Primarily a writing exercise, this dream journal-inspired blog is a quiet introspective sojourn into the process that we traverse in going from private dream to public art. I see our dreaming as an internalized mythmaking. As I philosophize and expressively exhibit dreams, both private and public, I encourage and delight in creative language as a way to practice experiential metaphors through a “public dreaming." Writing Theory: Creative Dream Fiction

Thursday, 9 August 2012

Humanism, Fathered Through A Song of Love

"Laura and Petrarch" by some pre-raphaelite master (anonymous)
I saw angelic virtue on earth
and heavenly beauty on terrestrial soil,
so I am sad and joyful at the memory,
and what I see seems dream, shadows, smoke:

and I saw two lovely eyes that wept,
that made the sun a thousand times jealous:
and I heard words emerge among sighs
that made the mountains move, and halted rivers.

From Petrarch's Canzoniere (Source)
The opaque black void of sky billows in from under the deep sable cloud, a rain stirs, as invisible paint on the windows, whipped off the brush of some invisible painter on an unseen canvas of glass, smoked in the storm-tossed night. Clarity emanates from the computer screen light, an email. The message: you’ve been selected, to read your poem, at this event, congratulations. 

The hotel seethes with the aftermath of meaning, a post-sex ward of incongruous freedom in the squared shell of our toxic, flown might, rubbing against the thigh and heel of the lover asleep in her violent convulsions of metaphysical dream. 

She, transported beyond the narrow night, answers to the inborn possibility, a warming light screaming from her mind with elegant force, enough to welcome me inside, forever flushed with intimate secrecy, at her waking touch. The morning, lifeless in the southern winter, breeds an inhumane scarcity. In the lobby, I meet the event organizers, poets themselves. They greet me shyly. 

Sitting in the amphitheater, encased under the waning spotlight seating, I ask an organizer, only minutes before the show if I can have musical accompaniment. She says of course, after which my wife readies to retrieve her instrument back in town. On stage, a beat boxing, spoken word all star thespian nomad streams in the conscious wisdom of the unprepared emotional night. 

With lofty trespasses, I clamber on backstage, wondering, and waiting, ever patient to hear myself, together with the delicate instrumentation of my wife and me sing in the language of spirit.
"If you sing in your dream, this is a lucky omen representing happiness, harmony and joy. You are uplifting others with your positive attitude and cheerful disposition." (iDream)
"in the lonely pain of the unanswered desire
to be youthful and free
and not burdened with need
in embracing beauty as a gift
shown open to all equally
breathtakingly always

undisguised before the rapt maw
scraping carelessly inside marrow's falling pressure
to meet thee, only mortality"


  1. I love the continuum here between Petrarch's post-mystical depression and your (in your poem) learning to accept the small gifts that are left, the oregano and parmesan on the breadcrumbs.

    1. eye-opening stimulation of revelatory insight, your literary insignia is always arresting and begs one to look again at the great seeds of incantatory bravura still firing the grist of resistance against homogeny with the stirring mind of meditative youth, eager to see, learning to listen, ever needing elder minds that bestow direction through the yet unseen, asking, "can you see the darkness ahead? do not look with your eyes." and within a vision.