Dream On
by James Tate

Some people go their whole lives
without ever writing a single poem.
Extraordinary people who don't hesitate
to cut somebody's heart or skull open.
They go to baseball games with the greatest of ease.
and play a few rounds of golf as if it were nothing.
These same people stroll into a church
as if that were a natural part of life.
Investing money is second nature to them.
They contribute to political campaigns
that have absolutely no poetry in them
and promise none for the future.
They sit around the dinner table at night
and pretend as though nothing is missing.
Their children get caught shoplifting at the mall
and no one admits that it is poetry they are missing.
The family dog howls all night,
lonely and starving for more poetry in his life.
Why is it so difficult for them to see
that, without poetry, their lives are effluvial.
Sure, they have their banquets, their celebrations,
croquet, fox hunts, their sea shores and sunsets,
their cocktails on the balcony, dog races,
and all that kissing and hugging, and don't
forget the good deeds, the charity work,
nursing the baby squirrels all through the night,
filling the bird feeders all winter,
helping the stranger change her tire.
Still, there's that disagreeable exhalation
from decaying matter, subtle but ever present.
They walk around erect like champions.
They are smooth-spoken and witty.
When alone, rare occasion, they stare
into the mirror for hours, bewildered.
There was something they meant to say, but didn't:
"And if we put the statue of the rhinoceros
next to the tweezers, and walk around the room three times,
learn to yodel, shave our heads, call
our ancestors back from the dead--"
poetrywise it's still a bust, bankrupt.
You haven't scribbled a syllable of it.
You're a nowhere man misfiring
the very essence of your life, flustering
nothing from nothing and back again.
The hereafter may not last all that long.
Radiant childhood sweetheart,
secret code of everlasting joy and sorrow,
fanciful pen strokes beneath the eyelids:
all day, all night meditation, knot of hope,
kernel of desire, pure ordinariness of life
seeking, through poetry, a benediction
or a bed to lie down on, to connect, reveal,
explore, to imbue meaning on the day's extravagant labor.
And yet it's cruel to expect too much.
It's a rare species of bird
that refuses to be categorized.
Its song is barely audible.
It is like a dragonfly in a dream--
here, then there, then here again,
low-flying amber-wing darting upward
then out of sight.
And the dream has a pain in its heart
the wonders of which are manifold,
or so the story is told.


Dream On
by Anup Rao

Some people go their whole lives
writing poems.
Extraordinary people who don't hesitate
to spend every waking moment sequencing words and feeling them.
They write at baseball games, their minds wander during rounds
of golf, and they drift away in church.
as if it were a natural part of life.
Money means nothing to them.
Politics mean nothing to them.
The future, means nothing.
They sit around at night, as lonely voyeurs
watching a dance of words,
and pretend as though words are enough.
Their failures lie crumpled in the wastebasket, a legacy
of sorts, but tangible, it is not.
And no one admits, that poetry is not enough
The family dog howls all night, lonely and starving.
Why is it so difficult for them to see
that without life, their poetry is effluvial.
Sure, they have their art, their romance, that gleam
in the eyes, and the practiced pause they may
invoke to command a room.
And don't forget, the crazy nights, without boundaries, when
they could feel, and touch, and share, like no one else.
And don't forget, the pain, the ordinariness, and
the feeling of purpose.
Still, there's that emptiness, that mild
constant hunger in the gut, that is somehow
uncomfortably insatiable.
They walk around, big, tall and full, but so empty.
They are smooth spoken, and witty.
Often when alone, they huddle, cry, and spit out another
crumpled sheet of paper.
There was something they meant to say, but didn't:
"And if you write golden words, whose tinkling
awakens the Gods themselves,
and open the eyes of all at last--"
it will not fill you with life, you will remain,
an object of pity.
You're a nowhere man misfiring
the very essence of your life, flustering
nothing from nothing and back again.
The now is all there is, and
all there ever will be.
Radiant childhood sweetheart,
secret code of everlasting joy and sorrow,
fanciful pen strokes beneath the eyelids:
all day, all night meditation, knot of hope,
kernel of desire, pure exaltation of voice
seeking, through poetry, a life beyond life.
And yet it's terrifying to face truth.
It's all too ordinary, for a bird to not know its cage
for what it is: Home, security and
a cure for the emptiness.
Its song, although pretty, is not the same
as freedom.


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