Dream Poetry Challenge

[greenmountaineer]

Did you ever have a dream after which you thought it would make for a good poem?

If I can get at least 5 Lit poets to pm me that they'll participate, I'll coordinate the challenge.

The dream could have been about anything. It could have been erotic, surreal, heart-warming, silly, nightmarish, or whatever.

There will be up to 2 weeks given to the poets to write it. Multiple submissions are OK. I'll post the poem as soon as I receive it. Guessing can occur anytime, but will end 24 hours after I receive the last poem. At that point, the poets will identify themselves and write a few words about the poem.

Readers can react with comments as they see fit, either after poem's been posted or when the poet self-identifies. If the reader doesn't wish to comment, that's OK too.

I won't provide a list of regular contributing poets to PF&D but will note if there is a newcomer.

My mailbox is open.

 

[Magnetron]

Not to change the subject, but thinking about the idea made me realize that I've never dreamt about poetry.

 

[greenmountaineer]

Not to change the subject, but thinking about the idea made me realize that I've never dreamt about poetry.

Yeah, but I'll bet you've had your share of crazy dreams with that Stephen King imagination of yours.

 

[Magnetron]

Mine have been pretty dull in the last 20 years compared to some of the doozies I've had prior to my mid twenties. Seems the more nonsense and or poetry I write, the tamer my subconscious has become.

 

[greenmountaineer]

There are 5 poets interested in submitting one or more poems for this. I'll post them next Saturday or sooner if I receive all of them. For any fence sitters, thereafter I'll post them as I receive each.

Here's a poem that will perhaps awaken your Muse from her dream sleep:

The Land of Nod

Robert Louis Stevenson, 1850 - 1894

From breakfast on through all the day
At home among my friends I stay,
But every night I go abroad
Afar into the land of Nod.

All by myself I have to go,
With none to tell me what to do--
All alone beside the streams
And up the mountain-sides of dreams.

The strangest things are there for me,
Both things to eat and things to see,
And many frightening sights abroad
Till morning in the land of Nod.

Try as I like to find the way,
I never can get back by day,
Nor can remember plain and clear
The curious music that I hear.

 

[butters]

looking forward to reading them, gm.

normally it's the kind of challenge i'd jump at, but my mind is so taken up right now with work, trying to find flats for the kids before i fly out and my own arrangements still being made that it's hard to think beyond these. but your subject matter did the most to tickle the muse than anything lately, even if she did then say - no can do.

 

[greenmountaineer]

looking forward to reading them, gm.

normally it's the kind of challenge i'd jump at, but my mind is so taken up right now with work, trying to find flats for the kids before i fly out and my own arrangements still being made that it's hard to think beyond these. but your subject matter did the most to tickle the muse than anything lately, even if she did then say - no can do.

I miss your poems, butters. Keep the door slightly ajar for that Muse of yours. You never know.

 

[greenmountaineer]

For all of you armchair psychologists from one of my favorite poets, Louise Bogan:

The Dream

O God, in the dream the terrible horse began
To paw at the air, and make for me with his blows,
Fear kept for thirty-five years poured through his mane,
And retribution equally old, or nearly, breathed through his nose.

Coward complete, I lay and wept on the ground
When some strong creature appeared, and leapt for the rein.
Another woman, as I lay half in a swound
Leapt in the air, and clutched at the leather and chain.

Give him, she said, something of yours as a charm.
Throw him, she said, some poor thing you alone claim.
No, no, I cried, he hates me; he is out for harm,
And whether I yield or not, it is all the same.

But, like a lion in a legend, when I flung the glove
Pulled from my sweating, my cold right hand;
The terrible beast, that no one may understand,
Came to my side, and put down his head in love.


I'm still hoping to post the Lit poems on Saturday night.

 

[greenmountaineer]

The Dream

O God, in the dream the terrible horse began
To paw at the air, and make for me with his blows,
Fear kept for thirty-five years poured through his mane,
And retribution equally old, or nearly, breathed through his nose.

Coward complete, I lay and wept on the ground
When some strong creature appeared, and leapt for the rein.
Another woman, as I lay half in a swound
Leapt in the air, and clutched at the leather and chain.

Give him, she said, something of yours as a charm.
Throw him, she said, some poor thing you alone claim.
No, no, I cried, he hates me; he is out for harm,
And whether I yield or not, it is all the same.

But, like a lion in a legend, when I flung the glove
Pulled from my sweating, my cold right hand;
The terrible beast, that no one may understand,
Came to my side, and put down his head in love.

I love this poem by Bogan and want to parse it. Feel free to comment, whether you see it the same way or differently; like it or don't like it.

This is dark, approaching the erotic without actually going there, which I think is the whole theme underlying the poem. The horse represents male virility, which the female narrator has been socialized to be apprehensive about, indeed perhaps even fearful of. The "Fear kept for thirty-five years" in line 3 is hers which she is projecting onto the horse. She fears she is already a spinster or soon to become one.

The strong creature.....Another woman" is the part of her, although repressed, still there; someone who desires sexual contact, and she still struggles to admit that part of her.

