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25912 Posts in 9968 Topics by 982 Members Latest Member: - Ferguson Most online today: 256 (July 03, 2005, 06:25:30 PM)
+  Africa Speaks Reasoning Forum
| |-+  Poetry (Moderators: Tyehimba, leslie)
| | |-+  A Dream
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Author Topic: A Dream  (Read 12602 times)
Posts: 67

« on: March 05, 2004, 08:59:24 PM »

In the midst of one night, I dreamed;
So vivid and real that dream seemed,
That dream: a simple dream that
Still swims in my mind, and still will not cease,
Concerns so prime in me a part,
Defies the laws of words in ink.
By it may be that I live or we die;
Or it may be that we float or we sink
While swimming in this dream;
Though it could also nothing mean,
May even nothing seem.

It was a night of yesteryear
When I dreamt that dream again,
A dream that needs a tender say,
That dream about a stream.

It was the night of yesterday
When I dreamt that dream again
And saw in it the things I saw,
In that dream about that stream
And one way, that waver in my mind,
Which both meander in my dream.

That dream is here and lives today,
The dream that lives since yesteryear,
Trapped in this strange dream again,
This dream about a twisted way
Which twists and meanders away
With the rise and fall of distant hills.

These dreams we have: mere ‘beams’
Of Light by which surrealism is seen,
Have since olden times the men misled,
Gushing out fate’s blood shed
Which mustn’t have been bled:
Coming and going and coming again, ...
And going again, as it’s always been.

‘Dreams should, or never,
Be believed, my child,’

Said once a man I met in a dream,
His voice so mild, and his face so old;
And his eyes so wise, he said:
‘Never now, or once and forever,
Or never changing by time.’

Indeed! A bell that rings well
Never changes its chime!

For heaven or hell I’ve been living some;
Yet now, I don’t know what will come.



PS: This is a kind of “difficult” poem written by me in Africa when I was still a teen, many years ago now … It’s interesting, in retrospect, to discover that one’s “feeling” (one’s “vibe”) in life can remain the same sometimes, basically, changing just through maturity and through the journey of time …

Quotable Quotes On Language:

... Make language stammer, or make it ‘wail’, stretch tensors through all of language, even written language, and draw from it cries, shouts, pitches, durations, timbres, accents and intensities ...[/i]

From A Thousand Plateaus: G. Deleuze and F. Guattari.

Full Member
Posts: 254


« Reply #1 on: March 26, 2004, 07:27:09 PM »

your poem is very rhythmic like dub poetry but not simplistic.
i don't know if this offends you, if so , a thousand pardons. to me dub poetry flows almost as if not poetry but more like music or an instrument. enough useless rhetoric, i enjoyed your poem.



Posts: 67

« Reply #2 on: March 27, 2004, 04:18:00 PM »

Hi there!

your poem is very rhythmic like dub poetry but not simplistic.
i don't know if this offends you, if so , a thousand pardons. to me dub poetry flows almost as if not poetry but more like music or an instrument. enough useless rhetoric, i enjoyed your poem.

I enjoyed your compliment. No, of course nothing offended me, and Thanks for getting back to my little poem. I am here to learn also, like most people here! It's always inspiring when others commend/encourage/'drive' us to dream even further -- be it through constructive criticism or otherwise ... [Your words are constructive, humble and kind].

Well, I even remember that I wrote that at night, or in the early hours of a morning, when I felt myself in the mood (any need to explain that?); well, being “in the mood” is -- for me -- the way it’s always done, not necessarily when or because I have time. To be in the mood can mean different things at different times sometimes; actually, it can also be everything!! For me, and I guess for most, it *always* has something to do with emotions: It may be when one is meditating/praying, or it can also be when one is sorrowful, or happy; or it can also be when one is simply stoned and high!!… And many times, it can also be through a dream (while asleep) … I write most of my poems at night, when I'm alone and it's quiet and still. I write down some of them (directly) from a dream: waking up at night, then sitting down to write!! ... We all dream so many funny and silly and weird things at night, some of which could have a meaning sometimes, though: Sometimes, even these things are just the right raw material to use in a “poem”. Other times, just to “play with words”, like a pun; or to portray them to mirror something else in real life sometimes. Like a 'correlation' … Like a 'translation' or so ... In my opinion, it therefore remains to the “subjected” person/artist/writer/poet to “convey” what they “experienced” (in words!), as best as they can, which is not at all easy [especially if done in a foreign language!!!] I think the power of thought is nothing but an “engine” that fires the vehicle we call imagination. *Creativeness* -- the driving ability to create, or (in this case) *the ability to think and write in pictures* -- is a small, but very essential, part of imagination, as a whole (or let's also say of “creativity”). And combining creativeness with the power to think yields or doesn’t  yield an artist productivity! It may yield creativity or productivity! It simply depends …

I really don’t know, but I think true creativity can only be developed and/or achieved through practice and time … and also through *consciousness*, especially spiritual consciousness.

Now be ready for a laugh!!! … (or shan’t you?) ...

Here is yet a very childish, really *silly* “poem” I wrote in my diary as a playful teen, one day when I was bored … (as a kind of playful “sequel” to something else I would call “more serious”, though{!}). Here it goes:


What means a “Crook”?

A crook is a gambler for fate who flies on wheels,
Is still drunk of night each dawn the day reels;
He’s a dealer in cotton who stalks each land,
Eats mutton and knits cotton by a savage wand.
He muses thru days as if they were but dreams,
But prays fev’rishly when the next sun walks the void sky.
He baits in shallow waters of hungry streams
Or baits again for tiny birds in the air, where they fly.
Yet he’s a serious man who always fights his way:
A man who adds magic to his ev’ry say.
He’s the vagabonds’ cousin who always finds his day;
Sometimes a savage hunter, he hunts the game away,
When the summer game hide outside and lurk;
He is: the naughty one, who can count money in the dark,
Has ten eyes on each side and counts only from ten:
The sorcerer who flies at night and eats small children!

... "He-he-he!!!"

One Love and Thanks!

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