Dream Song

Today I share an old poem. I came upon it in a drawer yesterday, and remembered that there were many times when I pulled it out and tried to find a way to share it.

It is a source of deep joy and gratitude to me to have found my sense of I Am. I am a poet. 

There were signs of this all my life, but I didn’t recognize them because I had the false belief that my I Am had to be something acceptable, as in, providing a lucrative career, or at least a living. I’ve found that it’s something else — it’s the understanding of who I am that I really belong to, belong in. The center of my worth. The thing I don’t have to prove to anybody. I have found that I Am for myself as a poet.

Even before I knew that, poems marked important realizations in my life. The one I’m sharing today was the one where I realized that I didn’t need, anymore or ever, to be afraid that I would never find love. The realization came to me in a dream and in reflecting on it in the morning. The poem solidified it in my thought. This happened in the gap year I took between my sophomore and junior years of college, and I started experiencing the truth of it the next year. 

The poem is long, as it points out in its beginning. It came to me all in a rush the morning after the dream, which occurred while I was visiting my uncle and aunt in Vermont. I altered it a little some years later.

Dream Song

Something caught my eye 

and caught my mind with equal fury —

Though my senses, numbed and startled, 

caught its image, it was blurry

Let my heart help me remember,

let my craft help make it strong

that the people all may hear it

in the rhythm of my song

I said, Child, don’t write an epic

for it never will be read

and songs that no one sings

will still keep pacing through your head

Yet I couldn’t write for buyers

and I couldn’t write for cheers

and I couldn’t write for angels

till I’d exorcised their fears,

for even gilded ceilings tumble, shambled, in defeat,

and then will come the victory of the grass beneath the street

If no one hears my story, it still will mean something,

The golden empress trumpets dawn

and so I sing:

The day has risen on my dream

which, though it’s faded, leaves a gleam

that tints the corners of my sight

with color, and with swift delight

In content and in skilled design

no dream I’ve had has been so fine —

When I awoke I surely knew

it was so good, it must come true.

From my dark and timid places

where my tender hopes crouched still,

I’ve beheld the flowing graces 

of the dancers in their skill —

It looked so easy, yet my limbs,

young and untried,

had no chance

nor impulse to arise and join the dance

So I could never say I’m graceful

or know if my nimble feet

would move surely with the rhythm

or sadly off the beat

I’ve had friends who have had lovers

and their glances were secure,

and I tried to learn their secret —

how their love could be so sure,

because my love has been so doubt-filled,

or I’m sure, but then I’m wrong

and I find myself most lonely

when trying to belong,

and though I was strong and cheerful,

others had their dreams fulfilled,

and I, at times, grew fearful

that my urge to love be chilled

And yet, with clearer eyes, I saw the pain

of ties ill-bound —

how certain hell took reign

as hope unwound,

and how loveless demands

could prey upon their peace

and wound the struggling hands

that sought release

Across this troubled thought moved my dream

with warming peace of sun’s midmorning beam:

In dappled shade, we sat and talked,

my friend and I, upon a rock

where forest stretched below and cliffs above,

in summer’s golden light, we talked of love.

To know so clearly how we felt and where we stood,

how we both loved each other, and that it was good

resolved my turbid doubts about my days

and made my greatest triumph be their praise

When I awoke and knew that this was mine

I saw I needn’t wait for some great love to come

to shine:

The gift of love awaits

in each day as in each dream —

There is no need to stalk or scheme.

Arise, arise, behold the eyes

of she that cries “awaken, skies!”

The golden empress trumpets dawn

and says to dark “be gone, be gone.”

And so, my song is written

and I’m glad I chose to speak

and it gives me joy and courage

to be finding what I seek,

And when the evening deepens,

as the shadows fall in place,

I will set a watch upon the night

to hold my thought in grace:

The umber empress of the fire

guards amber warmth and purple spire,

as embers glimmer, ashes heap,

now lights arise in dream-blessed sleep.

©Wendy Mulhern