Usually, I'm not a fan of using archaic words, but Bogan does it masterfully with "swound," i.e., "swoon." She's still stuck in the past. The poem follows an "abab" rhyme scheme in 4 quatrains. The last stanza, however, is "abba." Even there she can't free herself from formality, as would be the case with a concluding stanza in free verse.

Lastly, she "flung" the glove at horse. The image that came to mind was in polite society a young woman recognizing the eyes of a handsome man following her may have intentionally dropped her glove so that he would have reason to introduce himself as he returned the glove to her. That she "flung" the glove instead of dropped it suggested continued conflict.

In the last two dramatic lines, the poet realizes fear of her sexual nature, projected onto the horse, was and perhaps to some degree always will be in her mind.

Louise Bogan wrote many remarkable poems. This, I think, is perhaps the best.

 

[Magnetron]

The Dream

I love this poem by Bogan and want to parse it. Feel free to comment, whether you see it the same way or differently; like it or don't like it.

Hrrrmmmmmm

It sure reads like an actual dream relayed in poetic form. Which would mean it has personal meaning to Bogan. Therefore I hesitate to interpret it for risk of projecting my own meanings upon the symbols.

Were it several hundred pages of fictional prose, there would be more symbols that would likely present patterns and thus a theme could be gleaned. Not so much here.

Horses are easily symbolic of wildness that can be tamed, which requires effort.

Removal of gloves is perhaps a sign of readiness to get one's hands dirty; a commitment. The phrase the gloves come off refers to being more serious and or aggressive. The flung glove is the gesture symbolizing the aforementioned effort required. The act of flinging towards the horse represents focus or application of energy; again, effort.

Were it based on an actual dream of Bogan's, I'd say it was the subconscious encouraging her to take hold of the reigns regarding an out of control situation.

 

[greenmountaineer]

Poem 1

I Dreamt

I dreamt you dreamed about me,
led me to a purple stream,
on Autumn's raiment we would be
fallen, and we both beyond redeem.

Led me to a purple stream,
tumultuous overflowing dam,
fallen and we both beyond redeem.
Sacrificed the first born lamb.

Tumultuous overflowing dam,
to hard now to resist her,
sacrificed the first born lamb
entered seed of seed, an off spur.

Too hard now to resist her
on Autumn's raiment, we would be.
Entered seed of seed, an off spur.
I dreamt you dreamed of me.

 

[greenmountaineer]

Poem 2

NCIS Interlude

"Did you fuck her?" asked Gibbs
looking at McGee's dishevelled state
as he arrived on the porch
from the cornfield.
McGee nodded vigorously,
a big grin on his face,
as I lay satiated on his coat,
but wondering how I would play this,
when I returned to my home
which was still a crime scene.

 

[greenmountaineer]

Poem 3

.

Dessie was a dream person
invisible in the light of day
he struggled to stay alive
but slipped from the grasp of night memory
like a time traveller
in a different dimension
where reality was quicksand
beneath his feet.

 

[greenmountaineer]

Poem 4

I used to dream

The first dream I remember was
after the first day of grade one
when I dreamed that I’d learn
to read, the teacher would like
me and I’d be good friends with
the dark eyed girl in the desk
next to me.

Only the reading part came true
but as I read my comic books
and watched TV, Batman’s world
became more real than my own.
although I sided with the Joker
cause he was way more cool
than Bruce.

In my teens, I dabbled with alcohol,
cannabis and hallucinogens
and my dreams though vivid
vanished when I awoke or
didn’t seem real in the morning,
There really was a spectacular
borealis on that midsummer’s night
as we lay transfixed on Kenny’s roof
waiting for the spaceships to land.
But there was no succubus under
my bed on that hot July night
despite my fervid searching.

I straightened out in my twenties
took up long distance running and
after an hour or so the world shifted
to a state, I still find on extended hikes
or a long paddle when the light and
the water shimmer.

These days I don’t remember any dreams,
though they say I still have them and
that I cry out at night for those
long passed.

 

[greenmountaineer]

Poem 5

Questions for Pablo

He became a voluntary exile
when Franco's mailed fist fell upon his land.
(I'm vexed about my nation, too;
Could I do that? I haven't.)

And now

he's in my dream. We're bowling.
Does his ball strike the pins
with all the energy and grace
that animates his bow upon the strings?

Alas, that memory is lost
amidst the vapors of my waking world...

 

[greenmountaineer]

Poem 6

A Dream Within a Dream About the Ending of Time

I swear I fell asleep
and try as I might to speak in my dream
nothing comes out of my mouth
in this room where there is no sound,

although I still can think,
but here I am, a mime,
who can't even pantomime
what? I don't even know anymore.

I'm losing it. I'm noosed.
Not as much as a vowel
dangles from my tongue
for some vocabulary.

And then my hands of time
are falling on the what?

I think it's called a floor,

and I think what I once called a clock​

no longer hangs on the.......what?​

a wall.....yes, a wall,​

but I do remember the ceiling that was,
​

I never much looked at or thought about,​

that isn't there anymore.​

 

[greenmountaineer]

Poem 7

TWO NIGHTS AGO

Two nights ago I saw you in my dream,
you came unexpectantly inside,
your mood was horny, the blue light was dim,
"It's you, it's really you!" Amazed I cried.

