Dreams - Nothing More Than Wishes?

A view from Elm Lodge

“Dreams are nothing more than wishes and a wish is just a dream you wish to come true.”  Harry Nilsson, The Puppy Song.

If my recent dreams are anything to go by, I must have some very strange hidden wishes. Perhaps it is the effect of the lockdown and the pandemic or it might be that I’m eating too much chocolate during the evening – we’re still allowed a little pleasure – but I’m having some very vivid, weird dreams that can stay with me all day. Up to now I haven’t had nightmares or bad dreams, though I wake up during the early hours and feel immediately relieved that whatever was happening was only a dream.

Many years have passed since I worked in a primary school yet one night my sleep journey took me back there, where I was expected to take a Year 6 class and I was trying to explain to someone that there must be a mistake as I hadn’t been told and I wasn’t prepared. The person I was talking to was laughing and telling me I’d be fine. I was arguing that I’d come to work with infants in groups of six, not juniors in Year 6. I woke up before I was forced to face a class of enthusiastic eleven year olds. Phew.

I know that the trigger for that dream was a conversation I’d had with a friend and colleague from those happy days. Often there isn’t a reason.

In another dream I was on a swing, suspended from a great height, aware that one wrong move and I could fall. The swing was taking me too far backwards, so that my body was horizontal and my only safety was how tight I could keep hold of the chains attached to my seat. Something went wrong, of course, and I was falling with that horrible sinking feeling. Luckily, I woke up before I hit the ground, the sea, or whatever was below me.

Going to sleep, I think of happy things and my favourite places. I imagine myself travelling in a motorhome – I haven’t got one, but I don’t let that tiny detail spoil my fun – doing the North Coast 500 would be wonderful. Somehow, as I fall asleep, the gremlins get in and take over my dreams.

My poem, 

The View from the Lodge

Between the trees, the distant hills
Fade from green to grey.
I drink it in and take my fill
Of all I survey.

Beyond the gate the horses graze
In the lush pasture,
I’m happy to recline and laze,
At one with nature.

Paradise, where my soul belongs.
My dreams bring me here,
Surrounded by gentle birdsong
Any time of year.

PMW 2021

Thanks for reading, sweet dreams, Pam x

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Wanderlust - Travelling Eternity Road

Like everyone else I’ve been at home for months with little prospect of going anywhere. Luckily, I don’t mind. I’m happy and safe at home, or at my place of work for a couple of days a week. Over time, I’ve become so contented at home that I dread going out to anywhere busy. Social media showed pictures of Blackpool taken this Bank Holiday weekend of the crowded promenade, not a face-mask in sight. I don’t see the resort as getting back on its feet after lockdown, I just see fear, but that’s my problem to overcome. In a few weeks I will be travelling over the border into my beloved Dumfries & Galloway and our home from home – pandemic permitting. I’ll be fine, doing my own thing, keeping to my own space and allowing my wanderlust to take me into Galloway Forest and the quiet, hidden beaches along the Solway Firth. I will have plenty of face-masks.

My photo: somewhere on the west coast of South Uist

I wish we had a motor home or a camper van. In my wanderlust dreams I pack it with everything we need and set off, northbound, stopping wherever the fancy takes us, then destination, the Outer Hebrides. It is another world. We could stay as long as we like and be more relaxed about it. Up to now, our trips have been governed by annual leave and it isn’t long enough, even with a bank holiday tagged on the end. Things will change soon. Time will be our own and we’ll be able to just go for it – pandemic, lockdown and personal worries aside.

Back in the good old days when The Moody Blues did a UK tour, we’d be with them, going to places we otherwise wouldn’t go. I suppose that was a form of wanderlust, even though we booked everything in advance and knew exactly where we were going and for how long. We were ‘Travelling Eternity Road’ if you like, including Manchester Apollo, or now I think it is called O2, we would drive home from there; London would be part of a sight-seeing holiday, Birmingham, got to be in their home city, often where the last concert would be, and anywhere else we could factor in. Lots of concerts over many years. It was always worth it.

If I felt ready to mingle with the rest of society, I would have travelled to Wembley, supporting Blackpool F.C. in their successful play-off final against Lincoln City. Instead, I watched on TV at home. Feeling stressed and holding my breath for the most of ninety-odd minutes isn’t healthy. In my house there were shrieks, screams, tears and much applause. The neighbours knew we were home.

