I never remember my dreams. As soon as I wake up, whatever movie has been playing against my eyelids simply fades quickly, and I’m left with whatever vague emotion the interrupted dream evoked. Sometimes terror or sadness. Other times, joy or lust. But there’s never any dream hook to hang this emotional hat on.
Marie Howe dreams about death . . .
The Dream
by: Marie Howe
I had a dream in the day:
I laid my father’s body down in a narrow boat
and sent him off along the riverbank with its cattails and grasses.
And the boat—it was made of bark and wood bent when it was wet—
took him to his burial finally.
But a day or two later I realized it was my self I wanted
to lay down, hands crossed, eyes closed . . .
Oh, the light coming up from down there,
the sweet smell of the water—and finally, the sense of being carried
by a current I could not name or change.
Funny. Howe’s version of death isn’t all that terrifying. In fact, it’s almost comforting with its sweet smell of water and rocking current. This isn’t Emily Dickinson’s Death, stopping by in a horse-drawn buggy to take you for a joyride. As I said, I never remember my dreams, so, if I’ve dreamed about death before, I have no recollection.
Of course, I’m afraid of dying. Everyone is, or else they’re lying. It’s the unknowable. As a Christian, I suppose I shouldn’t say that, but I just don’t buy the whole wings and clouds and harps jazz. Do I think there is life after dearth? Yup. I’m just not sure what that ghostly life entails, and I’m in no hurry to find out.
Perhaps sleep is just practice for death, and dreams are sneak previews of what lies beyond this mortal coil. I don’t know. But I have dreams. Real dreams. A couple days ago, this little blog that I started over ten years ago just exceeded ten million page views. In June alone, over one million people visited Saint Marty. That blows me away. Perhaps my little poetic musings make a difference in the world. That seems like a dream to me.
And dreams sometimes do come true.
Here’s another little poetic musings from Saint Marty.
Thaw
by: Martin Achatz
I’ve always loved the word thaw,
which sounds a lot like raw,
and that seems appropriate, considering
those days of early March, sometimes April
or May, when the rime of white holding
Superior’s waves at bay begins to recede
the way my hairline receded in my 20s,
and soon the ice is chattering its teeth
on the sandy shores and beach grass.
We use the word thaw all the time,
when we’re cooking Thanksgiving turkeys
or Christmas hams, or when we find
a piece of frozen wedding cake in the freezer,
decide to eat it for dessert after 30 years
of marriage. Just invoke the word, say it
three times when winter seems eternal.
Thaw , , , Thaw , , , Thaw , , .
Maybe Rumpelstiltskin will appear, promise
to spin the snow into golden summer.
