Delving into a dream seems to destroy the magic, as if you conjure up the image, the soliloquy, even if voiceless, will vanquish whatever minor thread sewn to keep the quilt’s pattern together. There is an image that forms, a bubble that appears floating out of nowhere and you want to watch it reflect the beauty of the sun, it is pink – blue- gold swirling within a circumference; if you are too close, your body’s energy may propel it, stop it and it shall burst when it hits a real object – a reminder that nothing, nothing lasts forever in this world; only in dreams do things last longer than infinity.
What is this, this masquerade she is posing you might say. Not even she can say for there is a block that keeps forming when the words start forming. I reach for a paper,a pen, and they just float then sink, lyrical snowflakes become glitter on the white curves of Stevens’s snow man, never to form, never to converge. It perhaps is like a lost thought…if you cannot remember, it really was not worth saying.
That said, I did write down two poems this evening and shall post one before going, as it is perhaps inspired a bit by the New Year, but not really for it was formed while thinking about jazz, old jazz and how I wish I had lived during the 20s or 40s in the City, above a club where great horns blew the lights out whilst someone somewhere wore a gardenia after taking off her feathers. They spoke of important art and of hell, the French Surreal, – how the ending wars must paint it real, paint it black to uncover the memories, to highlight the paint…to never forget what this is all about…
A horn blows sloppy (no, not sloppy, not really)
but long – -
a ribbon that lounges
finest of silk material, it slides across
the hollowed curve just so. That is this
this cool horn blowing (see how it shines)
against a moon hollering to her night-
Let’s light things up high into
this sky, no matter those deaf winds
blow me a river til we float.
Blue note rising, it is every thing
when ladies don their ermines, scatting
no words blowing their dreams to life.
What is this playing, a hazy daze
it rolls down this springtime lane
we follow her painted street signs all
night, this city is made of sharp notes.
Dip your glass in champagne, sip that silken
Stoli until tight. We will dream
we will float -
Miles, blow one more note until the sun
rise. It was always those years,
bitter years, we walked this precipice barefoot
baring our soles on the cold earth gone white;
we all followed suit and cooled listening for
One last blues blow before that door
closed down on this note.