I found this, by Alfred Joyce Kilmer:

Roofs
(For Amelia Josephine Burr)

The road is wide and the stars are out
and the breath of the night is sweet,
And this is the time when wanderlust should seize upon my feet.
But I'm glad to turn from the open road and the starlight on my face,
And to leave the splendour of out-of-doors for a human dwelling place.

I never have seen a vagabond who really liked to roam
All up and down the streets of the world and not to have a home:
The tramp who slept in your barn last night and left at break of day
Will wander only until he finds another place to stay.

A gypsy-man will sleep in his cart with canvas overhead;
Or else he'll go into his tent when it is time for bed.
He'll sit on the grass and take his ease so long as the sun is high,
But when it is dark he wants a roof to keep away the sky.

If you call a gypsy a vagabond, I think you do him wrong,
For he never goes a-travelling but he takes his home along.
And the only reason a road is good, as every wanderer knows,
Is just because of the homes, the homes, the homes to which it goes.

They say that life is a highway and its milestones are the years,
And now and then there's a toll-gate where you buy your way with tears.
It's a rough road and a steep road and it stretches broad and far,
But at last it leads to a golden Town where golden Houses are.

                                                                     Alfred Joyce Kilmer (1886 - 1918)

Thanks for reading, take care if you're out there, Pam x

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ESP - Second Sight

My mum called it ‘second sight’. She had inherited it from her mother and grandmother. It has come down the generations to me, though mine differs from theirs. The first time I encountered it was at our hotel on Central Promenade. I was a young teenager making myself useful by helping, or possibly hindering, the receptionist.  I was sent to fetch my mum to attend to a guest, a woman who was in great distress. I ran upstairs, along the corridor to our private rooms and found my mother on the settee, waking up from a nap. Before I had chance to speak, she said,

“Her son drowned in a boating accident. I just dreamt it.”

What struck me most was the calm, matter-of-fact way that she said it as she stood up, smoothed her skirt, popped her shoes on, combed her hair and checked her lipstick, all in two seconds before she was out of the door. Sadly, that’s exactly what had happened and the poor lady had just received the terrible news.

I am told that my great-grandmother sometimes dreamt names that matched horses in forthcoming races. I don’t know how lucrative it was for her, but it hasn’t come down the line to me, though I’m not into horse racing.

From an early age I knew that my Nanna could see absolutely everything and she knew what everyone was up to. Her eyes looked like she could see right inside a person’s thoughts. With her, everything and everybody was safe. Things came to her in dreams and sometimes she would sit, deep in thought then tell you what you wanted or did not want to hear, never less than honest and nothing ever ‘wrapped up’. I adored her.

I don’t tend to dream things, I just know, usually out of the blue. My sister was in the early stages of her second pregnancy. Very randomly I told her she was having a daughter and she would be born early, a bit poorly but she would be fine. I could even pin-point the date to either 31^st October or 3^rd November, which didn’t mean anything at the time.  My niece was born by Caesarean section on 31^st October, 1988, spent a short time in the Special Care Baby Unit and has grown up into a beautiful young woman. My daughter was born on 3^rd November, 1994.

There was an avalanche in the Alps at a time when people I knew were in the area. I was sure I’d heard something on the radio news, but it wasn’t on the next bulletin, no mention of it on teletext and nothing on the TV news, until the next day when it actually happened. The same thing happened with an earthquake.

I don’t know if it’s connected to ‘second sight’ or an entirely different phenomenon, but I have had ghostly encounters. There are many, but what always makes me smile is the Most Haunted episode featuring The Old Hall in Sandbach. We lived there for a short time when my father was licencee. I hated that move to Cheshire and I’ve mentioned it, not by name, in previous blogs. Yes, it had ‘occupants’, we quickly became aware, but none of our ghosts matched any of the findings in the programme. Strange.

     I found this poem. I can really relate to it.

