I dream I’ve been hired as the Daily News’s new dream-writer,
tasked to sit in an office above the sleeping city
and compose compelling dreams
for its inhabitants throughout the night.
But as the night passes I realize that I’m not very good,
not quite adept at crafting plots and stories, and so
in my own dream all I can do is watch myself
sitting at an office desk, having nothing to dream about.
This dream goes on and on with no action, no subplots,
until I can hear my boss pacing and see the growing morning light.
But my boss won’t let me leave until my job is done
and so my half-conscious body can’t make itself wake.
Hour after hour passes in a state of stupor and boredom
until finally I pick up my pen, stifle a yawn,
and begin to dream.
Hi Sasha, I really like the way you weave "dream" throughout the poem. I am almost day-dreaming with the narrator, and in many ways he/she struck me as a sleep-walker, someone who is not entirely in the moment and there, but someplace else (maybe a utopia?). The cyclical nature of the poem returns again when the writer "picks up the pen... and begins to dream again"--I'm wondering if could expand on their interiority? The person seems to believe that their craft has no bearing or motion, but how did they get there? Are they in a depressive stupor or just fighting writer's block?
ReplyDeleteThe concept of dreaming about making dreams is interesting. I would like to hear more about the attempts at making a dream that failed. I also thought the ending was unexpected, because I expected the dream-writer to sleep and dream instead of waking up and dreaming through their pen.
ReplyDelete