Aubade of the Dream of Peaches
suffering through a time-change
waking in the middle of the night
moon-silver streaming in gaps
between window-shade and sill
I dream in that last hour before waking
of trudging on winter sidewalks
to an intersection in my hometown
next to an empty snow-covered field
to the east, we all stop, stare, comment,
thin cold clouds pale-centered, dappled
in sunrise, edged in light, I hear
my own voice say, "Now that's true pink"
as if it were the first color of the first
dawn at the morning of the world,
then I am turning the corner
as the traffic light changes
into a stand of stalls, open market
of fruit-sellers and farm provender
an annual peach festival
I make my way along wooden walls
painted fresh white and palest fruit-tone
colors of the living fruit vibrant and true
firm in the hand, brightly lit this early morn
by light-strung tree-boughs and dawn
there are sellers of jams and preserves
and small peach-shaped bottles of wine
intriguing because wine made from fruit
other than grapes is always tongue-catching
my toes are caught by a wooden sill
I stumble through a display window rather
than a door into a fruit stand overwhelmed
with color, scent, a whirl of sound and memory
and open eyes cocooned in warm blankets
arms wrapped around a pillow, knees bent
it's still wan winter morning, no snow left, and
you're not here, you're not here, you're not here
waking in the middle of the night
moon-silver streaming in gaps
between window-shade and sill
I dream in that last hour before waking
of trudging on winter sidewalks
to an intersection in my hometown
next to an empty snow-covered field
to the east, we all stop, stare, comment,
thin cold clouds pale-centered, dappled
in sunrise, edged in light, I hear
my own voice say, "Now that's true pink"
as if it were the first color of the first
dawn at the morning of the world,
then I am turning the corner
as the traffic light changes
into a stand of stalls, open market
of fruit-sellers and farm provender
an annual peach festival
I make my way along wooden walls
painted fresh white and palest fruit-tone
colors of the living fruit vibrant and true
firm in the hand, brightly lit this early morn
by light-strung tree-boughs and dawn
there are sellers of jams and preserves
and small peach-shaped bottles of wine
intriguing because wine made from fruit
other than grapes is always tongue-catching
my toes are caught by a wooden sill
I stumble through a display window rather
than a door into a fruit stand overwhelmed
with color, scent, a whirl of sound and memory
and open eyes cocooned in warm blankets
arms wrapped around a pillow, knees bent
it's still wan winter morning, no snow left, and
you're not here, you're not here, you're not here
Labels: Aubade poem series, dreams, poem
posted by Art Durkee at 9:56 AM
2 Comments:
What a wonderful way to transform a rich and complex dream into such a compelling poem.
Thanks for understanding my exact intent here, E.
The dream was really wonderful and memorable, vivid and sensual, and I really wanted to write it down. Somehow it just didn't seem adequate to just do another entry in the dream journal. The energy from the dream itself was there, to shape it into a poem, so that's what happened. It was my morning writing for the day, and regardless of the final quality of the poem, the process of writing down a dream as a poem (I've done that before on occasion) was very fulfilling all by itself.
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