Posts Tagged ‘dreams’

"So love, love, love." Hafiz, This Sky Where We Live


Poetry and dream work walk hand in hand in the most creative and inspiring ways. In this workshop, dream practitioner Corinne Platt and poet Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer will work with students to explore the landscape of dreams. We’ll use symbols, images, metaphors and feelings to leap into language, writing poems that walk the line between certainty and uncertainty, dream and reality, the irrational and the true. Through dreams and poetry we will navigate the tides of becoming—the continual, miraculous unfolding of life. No previous experience with dream work or poetry necessary.

For more information, visit The Ah Haa School

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I’m exactly the person that I thought I’d be.

                        —Amanda Palmer, “In My Mind”



And there she was in Wikipedia, the woman

with my name who went to my college and

attended my grad school and graduated the same

years as I did. She wrote books that I wrote

and lives in the same state I do.

There was no picture of her, but I think

I might recognize her if I see her. Though in reality,

I recognize her less and less. I remember

how much she wanted to be in Wikipedia.

How the bio she wished for included honors

way beyond the honors they list. I know

how she still struggles with what she thinks she wants

and who she actually is. Of course, I love

that they spelled her name right. That they

neglected to mention the awards she didn’t get

last week. How they left out the part

where she didn’t want to get out of bed

in the morning for months. But dang.

Wikipedia. I mean, how could that not

make her feel as if she’s somehow arrived—

categorized as “American Woman Poet,”

which, they don’t mention, has been

her dream since fifth grade. If they knew,

they might expand her bio to mention the winter day

back in 1979 when she sat in a beanbag

on Mrs. Zabrowski’s fifth grade floor

and stared out the window

at the furious Wisconsin winter storm

and read “The Snowflake” by Walter de la Mare,

falling in love with what poems can do.

That was the day she felt the wild tremor

of words and thought, Maybe I could do it, too.

And maybe tonight, looking in the mirror,

she will see that no matter the honors

she never received, she did follow

the wild tremor of words to become

the woman she dreamed she could be.

And though Wikipedia won’t tell you why,

she’s starting to believe she’s exactly

the woman she dreamed she could be.

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they didn’t look

like a cage, those years,

until I was offered a key

and realized I knew not

how to use it


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In the other room I hear
my father snoring
and imagine how
he’s stood before
outside my door
and listened
to my tides of sleep
with, could it be,
as much love for me
as I have now for him—
his shore is my shore,
our heart sails

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blank field of snow
just after the blizzard
tracked up in minutes


driving sixty
while the tears on her cheeks
went eighty


these deep scars
I wish I could forget why
you can’t see them


even when I sit
very, very still, God sits


the trees pushing green
and in me a longing to
lose everything


even though I know
they won’t fit, I try them on
her mood rings


those gossamer dreams
when was it that they became


all I want to know:
when I am with you, can I
be myself?


watching that star
I forget which of us
is moving


though all the petals
fell, the lily pistil still


come morning my hair
all tangled after a night
of tussling with words


no one says to
the lily, hey, one more petal
would look better


these haiku
perhaps I can scrawl them on
bits of DNA


more poem sprouts?
said the tears—but we just
started plowing


quarter moon
the boy says, it’s broken,
mommy fix it?


these dead willow sticks
beside me are so beautiful
I am beautiful

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Gilgamesh, too, found rocks
in his path. They were like crumbs
for Hansel and Gretel, like
Ariadne’s red fleece thread.
It’s so hard, sometimes,
to see how we are being led.
We think we know the path.
We think we know something.


In a dream, I say,
It’s the rocks
that I just can’t let go of.


By the river, all the rocks
are softened, tumbled and smooth.
They are nearly impossible
to balance, to stack—
but possible it is.


So on the path
Gilgamesh, in his urgency,
smashed the rocks.


The ice
is thin.
The rocks,
flung underhand,
make such
satisfying holes.
Why is it satisfying?
The sound of shattering.
The sksksksksksk of pond ice resettling.
The hole.

Inside the stone,
it is dark.
Not like a shadow.
Like dark.


He broke everything
he needed
to find his way.


I do not know
why I break
what I need,
why I repel
what I love,
why I hold on
to rocks in a dream.


It’s not a path,
says my teacher,
it’s a beckoning.


By the continual
creeping of ants
a stone
will wear

A stone
thrown into the pond
will not move
for many, many, many years.
A stone
thrown into the pond
is not lost.


There is no permanence.


My son says, Mom,
they’re all so beautiful,
every one of these rocks.
We toss them,
rock by rock,
into the river.

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