“A dream is a wish your heart makes.”
anonymous child
dreams
Puma IV
In the poetry class this week we read Louise Erdrich. I’ve read most of her novels but did not realize she also wrote poetry. In particular I liked “Captivity” which made me think of Quanah Parker and his mother. We are supposed to be inspired by whatever author’s poems we are reading on any given week. Sometimes that occurs; sometimes not. The following poem follows the previous three puma poems I published on this blog last September. This one is different; it comes from an actual dream last week. Its unique beginnings contradict the fact that I rarely recall dreams and care nothing about dream interpretation.
Stars shining through sleep
Dreaming dark.
A white, luminescent lion
comes nuzzling arms, legs.
Should fear engulf or
a quiet peace dominate?
Tawny lions encircle:
affectionate
smiling lion smiles.
Fear slides in slightly,
logically.
These lions bring love,
a natural peace.
Fear dissipates,
the lions and I locked
in an eternal, primal dance.
Waiting–my first, I think, prose poem
It seems I cannot stop taking courses, or at least some courses–those dealing with art, literature, poetry, music. Perhaps the reason has something to do with the fact that from about 7:30 to 5 for five days a week, I teach math. And not just any math, but mostly math to teenagers who hate it, think they cannot do it, and complain considerably. I try to “save” them, inspire them, help them to see math’s usefulness in regular, ordinary adult life. Sometimes I succeed and sometimes….
My new poetry class started today, but it is very different from anything I previously studied. I am supposed to read and learn how to write prose poems. Now if I can just figure out exactly what is a prose poem versus, let’s say, flash fiction or memoir. I’ve read all the directions and a couple of Robert Bly prose poems and have decided it has a lot to do with imagery. This post is my first attempt. Still I am quite concerned that it is not really a prose poem and if not a prose poem, what is it. Please tell me.
She stands alone by the train tracks,
watching and waiting and dreaming.
Hobos no longer exist.
She remembers reading stories of life
when her great grandmother lived:
hobos begging for food, gypsies stealing
babies and telling fortunes, long days of
working in the corn fields, chopping weeds.
Her own family praises modernity:
tractors, riding lawnmowers, herbicides, pesticides,
electricity, TVs, dishwashers, fast cars, fast food, diet sodas,
cell phones, computers, DVDs, iPADs.
Now the only excitement lays in video games,
guns, and sex. She watches and waits and dreams.
Rim Rider
I ride the rim on Rosie,
writing stories in my mind.
The neighbor’s husky howls.
Rosie listens, watches,
moves away from the canyon rim.
I write of long lost lovers,
names forgotten,
smiling brown faces,
drifting through my dreams.
I ride the rim on Rosie,
writing stories in my mind.
The bobcat climbs the canyon wall.
Rosie’s ears move,
her body tenses.
I write of childhood memories,
places loved and lost,
of family joys and sorrows,
Mom’s singing while she worked,
Dad’s napping on the blue linoleum floor.
I ride the rim on Rosie,
writing stories in my mind.
Isabella runs past, bunny hunting, barking.
Rosie wants to run, to race, is held.
I write of fragrant fields of saffron,
endless Thai seas of blue and green,
of lands I’ve loved , the Navaho Nation, the Llano Estacado.
I ride the rim on Rosie,
writing stories in my mind.
writingontherim 