 

 
    Conjugal Telepathy
    Have you ever noticed when you’re talking with your spouse?
    No matter if you’re out with friends or wandering round the house,
    That when you have a thought you think is worthy to express,
    You’ve scarcely uttered half of it before your thoughts digress,
    And you have quite forgotten what it was you wished to say,
    But there is no need to panic for your spouse will save the day,
    And without the need for prompting, and indeed without a pause,
    Your partial thought’s completed, with an extra thoughtful clause.
    My friends to whom I’ve spoken, and I’ve spoken to a few,
    Have noticed this phenomenon, and so perhaps it’s true,
    That when you live together an extended length of time,
    The need for speech reduces and there's more accent on mime.
    So perhaps there is no worry when your mind begins to go,
    For even out in company, no one really needs to know.
    There is a great incentive to always keep your cool,
    When your spouse's intervention stops you looking like a fool,
    For even if the utterance is not what you would say,
    It is best to grin and bear it and pretend so anyway.

                                                                           By Ian Smith

Thanks for reading, Pam x

 

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Cheeseboarding

Cheese. I love it. Time for some fun, it's a 'feel good' foodstuff. Let's go cheeseboarding.

Everyone has heard of Laughing Cow cheese (la vache qui rit) but cheeses from other animals of origin have been slow to join the happy parade. For instance, what about Chortling Goat (la cabre risueno)? Or Sniggering Sheep (le mouton riant sous cape)? Where are they? Some intrepid farmers are even producing pig's milk cheese...Giggling Pig anyone (porcellus cachinnabilis)? And in Sweden they milk the Mildly Amused Moose and turn that into cheese. So what else could intrepid cheese-manufacturers conjure up? Howling Horse Halloumi perhaps? Tittering Buffalo Brie? Any takers for Psychedelia Smith's mind-blowing Unicorn Cheesecake recipe? OK - stop the blog, I want to get off!

Seriously, cheese has to be one of my favourite foods. I eat it every day. A good ripe Camembert with a crusty baguette is a meal in itself. Feta with olives and tomatoes can't be beaten. A piece of Blue Stilton and a glass of port are the perfect way to end a dinner party.

All cheeses start out as milk, most commonly cow's or sheep's. Then with the coagulation of the milk protein casein, triggered by the addition of an enzyme - usually rennet - plus the way they are treated as they solidify and mature, many with bacteria or moulds added,  they become the diverse array of shapes, colours, textures, aromas and flavours that comprise the tantalising array of over 1,000 classified cheeses. At a portion of cheese a day, it would take over three years to sample every different one.

The making of cheese dates back at least 5,000 years. The earliest known evidence comes from Poland where utensils containing sheep's cheese residue have been found and there are references to it in early Greek and Roman literature. For instance, the Cyclops in Homer's Odyssey was a cheese-maker and had racks of sheep's cheese maturing in his cave.

Cheese is portable, relatively long-lasting (compared to milk) and very versatile. As long as it is not eaten to excess, it's an excellent foodstuff, rich in fat, protein, calcium, phosphorus and many vitamins. Soft cheeses are generally thought to be better than hard cheeses as they are lower in saturated fat but there is no conclusive evidence that eating cheese in moderation raises bad cholesterol levels. In fact in controlled trials in Denmark recently it was found that older people who were given a couple of slices of cheese for breakfast each day over a six month period were on average both happier and healthier than those who had  no cheese at all.

Eat cheese, be happy - but not if you're a mouse, apparently. The notion that mice like cheese turns out to be something of a myth. They will eat it if there's nothing else around but they much prefer dried fruit and grains. It is thought that mousetraps were primed with cheese in the belief that the smell would attract the rodents. In truth, they're much more likely to go for a tasty sultana.    



This handsome fellow knows a good Havarti when he sniffs one - but he'd rather have a sultana!

As to the old wives' claim that eating cheese before bedtime causes dreams, that's another myth ripe for the shattering. There is no scientific evidence to support it.

I did toy briefly with the idea of writing Ode To A Wensleydale ( "My stomach rumbles, as a gnawing hunger pains my sense..." etc), but thought better of it. I couldn't get the image if Wallace & Gromit out of my mind. So no poem I'm afraid.

Instead, I bring you this week's fabulous Cheeseboard Top Twenty Chart courtesy of world-renowned cheese-jockey Tom Fromage, including two non-movers and four new entries (last week's positions in parentheses). Yum!

