Dreams haunt me. Dreams dog my steps.
Always have, always will.
Dreams dry out my mouth, leave
my jaw open, gaping wide
to let yet more dreams stream out.
They are a major part of my work,
these phantom dances in the night
and I still don’t understand them.
Wislawa does, I feel. She gets it.
Got it well before me.
And there’s still so very much
that remains unknown; perhaps
this is why we return to them
again and again and again.
I love this poem ‘Dreams’ by Wislawa Szymborska,
a Nobel Laureate
I discovered today (this makes it sound
as though she were beneath layers of earth
and by chance my spade struck sparks
and found her there waiting).
I’m still half-asleep, if you’re wondering,
and so not bothering with form or format.
That does not make this a poem, let’s be clear.
There are few things I love more than rhythm
and rhyme, especially when they’re unbound
and set free, to come and go as they please,
it creates an effect kind of like singing
and here and there sets the poem to ringing,
just a little bit. It’s lovely. Go read her poem.
