Dreams of Generations

Monday Morning Musings:

“Time makes room

for going and coming home

and in time’s womb

begins all ending.”

From Ursula K. Le Guinn, “Hymn to Time”

 

“Sunrise, sunset, Sunrise, sunset

Swiftly fly the years

One season following another

Laden with happiness and tears”

–from “Sunrise, Sunset” Jerry Brock and Sheldon Harnick, Fiddler on the Roof

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The dream flits,

flutters

spreading its wings

and soars

as the moon whispers

and shadows dance–

circles of light,

circles of darkness,

together, apart

beginnings and endings

all one thing,

in time

timeless.

***

A hot July day

time with a friend

not wanting it to end

 

we drink, eat stay

talking of what was

and what now is, because

 

we’re catching up

he knew us way back when–

the before, and then

The Cool Lights! Revolution House, Philadelphia

we went our own ways

but kept in touch—

and now this lunch

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though life intrudes

as I get texts about my mother

one after another

 

but still we laugh

then part, agree to meet

again soon—sweet

 

are friendships,

fleeting is time,

the clock chimes

 

echoing

through city streets

in buzzing beats

 

between the pauses, I feel

dreams rise from the cobblestones

beneath us buried bones.

***

 

We watch a movie

of fantasy and dreams

and my mom dreams, it seems

 

not certain of what is real

sometimes, but to her

fantasies, we defer.

 

And it is hotter now

some water ice to keep cool

in shaded bower, where statued pools

spray and children play

while others kept in cages

cruelty growing in stages

 

“Lock them up!” “Send them back,”

the ugly crowds chant

as the demagogue rants

 

and I listen to the fiddler play

and Yiddish spoken–

a culture not yet broken

 

entirely, and being revived

though they tried to kill us

six million then—but let’s discuss

 

how hate never goes away

entwined with fear

year after year

 

beneath the surface

like a dream.

Do you hear the scream

 

of those in a nightmare life

who are fleeing?

What are you seeing

 

when children in cages

appear before you?

Ho, hum, it’s nothing new.

 

Japanese, Jews, camps

of them, this and that–

and off them someone gets fat

 

(follow the money)

through history. We watch

a movie–does the cop botch

 

his life,

or is it ordained

as we see it explained

 

backwards through time.

Sci-fi and noir, violence and lust–

was it a story that must,

 

that always ended a certain way?

So many ifs and could-have-beens,

the outs and ins

 

of love and time

dances in circles, intertwine—

sometimes–

 

but the sun rises and sets

through our laughter and tears

and the years

 

circle in seasons

round and round–

light and darkness abound.

 

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We watched two Netflix movies this week. In Sicilian Ghost Story, I liked the way dreams were a key part of the story and the fantasy of it; my husband not so much. We both liked The City of Last Things.  The story is told backwards in time.

I listened to this Fresh Air episode about the Yiddish version of Fiddler on the Roof. Well worth the listen, if you have the time.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

At Night Ghosts Fly

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Francisco Goya, “The Sleep of Reason Brings Forth Monsters,” Capricho 45, [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

Monday Morning Musings:

“Fantasy abandoned by reason produces impossible monsters: united with her (reason), she (fantasy) is the mother of the arts and the origin of their marvels.”

–Francisco Goya, full epigraph on Capricho No. 43

 

At night ghosts fly,

breezes like ice over ocean

can eyes not see this,

our hearts devoured and haunted?

And peace,

a secret perfume

This time,

wake and remember.

–A poem constructed from what I remembered of a magnetic poem before The Oracle ate it.

 

 

An oracle gave me a poem of dreams,

then she swallowed the words

leaving me to wonder about both prophecies

and dreams–

wispy, frangible ghosts,

they vanish,

leaving a trace of perfume in the air.

 

And so, I think of dreams—

there was that one from a few nights ago,

Lin-Manuel Miranda told an interviewer*

that someone had “a curvy name.”

What did that mean,

I thought about it when I woke,

I think he meant the name sounded curvy

somehow,

pleasing and delicious,

on the tongue,

a sort of mouth-feel,

an umami sound.

And I wondered who it was he spoke of?

And I will probably never know.

nor why I dreamt it.

 

That is fine.

At night, our minds try to sort and explain the mysteries of the day,

at dawn, we don’t know what dusk will bring,

though we trust the sun will rise and set,

every day is an adventure,

mysteries delightful or terrible may unfold.

But I would not want to know my future, would you?

And who believes the prophets anyway,

treated like Cassandra

mocked and ignored.

 

But in this new year,

How should we feel?

Peace seems ever elusive,

just beyond an ever-changing horizon.

Reality and truth are meaningless,

Lie-laden Tweets

(the lines neither warm nor curvy)

the thoughts of a man who wants to be a king

or a god,

revered and adored,

But he is a little man,

a bully,

with a handheld bully pulpit,

and so, we must resist,

holding fast against the fetid swamp waters

where the monsters live

and where their dreams thrive and grow,

emerging like demons in the night,

like a vampire, tapping on the window,

do not invite them in

to suck your blood

and still your beating heart.

People like to think the monsters are not real,

but oh, they are,

and they are ready to grab you in the night.

(Quickly, pull the blanket up over your head.)

Yet the evil beasts can be stopped–

because there are heroes,

and there is still good in the world,

and there are still truth-tellers

and truth-seekers,

and we can make a choice,

light or darkness.

 

It was a cold, snowy weekend,

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we ate homemade pizza and binge-watched a Netflix show,

an ordinary day,

frozen and white outside

inside, the warmth of wine,

the scent of bread dough baked at high heat,

we watch,

the young woman, who has died more than once,

she may be an angel,

or maybe not.

And is human life and its mysteries explained?

Perhaps,

Or perhaps not.

But she has chosen to remain on earth

to fight, to rescue the people she loves,

people who have become a family.

And there is light and darkness,

and things seen and not seen,

movements that curve,

like a name maybe,

(she has more than one)

to express words that do not exist.

She needs helpers.

and like her,

we must always look for helpers,

and we must strive to be heroes when we can

to wake from our dreams and remember,

to fight the ghosts and monsters of the night,

to scent the air with the perfume of peace,

 

 

Jane Dougherty named the magnetic poetry site, “the Oracle.”

*I heard Lin-Manuel Miranda interviewed on Fresh Air. I don’t think he mentioned any curvy names, but let me know if he did.

We watched OA on Netflix, a series starring Brit Marling. She is also the co-creator with Zal Batmangli. Here is the trailer.