1   (1)  Camembert (France)  Of all the world's great cheeses there's none that can compare!
 2   (2)  Stilton (England)  Best blue on the planet.
 3 (11)  Feta (Greece)  Shooting up the chart on account of its healthy credentials.
 4   (3)  Gruyere (Switz)  Always a rich and tangy delight.
 5   (5)  Parmesan (Italy)  King of Italian cheeses, grate with everything.
 6 (13)  Epoisses (France)  Smelliest of the smelly - banned on the metro - but tastes just fine.
 7   (8)  Chevrotin (France)  Flying the flag for the goat.
 8   (4)  Mozzarella feat. Buffalo Girls (Italy) Slipping slightly but still a subtle treat.
 9 (12)  Reblochon (France)  Former number one making something of a come back.
10  (7)  Gouda (Neth)  Consistently the top cheese from the Low Countries.
11(14)  Cheddar (England)  When it's on its best form, it's one of the best.
12  (-)   Milleens (Eire)  Highest new entry, a soft and pungent Irish beauty.
13  (9)  Chaumes (France)  Gloopy dream of a pongy cheese.
14 (10) Pont L'Eveque (France)  The authentic odour of the cowshed.
15  (6)  Crackerjack feat. Jalapeno (USA)  Monterey Jack with chillis, on the slide.
16   (-)  Sulguni (Georgia)  Fabulous new entry - a pickled cheese.
17 (20)  Beacon Fell (England)  Local Lancashire talent on the rise. 
18   (-)  Limburger (Belgium)  Goes a treat in a club sandwich.
19   (-)  Pecorino (Italy)  Doing it for the sheep. 
20 (17) White Stilton feat. Cranberries (England)  A novelty beginning to fade fast.

Bubbling under... Raclette (Switz)  Perfect for that après-ski fondue.

As if that wasn't enough, here's a musical link to Robyn Hitchcock's cautionary tale: The Cheese Alarm

Thanks for reading. I wish you a tasty week, Steve ;-)

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I had too much to dream last night...

Dreams. I blame it all on those electric prunes! I walked off with the Mercury Prize for Music and Blackpool FC won the Champions' League - again; flying was as easy as stepping off the top of a tall building and universal Peace & Love engulfed our pretty planet. It wasn't always thus.

As a young boy back in the early '60s I was aware of the impending sense of doom triggered by the Cuba missile crisis. There was one frightening week-end in October 1962 when everyone thought that nuclear war was inevitable. Fortunately, the super-powers pulled back from the brink on the eve of destruction and I was able to finish reading Neville Shute's On The Beach - but I still remember a nightmare I had at the time. It was so vivid that it's remained fresh in memory for half a century and I've tried to capture its essence in this week's poem.

'Bathers' courtesy of Ruth Ratcliffe

By the way, if you've not encountered Michael Dobbs' brilliant investigative analysis of the Cuba missile crisis, One Minute To Midnight [Random House, 2009], the truth is more gripping than many a work of fiction.

On The Beach  

Slow-motion quiet hung upon us all,

the lull before the storm…

then everyone was running

with silent screams 

and panic in their eyes

as a thousand sun-like beachballs

came burning through the skies

and hissed into the sea.

I knew it was a lucid dream

and tried to wake

but failed, and so dreamt on.

Down on the sand,

part of a crowd but quite alone,

not knowing where to go or why

I headed for the water's edge.

And there we stood,

shocked clusters of sorry figures

at the farthest margin of the land

cloaked in a creeping, caustic mist.

Behind, an endless stream 

of stumbling bodies

jostled to the shore;

before, the poisoned tide 

relentlessly rolled in,

while overhead 

flew frenzied seagulls

screeching ‘nevermore’.

Thanks for reading. I wish you a good week-end. S

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I'm just a daydream believer

           Much for me to dream about this week. I dream of an orderly existence in my new home –decades of rubbish and clutter ejected - sitting serenely in pristine, tidy surroundings, where there is a place for everything and everything is in said place. I can dream.

I dream that Valeri Belokon jets in to Bloomfield Road, saves our beloved club, reinstates our revered manager, allows him to do the job and thus enables a steady climb to the play offs in May. I can dream.

I dream that my fellow citizens collectively wake up to the fact that the charlatan chancer, Farage, the emperor with no clothes, offers nothing but an ϋber- establishment, insular, bigoted future, cut off from the rest of humankind. I dream that the Labour Party has the guts and vision to become – well, a Labour Party again. I can dream.

