant called Palio's in Ann Arbor.  All of the tables had exquisite flowers on them and the dishes looked like art.  She and I were going to run a marathon afterwards so she said, "It's OK if you need to walk sometimes."  I haven't seen her in a long time.  I wonder why my subconscious pulled her up.  There was a man in the dream; he was the instructor in a tight leotard (remember Lyotard's The Postmodern Explained [to children]--"we are in a time of ana"--like analysis).  Well I think I have been metaphorically performing lately, performing my craft for an audience, which I do like to do.  What other tricks can I pull out of my hat?...

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Gilles Poem 18:  for Herem Calls Out From A Dream But Michel Doesn't Hear Him 

by Sabrina Calle

O my Gilles                please, stop              help me break this                 I will say nothing

                                      "it is minor and unexceptional"          it

             hurts so much             like this:                  .                    don't laugh, I have

called everyone in the book (twice)             so, "Faut-il bruler Kafka?"             I want to drive

because we don't see much difference                        amongst all these things

adsum, as you wish it                         Gilles, yr giving me that face, just tell me                   already

what to find

"look: --I bought you a map of the world"                             stop.  this

is not your suit              who has been here?                what is a chain or stool?             a wine glass

warmed by bourbon                  no, it has not been long enough                                                       or

maybe it

                is something                         we've not discussed                           would you prefer

abstract machines                  surge into existence by themselves                     without indexes?

I am walking out of view

                                                  Michel says           "be dear, and drop out a while"

I am thinking
of a man
who came in the
night to visit
me, dreaming.
I knew him well
and sat down
with him to
lunch, I am sure
luques, man-
chego, some fine
bordeaux or
gigandas
accompanied us.
What did we
speak of, was it
poetry or gossip
about poets or
was it love, love
of all things.
No wonder
there, and there
speech is
a mouth, as
the famous poet
once wrote.
Yes, speech
is a mouth
I use to praise
you in dreams
and now, lovely
creature.

In this dream, the boy I wanted

was making me shell necklaces, shell

bracelets; one bracelet was heavy with cement

blocks in case I had to walk alone in New York at night--

he said I could use the bracelet for protection and laughed.

There was sand in his hair and at the crinkles of his eyes.

He wore beach clothes, a t'shirt and shorts and so jovial

picking up pieces of shells--fuschia, cotton-candy-pink--off the floor.

I wanted him and told him so, "But what about 'so and so'?  He asked,

partly joking.  "I will always love 'so and so,'" I replied.  And we kissed

a big wet sloppy kiss and I could tell that he was a little clumsy, but

I loved his energy, his spontaneous, wild, healthy energy, and I could tell

that he loved me.

COLOSSAL CONUNDRUMS
Ken Mikolowski

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This is an idea for Ken's next book cover.  The painting is called "City Island" and it's by Ellsworth Kelly (1958).

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I've been reading Joshua Beckman's book of poetry called SHAKE (2006) and I don't want to give it back, even though I know I have to.  Why do I like it so much?  Because I like Joshua.  I think he's a Mensch and I think he's a good guy (same thing, probably).

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Today the people I saw were hard at work.  They were using their hands and they were selling things and they were sitting in front of screens--tv screens and computer screens.  The people were happy working, or I should say, the people whose work made them happy were happy working.  As I was, working, making art, smiling, doing headstands, using my beloved paintbrushes to brush on wings of red paint.

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Now I want to dream about sleeping on clouds of fluffy soft cotton.  Cotton so soft it feels like a baby's slipper, like a bunny's ear, like a baby's finger, like some bubbly bath bubbles.  Soft and cozy and clean and warm.  That's what I like.  Mmmm-hmmm.