Beloved Mish.
Dreams in Poetry
I’ve always admired people who faithfully chronicle their dreams. While I did dabble in Jungian dream-interpretation (and subsequently rejected it), I’m really just fascinated by the prowess of the mind as it reveals itself in dreams. I’m always astonished by the incredible creativity of dreams— how is it that my mind can produce a witty dialogue between two people in real time in a dream, yet I struggle with writers block and slips of the tongue in my waking life?
Anyway— I’ve decided to keep a poetry journal of my dreams. It’s so hard to capture whatever feelings dreams convey in words, so this is my attempt to get one step closer. I’m going to keep them very short— just long enough to remember. The first dream, a poignant walk down a frozen river, is below.
Sleepwalking Through the Volga
It’s bitterly cold, and
The chill is scraping its ragged nails
Against my bare neck.
I’m not sure
If it’s dusk or dawn, but there’s light
Beginning to soak the snow.
I can hear the cracks and booms
Of shifting ice
But I keep walking.
Shadow and I regard one another.
Cleverly camouflaged dove.
Central Park.
Central Park on a lovely Sunday in May.
Sail boats, Central Park.
The last stand.
Central Park.
The Resident Heron of Central Park (and trusty turtle side-kick).
Central Park mosaic.
Rooftops of the East Village.