Before I become too depressed, here’s a poem I wrote in response to a writing exercise which focused on seeing an aspect of somewhere familiar in Blackpool in a different way. It really is a fantasy, from the person who frequently has to move seats in theatres, football grounds etc. because of vertigo. Climbing onto the roof of the Winter Gardens is never going to happen for me, yet when I read this poem, I almost believe that it could. I can dream.

A Blackpool Fantasy

Winter.

Wind whistling, litter rat-tat-tat-ing,

no-one around, just me,

no-one looking, just me.

I climb into the zip-wire harness

on the roof of the Winter Gardens

and start the slow descent across St. John’s Square.

The softly glittering jewels of light through the church windows

rise up to meet me

and I glide effortlessly to greet the silent stone tiles.

Sheilagh Dyson

Thank you for reading.

Sheilagh

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Purple patch.

Good afternoon readers.
This week on the blog it has been all things purple. We've had colour inspirations, critical analysis and funny examples of found purple prose. This all leaves me in a bit of a cul-de-sac for ideas and so, as I like to post a Sunday poem, I've found inspiration in the over-elaborate dreams my girlfriend has been sharing with me. I think this may also double as chemical writing advice.

Purple.

My girl is quitting fags again
She is showing me the way
She is mad and stressed and I confess
I'm being careful what I say.

On her arm she wears a magic patch
A steady stream of nicotine
It helps her cope but there's a catch
She is having purple dreams.

Fleshed out in vivid detail
Whilst clutching at the quilt
She sleep talks about lizards
Coming for her wearing stilts.

The alligators swim the floor
She mans the Enterprise
There are walking, talking Russian dolls
And jars of fireflies.

It brings out a kind of madness
Such surreal thoughts in her head
So when stuck for inspiration
Wear a purple patch to bed.


Thanks for reading,
S.

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Dead Good Poetry Show - LIVE ON AIR

 on air now!


Just a reminder that tonight's edition of the Dead Good Poetry Show will be playing for the next two hours on Fylde Coast Community Radio.

Tonight's show will be following a theme of politics. Or ice cream. Or dreams. I'm delighted to announce that I have a live interview with local writer and all round wonderful lady - Adele Robinson.

Poetry will come from Goethe, Zepphaniah, Joyce, Longfellow, Neruda and many, many others.

And, as always, there will be some great music, related poetry and lots and lots of fun.

If you want to participate can tweet poems to @deadgoodpoets  on Twitter, or share poems through the Lancashire Dead Good Poets FaceBook page, or send mail direct to deadgoodpoets@hotmail.co.uk.

As always, we'll read the best stuff out live on air.

To be a part of the experience find Fylde Coast Community Radio on any one of the links below.

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The Ghazal

 by Ashley Lister

 Rather than force my political opinions on everyone, I thought I would take this opportunity to look at a poetic form from outside the gamut of traditional western culture. This is a ghazal from the poet Zahhar:

Offering – (ghazal #61)

Zahhar

I trudge now back through this grime for you

Because it may ease the climb for you.

Because you just might learn from my pain,

I re-walk that bitter rime for you.

I’m told there are riches deep within,

So I search this fetid slime for you.

I seek rubies in the cave of loss,

Yet I’m glad to spend the time for you.

The earth and stars all could have been mine,

But I’ve passed these chances prime for you.

I’ll peel the rind and my soul expose,

Then wait as a silent mime for you.

Pearls were buried with my heart, you see,

So I dig back through the lime for you.

If in your depths these words resonate,

Zahhar is sounding a chime for you.

Eric Folsom says: “The ghazal, many will tell you, is an ancient Persian form of verse. The OED notes that it is generally erotic in nature, limited in the number of stanzas, and uses a recurring rhyme. The western impression, dating back to the last century and earlier, is that ghazals celebrate love and wine, but it is interesting to discover that ghazals can be found today in modern pop music. The Indo-British singer known as Najma for instance, uses a number of ghazals (in Hindi if my memory is correct) as the lyrics of her songs. They are quite haunting, long soft syllables with tabla and saxophone solos, and gist of the words amounts to no more than the usual hyperbole of love song lyrics.”

