A Dream Within A Dream

It’s 3am and I’m reading poems on the internet.  I didn’t even attempt sleep.  If I were high right now, I would think I’m out of my damn mind for staying up this late for no reason.

I would be saying to myself over and over, “It doesn’t make any sense.  No sense at all.  I’m confounded that I’m writing these very words to you at this very moment.  How can this be?  Why?”

I’m starting to get into poetry.  I love and hate it.  I have to siphon out the trash before I find the treasure, and there’s a lot of trash.

But I gotta say that when treasure hits, WOW.  I mean seriously, wow.  I’m reading the poem, reflecting on it, being subjective and yet at the same time envisioning what the poet must have been feeling while writing it.  The poem drugs my brain – seriously feeling like I been drugged.  It’s like saying “Ah haa yes! I get it!”  But it’s so much more than that.

Or it can just be that it’s 3am.

Anyway, here’s the poem that did this to me:

Take this kiss upon the brow!
And, in parting from you now,
Thus much let me avow–
You are not wrong, who deem
That my days have been a dream;
Yet if hope has flown away
In a night, or in a day,
In a vision, or in none,
Is it therefore the less gone?
All that we see or seem
Is but a dream within a dream.

I stand amid the roar
Of a surf-tormented shore,
And I hold within my hand
Grains of the golden sand–
How few! Yet how they creep
Through my fingers to the deep,
While I weep–while I weep!
O God! Can I not grasp
Them with a tighter clasp?
O God! can I not save
One from the pitiless wave?
Is all that we see or seem
But a dream within a dream?

                                                                                                                                                                                                   -Edger Allen Poe

I mean wow, come on now.  Do you feel it?  The pain, the anguish, the illusion, the inability to let go?  I know I’m taking this poem to places where I can relate to it, but I see no other interpretation for it.  It’s like, yeah, that’s life man.  You got it, you really fucking got it.

Poe is the bro fo’ sho’ yo

His shit is shellacked 

it glow

While I weep

Oh while I weep!

For the loss of

tonights sleep

The grains in my palm

Just 4 or five

mean

Nothing to no one

And yet they arrive

in my palm

So subtle and small

feeling their worth by their graininess 

Barely nothing at all

Do they exist merely for me?

In this moment of time

compared to eternity?

No, this one moment,

with them in my hand

I return to the ocean,

And me,

The land

I have no idea what I just wrote…

Okay, it really is 3am., well, no.  It’s 3:14.  My eyes are completely blood shot.  It was snowing all day – I was homebound all day.  The plow truck got stuck in front of my house.

It’s not going to stop until tomorrow.  Esmeralda the Escort is outside blanketed over looking like a cozy little igloo.  Slowly shrinking as the ground rises.  I can’t recall ever seeing anything like it.

Basically what I got from the poem is this:

Our dreams are as real as those little granules of sand.  They mean nothing, and all just pretend.  They only mean something if they mean something to you.  Nothing is stopping them from returning to the ocean, only you can stop it, but why?  And should you?  They mean so little after all…And nothing is real.  It all gets washed away in the end.

 

I just flossed my teeth

For an hour

Out of my gums

Sprouts a flower

Needing and weeding

Despite the bleeding

What am I saying?

I don’t know

Over the mountain and thru the woods

It’s grandmothers house we go

Yep, definitely bed time.

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