Dreams Remembered

I am always wary explaining my poetry because I believe it loses something in that translation. The beauty of poetry lies in the interpretation that each reader brings to the piece. Each reader is unique and each moment for that reader is unique.

Therefore, rather than try to explain my poetry, I have chosen to incorporate my poetry into another piece of writing, integrating the two.  Think of this as an introduction if you will; to the poet and to the poetry.

Poetry is a passion; one often undervalued in today’s society.  When I began writing, I had expected to write longer works of fiction. I have always dreamed of writing a novel or two, perhaps even a best-seller.  I believe that most writers have this dream. But instead, poetry was what came spilling out.  I started carrying a notebook and jotting things down. Sometimes those thoughts gelled into something more cogent, more evocative-poetry if you will.

Since that time, I have spent some time thinking about poetry’s function. Poets have existed for hundreds of years.  And throughout that time, their role has been varied. Poets explore emotional terrain, giving voice to intense feeling states with which others can resonate. They have amused and entertained us, with a clever turn of phrase, an innuendo or a double entendre. They have moved our hearts in the face of the need for societal change. They have vocalized the dissent of the minority in the face of an overwhelmingly dispassionate majority.  Perhaps they are the philosophers of our time.

That being said, you may choose the function of the following piece according to your wont. I hope you will give thought, give credence, and above all, give yourself the fullness of experiencing this piece of poetry.

Dreams Remembered

I should be

doing my taxes,

the clock turns,

folding laundry,

                making the pile finally smaller,

writing out bills,

                due soon,

making dinner,

                or starting it anyway,

deciding which aria to memorize,

                I have auditions coming up soon.

But I don’t want to do any of those things.

I want to write about my dog,

and about the rain,

and about my dreams.

My time still includes them.

I still dream,

not in big words,

but in small ones,

tied up with blue ribbons

parsed out at the 5 and dime for a nickel.

When I unwrap each one

it is like a consolation prize

for not getting the brass ring,

for not winning the lottery.

I stack my dreams inside their boxes,

and hang the ribbons

on my old ficus tree.

When the window is open,

the ribbons dance in the breeze, each dream remembered.

copyright/all rights reserved Audrey Howitt  May 2012