dream – Clara Hsu

Dream Messenger

My sister-in-law dreamed of my mother, whom she had never met. She knew instantly it was her, dead over forty years ago, a young woman of 39. She said my mother watched me walked away, turned around and hugged her. My sister-in-law expected a cold body and icy breaths, as a ghost would have. But instead the feeling was warm and loving. She got scared nonetheless, and her knowledge of my mother pulled her back into consciousness.

Ghosts have not been successful in visiting me. There might be some kind of barrier between us.

“Was there a message?” I asked my sister-in-law.

“Only that she loves you,” was her reply.

An Aubade at Dusk

It is always cheerful, seeing shadows whitening in the room. One cat’s warm belly against my head and another purring at the bend of my leg. To get up means upsetting the critters, and that is enough reason to stay warm under the covers, at least until one of us moves.

Images of night linger. Fragments of a dream, fuzzy on the edges. Something brilliantly composed is melting away. A smile, shy and sweet, tender.

Tender is the moment, this returning; though lovers see dawn as a cruel sign to part. A slow rise so as not to twist the back or hurt the knees. A soft landing.

Working Dream

My father, when he was working, used to take problems home. He stewed on them as he did household chores or listened to music or played his cello. At night, he slept on them. Many times I saw him at work, eager and excited, told me that he had solved the problem the night before while he was sleeping.

Now in his old age, the one big problem he has to solve is being able to sleep. The solution does not lie in sleeping but in waking. He tries drinking warm milk, camomile tea, or snacking a small cookie. He checks the time when he wakes and estimates the approximate time when he falls asleep. The problem, unlike his youthful ones, requires compromise. It is almost comical at times to watch the great man bowing down to a slippery teaser. But as his body wears down, his mind is still a beautiful thing.

Photo by Karen Lam.

The Planets in My Room

The planets are still, suspended in the dark as I sleep. And before waking I sense their odd shaped bodies. Not just rounded, but rectangular and pentagonal, lying in stillness, surrounding me. They are habitable. Some have a glint, like the reflection of water. Several moons have mysterious marking. Another holds human memories of youth. Father, mother, uncles and grandparents. Two have the first hint of life embedded in them. A water hole, primitive yet unmistakable. Behind my head is a little mud disc. It too, carries a pulse.

When I open my eyes I see my room as it has always been. The planets have flattened themselves on the walls and become two dimensional. The mirror, the three drums with animal hide, the aboriginal paintings, the family photos, and the little hummingbird nest with remains that I saved from a bush. Was it dream or imagination? Did the objects reveal themselves when I was receptive? I have no clue, only that I must write this down.

The Ineffable Job

A poet’s job is to dream. To qualify, you must start by shedding earthly reality. Only in dreaming does a poet write. Even if one writes about the real world, it has to come from a place that is not.

Perhaps that is why taking drugs is favorable. A little mushroom lets the mind go free into other dimensions. Maybe drugs and alcohol are part of the job description.

To consciously dream without the aid of substance, to will oneself into a trance takes discipline. It’s not an act of clearing the mind, rather, letting the mind wander upon a neuron and allow it to take you where it wants to go. Many result in dead ends. But invariably there is a path unlike all the others. You’ll recognize it because it is energetic. The poet must chronicle the journey in that instance by whatever means. A poem is born.

When confronted by reality poets inevitably strike back, and sadly being mislabeled as lazy or weird or selfish. Eyes glazed, body slumps over books, walking in circles, mumbling, disengaged in social settings—the poet is at work. Do not disturb.