For this week’s poetry prompt, we’re delving into dreams. I’ve attached two poems at the end of the article, both of which feature dream-like logic and a powerful, imaginative drive (the poets are among my favorite, so I hope you enjoy). The following is an excerpt from a National Geographic story…
[He had come in a dream, a sad, beautiful Samnite boy who had lost his way home. “It was on a hill I know, but without any vegetation” Teresa Cerlone remembered, “and he was wandering back and forth in a world that wasn't his. He was looking for a door, not to a house but to a world. And there was a spring of water, I remember. There was an entrance with two columns with a tall staircase, like the temple at Pietrabbondante,” she continued, speaking quietly but with intensity. “We went under the columns and he asked me, ‘Help me find my way home.’ He took my hand and I felt that he was flesh and blood. Then he disappeared, but he left his hand in mine. It wasn't human anymore; it was made of terracotta and I woke up sweating.
When it was light, Carlene went immediately to the hillside she had dreamed about. She is not an archaeologist, but she is passionate about the Semnites, the fierce people who once dominated the mountains of Abruzzi and Molise not far from her home in Isernia. Where she had dreamed the spring was located, she began to dig in the loamy earth. Suddenly she touched something hard. She pulled it out. It was a piece of terracotta. It was a hand.] Erla Zwingle, “Italy Before the Romans” National Geographic
The staminate boy’s terracotta hand links Teresa’s “dream” and “awake” realities - her story ending with a bridging of these worlds. Many ponder the connections between what we dream and that thing called “real life” that happens upon waking. What did it mean… kissing that girl we’d met on an Amtrak train, 3 years ago? Why were we in our bathing suits, readying for a math test that our kindergarten teacher would latter proctor in a hidden passage, jutting off our bedroom’s back wall? Then, that grey eyed wolf bringing dead feral rabbits to our feet at the edge of a marsh – salt brine heavy on the air? What is relevance of these surreal narratives, their peculiar characters, objects, and places (both remembered an imagined) how do they translate allegorically? Unfortunately, Western mainstream culture leans more toward belittling the power, or relevance of what happens when we’re dreaming. We’re encouraged to think of them as random, or meaningless episodes conducted in the void. This prompt thumbs its nose at such thinking. Through it, we’ll explore an imaginative, hyper cross-over between the dreamt and “real life”. Ready? Good, then let’s get dreaming!
Bridge worlds in a narrative poem that explores “dream space” and “real space”. The objective is discovery, so use a dream you remember, but only as a spring board. Also, you’ll want to write like a dream. Move forward, feeling no need to justify yourself: if a seagull brings you a hand written note by the president, don’t linger on how or why. Dreams don’t doubt themselves. It might be useful to use two dreams, rediscovering them both while exploring what happens when they leak into each other. Think of space & place. Think of adding onto remembered places - like putting a library in the middle of a beach you visited as a child, or a staircase billowing out of a tree you’ve climbed. You can make your destination the world that you wake up in, or you can make waking up just a stepping stone between two dreams… You also might try translating objects: Maybe the 18th century saber that you climbed the purple stairs with turns into a bendy straw, or pencil when you reach the room. Finally, think of connecting it all, like the terracotta hand does in the Teresa’s story.
– Note –
Notice how throughout the woman’s story, there’s a great deal of layering, one transformative detail onto another. What I mean by “transformative” is that when added, these details change or modify the mood, role, purpose, sensation etc… of what’s being described. First a beautiful boy belonging to a long extinct culture comes to Teresa on a familiar hill. Being “without any vegetation”, that familiar hill is suddenly tinged with strangeness. The boy is wandering. This world isn’t his. He’s looking for a door leading not to a house, but one to another world. All these qualifiers are added and with each, the story accumulates strangeness. And it continues on: the spring, the boys hand that starts as flesh then turns terracotta as he vanishes, leaving it in her grasp. Try assembling your story/poem like this. Add and add and add – layer qualifying details that continuously tinge and re-tinge aspects of these worlds. In addition, you might try forcing yourself to continuously shift your subjects…
Richard Hugo, in his book of essays, The Triggering Town, makes a most helpful reference to some advice he once was given. It suggests that while composing the first draft, we ought to shift focus with each passing line. This prevents the poet from lingering on any one thing for too long. It also encourages the poet to cover more ground, exploring and discovering with verve.
This one’s an untitled poem form poet Brittany Blomquist’s chap book, Or At Least Company.
The ship was sinking so Deena became a mermaid.
For her first act as mermaid she saved drowning man,
even though she questioned consequences of doing so.
The man liked to collect seashells. The man liked rubbing
the sand from between his toes.
She brought him to a beach with grassy dunes.
There was a big house with a second floor porch.
It was cream with coral trim.
“Would you like to come back to my apartment?” the man said.
Deena grew legs and up they went.
The turkey in her sandwich was dry. It was all he had.
On the beach they collected seashells
& the man held out a handful for her
his hands, not hands but slips of ship-sail
& when he held a shell to her ear
she heard the screams of the men who’d drowned.
“It sounds like the ocean,” she said.
“No,” he said, “It's just your heart.”
“Book Of Life”, form Noelle Kocot’s, Bigger World.
The phoenix rose from the ashes
And decided to keep rising.
A forgetful monk basked in its shadow.
“Bananas taste expensive!” exclaimed
The monk, to no one in particular.
Suddenly, the phoenix swooped down
And landed on top of his head.
“I am no longer wedded to Eros,”
The phoenix warbled and I'd like
To live with you in the monastery,
Though my wings are still singed
And I only eat live things.
The monk rifled through his powerpack
And pulled out a squirming worm.
“Here you go, my fiery friend,
Take it and eat it and do not worry
About the other monks, they
Mean you no harm. You are to go back
To the monastery with me.”
The phoenix flapped its wings
With happiness. But seemingly
Out of nowhere, of the phoenix
Drilled a hole into the ground with its beak
And descended into the core of the earth.
The monk was sad and alone
But since he was forgetful,
The memory of the Phoenix soon faded.
He hummed “The Lion Sleeps Tonight”
On his way back to the other monks,
With a dim recollection of his
Younger years when Eros lorded
Over him and he was happy.
When he returned to the monastery,
He died of the fatally of the broken heart,
Not remembering exactly why.
