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. 

the poet thinks every word befits this page – this is not what we learn in advanced physics mimicry, how she goes on and on and on…
that last dream, and we were not even invited in.
come in! shut the door quickly, it is a cold winter day.

One of the books I’m reading is Midwinter Day by Bernadette Mayer. It is an epic poem; it documents Mayer’s life for one day in December (right around the solstice) from dream to waking to dream. The above is a condensed blab of frustration after turning the page of the first dream sequence, thinking with disdain, “why do we publish these things?” Mayer’s writing is brilliant, but it is a dip into the personal that seems to never ask for an audience. The reader is passive wondering when the swan song is over… or, it may just be me.

You must laugh, for this comes from the guilty, the guilty of spewing personal blab against this digital page. Some will read, most will gloss over the contents and ‘like’ just to be nice. I do not blame, I never blame for it IS tiresome. Why, then, do I commit this confessional sin — YHC allows me as editor of all its rights.

Don’t you some days just wish to delve into the awful, horrible ways that our mind bends. Right now, listening to Anais Mitchell, there is a part that just wishes to float away on an acoustic guitar string and let the words weep, cut a scar so deep that nothing can return, nothing can mend until the silver board goes down and these blue eyes see nothing but dark until the sun of a midwinter day rises again.

But, who am i – who am i, she cries.

I digress…getting lost in Anais lyrics, her voice pulls you in with its gentleness.

Readying for a brief walk under an exploding edge of unstable sky — venture out while she scavenges each sidewalk path searching for a kin’s scent — does she know it is past midnight and we should be in bed. The games we play when we pretend to live a different life, no longer a worker of books for a few days but a lady who sorts her fruit slowly and inquires after another’s health. Tomorrow we shall venture together to fight like blood because we never have been a quiet family. Is this what life has become as age turns her hourglass before me four times still. They take pity on their young maiden turned maid – we just worry that her demon shall return with the stars, do not look up or you may just tumble into a Universe that offers no return pass home. This is when it would be good to believe in the shepherd and the lamb.

I’m cheating a bit (will not do this often) but am linking to the other blog to highlight a bit about what I have been doing with my time, post-ModPo and creatively ~