"Of course it's me, who else did you expect?
Who could have come to you in such a state?
Some things are wrong, so let us both correct
what's outstanding before it's too late".

We went outside walking through a park,
we sorted out things as best we could,
we found a bench while it was getting dark,
we sat on it, the park became a wood…

You whispered softly, "Now let us fuck,
cause I can sense, that's what you really want,
I want too, baby, things are not that black,
you only have to ask and I'll respond".

*****

Your face does respond to my caress,
your lips are thirsty welcoming my kiss,
you lie on the bench, I lift your dress,
I'm kneeling down to give you that old bliss.

You shiver and you sigh, you arch your back,
I keep on teasing your exited clit,
you ask me wild, "Come, I want your fuck",
I come on top and eat you bit by bit.

My cock without effort finds its course,
I slide in meeting your upward thrust,
like old times we're again fucking outdoors,
like old times fucking sweet and hard and fast.

A time that has been it's being again,
the flowers of love, the spring time scents,
the smell of earth and wood, the winter rain,
the summer Libyan blue blasting time dents.

*****

In moments like this, loosing our wits,
when mysteries and secret codes are cracked,
you are no more that usual psychobitch,
again you are that lass praying to be fucked.

And I'm again a man who won't forget
the truth of our erotic Summer Blast,
more positive than any dark regret,
more sensual, just beautiful and vast.

Our climax with skill we synchronize,
we scream and whisper, kiss, and then we smile,
I lose myself again in your green eyes,
that was it! It will do us for a while.

Once we got this thing out of the way,
we are content, my dream of long ago
let's meet again another summer day,
like in this dream I saw two nights ago.

 

[greenmountaineer]

The 7 poems I received were written by 5 poets and are posted above. Feel free to comment and/or guess authorship. As I said at the beginning this was to be a short challenge, and inasmuch as there aren't too many poems to read, I'll identify authors tomorrow night.

Authors can comment as they see fit.

If someone is still working on a poem, feel free to post it directly, or if you find a poem about dreams by an established author, post that too.

 

[AlwaysHungry]

With regard to #2, I asked myself, "who dreams about a popular TV series?" and a little voice answered, "Mags."

 

[Magnetron]

With regard to #2, I asked myself, "who dreams about a popular TV series?" and a little voice answered, "Mags."

Great deductive work.

If only I had ever watched a single episode of NCIS. Add CSI to the list. And I gave up on Law & Order after season two.

I tend to avoid most procedural TV shows which get stale if there is no underying greater mystery involved such as with LOST or Fringe.

 

[Magnetron]

I Dreamt

I dreamt you dreamed about me,
led me to a purple stream,
on Autumn's raiment we would be
fallen, and we both beyond redeem.

This one plays tricks with my brain. It makes me want to write more.

I dreamt one night
you dreamt one night
about leading me
to purple waters streamt
bleeding into an auburn sea
on Autumn's raiment we would be fallen
not to mention, both beyond redemption

 

[AlwaysHungry]

Great deductive work.

If only I had ever watched a single episode of NCIS. Add CSI to the list. And I gave up on Law & Order after season two.

I tend to avoid most procedural TV shows which get stale if there is no underying greater mystery involved such as with LOST or Fringe.

This would not be the first time that the little voices in my head had fed me disinformation.

 

[legerdemer]

This one plays tricks with my brain. ....

I Dreamt (#1) is a pantoum, I believe - the rolling form I think is perfect for a dream poem, as I think the entire structure gives it a dreamy quality. I like the way the last line (and more generally the last stanza) takes it back to the beginning. It tells its story so very effectively - lovely. I thought possibly it's by UYS, only because Annie loves forms, but I'm not sure at all.

When I read about pantoums, they were described as having the effect of an ourobouros - you can see it so well in this one.

Fascinating. I'm going to have to try my hand at it.

 

[legerdemer]

I like the way A Dream Within A Dream (#6) plays with words, and with space. The second and third stanzas of the first part of the poem make me feel as if I'm detaching from reality - at first slowly, almost without noticing. The floating lines that are all over the place finish the job - where am I, really? This one I think uses the physical placement of the lines perfectly to disorient the reader.

gm has played in the past with surrealism in poetry, and I am tempted to finger him for this one. Or, possibly, Mags (going to the opposite extreme here)? - the poem's plays on words remind me of some of his, and he may be trying out visual trickery for himself. Most likely someone entirely different. Like Tzara.

 

[Magnetron]

I like the way A Dream Within A Dream (#6) plays with words, and with space. The second and third stanzas of the first part of the poem make me feel as if I'm detaching from reality - at first slowly, almost without noticing. The floating lines that are all over the place finish the job - where am I, really? This one I think uses the physical placement of the lines perfectly to disorient the reader.

gm has played in the past with surrealism in poetry, and I am tempted to finger him for this one. Or, possibly, Mags (going to the opposite extreme here)? - the poem's plays on words remind me of some of his, and he may be trying out visual trickery for himself. Most likely someone entirely different. Like Tzara.

If I was Trump, I'd be saying don't just finger me - grab me by the pussy.