So here we have it: a poetic form from outside our typical culture.

The ghazal is a short lyric poem composed of a series of about 5 to 15 couplets.  Each couplet stands independently on its own as a poetic thought. The meter is not strictly determined but the lines of the couplets should be of similar length. Aside from the refrains and couplet structure the ghazal could also include the poet’s name or a meta-reference to the poet. To find out more I would strongly urge you to visit Gene Doty’s ghazal page and possibly enter one of the ghazal challenges.

Or, if you don’t fancy being so adventurous, we could have our own ghazal challenge here. I’ve written my own ghazal below. We have themes of politics and ice cream and dreams to play with this week. If you’re up for the challenge, why not write your own ghazal and post it in the comments box?

Stick another jumper on your grandma

Rub a tub of Ralgex on your grandpa

Heating costs are going through the roof

The Big Six act like they’re all gangstah

Winter is-a-coming. The bills are getting high.

The Tories kill more old folks than the cancer

Do I starve this year or maybe freeze?

I must beg advice from a financer

God, how did our country come to this?

I don’t think God has got an answer.

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Call me Dr Phil

Endorphins are the body's own opiates.  They are released during prolonged exercise, periods of relaxation or after overexposure to light.  Subjecting onself to intense pain or pleasure will also bring this happy substance into the blood stream.

The word endorphin comes from endo, which means within, and morphine, which has its root in the Greek Morpheus - the god of dreams.  So endorphins could be said to create a dreamlike state of bliss.  

Did you ever have a pain that felt like it could be fixed by inserting a needle into the ache (this blogger is not advocating the insertion of needles into flesh)?  That'd be a way of intensifying the pain to release endorphins and deaden the pain signals.  Likewise, did you ever eat a massive cake when your heart ached (this blogger absolutely advocates the insertion of massive cakes into mouths)?  That'd be a way of intensifying the pleasure to release endorphins and hug your heart with pure, snuggly, saturated fat.  Mmmm.

 

Emily Dickinson, the reclusive poet, experienced prolonged periods of melancholia.  Many of her poems explored themes of pain and death.  The poem below encapsulates, I think, the idea of a surge of endorphins, flooding the body and mind, numbing the poet into a safe 'swoon', a sanctuary of dreaming.  

The next time someone rubs your neck or spanks your thighs, consider this.  You are buying into a dream-state.  Willfully, persistently, habitually.  Are you aware whether the pain which you are trying to dispel still exists?

There is a pain - so utter-

Emily Dickinson

There is a pain -- so utter --
It swallows substance up --
Then covers the Abyss with Trance --
So Memory can step
Around -- across -- upon it --
As one within a Swoon --
Goes safely -- where an open eye --
Would drop Him -- Bone by Bone.

With just a jump to the left...Tonight the Dead Good Bloggers find out whether this blog is an award-winning blog.  Whether the dream streams are induced by pain or pleasure matters not.  What is important is that we're diving in and having a splash. 


And then a step to the right...Tonight is also the Red Tent event at the New Continental in Preston.  Seven of the North West's most entertaining female poets will be strutting their stuff in a celebration of all things womanly.  As I was saying, what is important is that we're all getting wet. 

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In Your Dreams

By Ashley Lister

Oftentimes, whenever I mention to someone that I enjoy writing poetry, they say: “Oh yes! I write song lyrics. That’s the same as writing poetry, isn’t it?”

Honestly, if you listen carefully after someone’s said that statement, you can hear the enamel cracking from the pressure as I grind my teeth together. The composition of poetry and the creation of song lyrics do not involve the same skills. It’s like comparing Leonardo da Vinci’s Sistine chapel with a newly whitewashed lavvy ceiling. Yes, both involve the application of paint to the top of a room – but it is not the same.

To illustrate this point (and I’m aware I’m in contentious territory here) I’ve taken the liberty of copying some song lyrics:

“Dream, dream, dream, dream
Dream, dream, dream, dream
When I want you in my arms
When I want you and all your charms
Whenever I want you, all I have to do is
Dream, dream, dream, dream.”

All I Have to Do is Dream (1958)

Written by Felice and Boudleaux Bryant

Performed by The Everly Brothers

Q: Is this poetry.

A: No. It’s just drivel.

