I Dreamt a Poem
05/29/2006 10:20 p.m.

May 26th, 2006

This morning I dreamt a poem. I considered writing down my realization without the dream itself, but then decided that the dream’s personal symbols express my own realization so beautifully that I will record it as an addendum for my own recollection. The realization, in words, which I’m forced to use to record what an indefinable state of being, was best articulated by the half of me that has actually experienced it before:

If you want to write a poem, become the POEM. If you want to love, become LOVE. BECOME BEAUTY, and you are beauty. You don’t have to realize. Instead, you realize in the process of BECOMING.

You have all the answers, rather, you are beyond questions so you don’t need answers. Just become the answer.

THE ANSWER IS IN BECOMING THE ANSWER.


Here is the dream:

A young boy, maybe 16, was in a library. His father and brother went upstairs to the second floor, they all gave each other knowing glances, they were dealing drugs to survive. The boy, who frequently turned into me as the first person and then back again to third, was packaging some black powder in a paper in order to take it up and sell it. Just then a policeman walked into the library and "I" quickly hid the papers, though they were still visible. I was so nervous. He came up to me and started talking friendly, asking me what I’m doing here.

"Oh well...I am writing...I am writing some poetry...yes...yes it's a project I have," I said lying. Then I asked him what he is doing here and he replied, "well I play the clarinet" and placed a paper in front of me that had words he had written about how he played the clarinet. "Oh, well I play too" I said nervously, “though I can see from your writing that you play so much better than I do.”

[How does one hear the quality of music through the quality of writing?]

Anyway, he wouldn't go away, he took a liking to me and thought to sit and stay. So with one eye on the hidden paper I/he had to sit down and start to pretend that I/he was there to write. The boy just thought, “my God, I don't know how to write, much less write poetry.' But he had to try in order not to bring suspicion on himself.

Suddenly, as he wrote he became so focused on the paper, so fully aware of himself and his surroundings, that all the beauty within him came flowing out. It was as if all the world was beauty and he saw it as it was…his words fell like roses on the paper, blooming in his presence. And he was so shocked at himself. Shocked by what he was capable of.

Suddenly, there was a commotion upstairs and the policeman ran up to where his/my brother and father were...they had been caught. The boy went up to his father and held him and they both wept, the boy crying out "I'm not going to live like this anymore...what good is it just to survive…what kind of life is this?”

And the boy went downstairs and was so happy to have made up his mind not to do what he hated. He felt free and said, "I’m not going to write any more poetry either!! I'm not going to do anything but just BE what I AM.

And with that declaration he sat on this large contraption that looked almost like a giant typewriter and started playing the keys as if it were a great organ, and beautiful music bellowed out. But each key had a letter on it, and somewhere in the back my subconscious I knew that he was writing poetry without writing it!! In fact, had BECOME the POETRY itself by simply BEING.

Then suddenly an entire stanza of words appeared before me...it was a full stanza that seemed so meaningful, dripping with ornate words, symbols, and metaphors. And in my mind I thought "write it down Rula before you lose it.” I must have been half awake realizing I was seeing the poem in a dream. And then a loud voice came from above and said, "NO. Don't write it down. This is not a poem Rula. No words are poems. These are just questions. All these words are just questions Rula. Words are not poetry."

Then I woke up.