Not FROM the blue in this case. Day 4 of NaPoWriMo has asked us to take an image from a dream and weave it into today’s poem. We are asked to dive right down to the seabed of our subconscious and bring up an image from that seabed what might be a pearl, or maybe just only an oyster.I am not usually an adept dream catcher, but it so happens that I did have one dream in recent memory that had an arresting image. What was edifying with this exercise is that I teased out a deeper interpretation of the whole dream simply by excavating around this image.
We are all sojourners, temporarily resident on this precious planet. I woke early this Sunday morning and broke my usual writing routine. I played with the Saturday paper’s crossword first. Once I had tanked up with a second very large mug of tea I dipped into Ruth Padel’s The Poem and the Journey. Poems, as with journeys, are built on connections. As are all human relationships. Brené Brown has observed that we humans are hard-wired for connection Yet, any number of studies in any number of countries are warning that we are in an epidemic of loneliness, which will shorten a life span faster than smoking a pack of cigarettes a day, over-eating, or not taking exercise. No wonder there is a demand for poetry anthologies that offer prescriptions like a literary rescue remedy.
Travellers are often those hungry for new connections. So, too, I believe is true for poets. There are many forms of journeying. But the prefered destination for all is genuine connection.
Two little poems this sunny Sunday morning. The first is for a writer friend who is wrestling with a manuscript while on a sojourn in a friend’s borrowed mountain cabin.. Retreats are often places where we best connect. It’s a quotation poem that takes its first line from Margaret Atwood on writing. The title is robbed from a line in an R.S. Thomas poem. Writers have a tendency for moods swinging between thinking that what they have written is the most wonderful arrangement of words ever and then that all they do is play with a pile of crap.
And emerging from my early morning dreamland.
I sail , Chagall-like, in inky illumination, and colliding dimensions, meeting those close to me who are also far, far away
in a Dreamworld Departure Lounge we will all soon fly from, having checked in, dropped our bags, dutifully visited the shop's check out
where we greet each other with delight, in surprise, in confusion at our displacement, this serendipitous meeting and simultaneous leave taking.