Whilst this employs many of the devices associated with poetry it is not poetry.

It employs repetition. It employs a rhyme scheme. Some might argue that it uses a metrical structure but they’d be wrong. The word dream (sung most famously by the Everly Brothers as ‘Drea-ea-ea-ea-eam’) is not metrically correct unless the speaker has some sort of larynx problem, or a very unusual stutter that falls on vowels (which would be unusual because the majority of stuttering occurs on consonants). Even so, this would be a sign of disability rather than a metrical scheme.

Q: Does it express a poetic sentiment?

A: Only to imbeciles and the clinically deranged.

The persona of this verse is using the word dream repeatedly. It could be said that he or she is using the word repeatedly to foreground their obsession with an unnamed fetish to the extent where he or she is dreaming their life away as they constantly think about this person.

More accurately it could be said that this is sexist twaddle and indicative of an unhealthy mindset.

The persona is patently male. The persona wants to physically possess the (female) object of the song (I want you in my arms/I want you and all your charms). From this we can see there is no poetic device in use. This is not a metaphor. He simply wants her in his arms. She has no name or identity beyond being the object of his psychotically unwavering lust. In some regards it’s quite disturbing that the persona here is so obsessed. Clearly he wants her in his arms solely for the purposes of sexual exploitation. And I’m assuming here that the word charms (in the second line quoted here) is a euphemism for her fanny.

I could go on to analyse this in further depth but I suspect I’m already annoying fans of the wonderful Everly Brothers so I’ll simply say there are some good songs out there. But writing songs is not the same as writing poems and I think I’ve just proved as much.

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An Unfound Box

In my dream, I found myself returning to a small North London hospital. I hadn’t been back in ten years, and now in the real world – due to underfunding and cutbacks – it had been forced to close.  But in my dream I went back. I went back to collect a box that had been given to a man that was like a father figure to us. His firm but fair ways helping us to find new paths, new choices and new beginnings; he was everything that made the place right and good; he was the reason that so many of us survived and were given a second chance to grow up. 

The box was delivered anonymously. There was a small white envelope taped to the top – the doctor’s name spelt out in blue block capitals – and a brief letter explaining that the box was meant for me. And there I was, older and more alive than I had been when I left, standing inside this ‘home’ of my past, in front of the man who’d made it all possible.

When I opened the box, there were about ten items all wrapped in pink tissue paper - and as I started to open them, I realised that they were things that I had once owned. There was an old notebook from 2001, a small black button from a cardigan I no longer owned, a book I thought I’d lost and the childish comfort blanket I’d thrown away. I don’t know what the other six items were, I woke up... I searched for the box – thinking  for a moment that it was real, that I’d brought it home – before realising it had all been a dream. But, for weeks afterwards, the box dream kept resurfacing in my consciousness; there were questions about who the mysterious sender was, what each item meant and what the dream was trying to tell me. I wanted to go back there, back into that very dream, and finish unwrapping the past – but I never returned.

On the evening prior to this dream, I had read Christopher Reid’s poem ‘The Box’. It had done that very thing that some of my favourite poems do: it had made me stop, think, consider. It expressed something that I understood; it articulated emotion in a comprehensible manner; it asked to be reread and remembered – it was one of those poems that I wished I had written.

For me, poetry is a little like dreaming. It encompasses a first layer, made up of the physical things that you can see and touch, the concrete things, the individual lexemes with their fixed denotations / dictionary definitions – but beneath, if you search, everything is working on another, more personal, level. A poem is multifaceted, it asks to be engaged with, it asks something of its reader – and it gives back with a meaning that is more than the sum of its surface components. These are the types of poems that I love; the ones with the undercurrents of meaning, where the connotation of each word (or word cluster) is working just as hard (if not harder than) the first layer. That when you revisit, years later, a poem that you thought you knew, has changed – because you have changed, because you have grown, because you see the world differently, because experience, life, mood and maturity all feed into the reading process...  Because nothing stands still... Because sometimes we’re not ready to unwrap each layer of meaning, because the poem chooses to hold some of its secrets back – like small parcels wrapped in pink tissue paper, a great poem will leave us to wonder, and we’ll keep returning, going back and hoping that next time we’ll be able to unwrap another pink tissue papered item.

Thank you for reading,

Lara

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