consisting as I do of scraps of dreams

scraps of dreams simplifying-complexity

All my life

I sought

an angel.

And he appeared

in order to say:

“I am no angel !” – All My Life <Regina Deieva>

 

Poetry.

I imagine being a poet is not easy.

Not easy because most of us every day schlubs cannot appreciate, let alone tolerate, an entire volume of poetry.

They are lucky if we schlubs can find a single poem we can like … and remember.

But more likely they end up having to be satisfied if some words they have written … even if I be but a line or two … capture not only our attention … but our minds and imagination and feelings.

And we remember those few words … and on occasion … use them.

 

In fact.

Whenever I want to write about poetry I remember the West Wing episode with Laura Dern as the poet laureate … she said:

 

“You think I think that an artist’s job is to speak the truth. An artist’s job is to captivate you for however long we’ve asked for your attention. If we stumble scraps of dreams possibilitiesinto truth, we got lucky, and I don’t get to decide what truth is.”

<Tabitha Fortis as poet laureate>

 

I think we sometimes stumble upon some truth a poet has written.

Or maybe we stumble upon a scrap of a dream.

 

That is … if we got lucky.

 

I say that … because I just got lucky.

I came across a poem called ‘To whom it may Concern’ by a poet named Regina Derieva.

 

Consisting as I do of scraps of dreams,
of lands I’ve never seen, of underpinnings,
of air and salt, of elemental things
unmeddled with by endings or beginnings, 

 

 

Regina  Derieva was a Russian poet and writer who published around thirty books of poetry, essays, and prose. She passed away December 11, 2013.

 

 

“She knows that the hurt truth in us points to a dimension where, for example, victory is cleansed of battle.  Her strict, economical poems never waver from that orientation.”  – Les Murray

 

I couldn’t stop reading her work when I found it.scraps of dreams pick up

It’s not that all of her work is fascinating <because sometimes she gets a little literal with regard to politics and government> but I can almost guarantee that every single pome I found had at least one line that made me stop … look at the words … and envy the fact she was able to put them together in the way that she did to say what she wanted to say.

 

“Fetters have become a way of living.”

 

Derieva remembers that ‘as a child I didn’t cry.’

And I share that because it seems like many of her poems are gorgeously woven together an odd, but interesting, mix of some harsh reality and sharp insightful glimpses of hope and dreams.

Her words are sometimes uncompromising.

 

scraps of ocean stonesSea of hills, sea of blood and sea
of the crooked roads, oceans of stones.
If one escapes both live and dead
one has to live without all roots. 

 

But … it was “consisting as I do of scraps of dreams’ is spectacular.

 

Don’t we all?

Don’t we all consist of scraps of dreams?

 

A patchwork of hope for little things to be better.

We don’t really need the big things in Life. Just some of the little things to be a little better.

In a world where it seems like we are consistently forced to choose one thing.

 

What is the one thing you really want to do.

What is the one thing you are good at.

If you could only accomplish one thing what would it be.

What is one word to describe you.

One.

One after another we are seemingly being demanded to consist of … well … one.

 

Well.

I don’t know about you but I consist of scraps of a number of dreams.

 

I don’t dream of one thing.

I don’t hope for one thing <and … no … you cannot claim ‘happiness’ as the one … because if you are honest with yourself happiness is created from a quilt of varying threads of things done in the past, things being done … and things yet to be done>.

 

I don’t think I am that different on this topic from many people.

 

I tend to believe most people consist of scraps of dreams … not dream.

 

Our lives are a constant work in progress … unfortunately <or fortunately> unmeddled with by endings or beginnings as we gather up the scraps of dreams hoping one scrap gets a little closer to reality then … and maybe picking up another scrap next week hoping that one gets a little closer.

 

I don’t think it’s bad we don’t choose just one dream. And maybe it is better to have a lot of scraps pf dreams … than just one larger bigger scrap <almost whole … but maybe not quite>.

Why?

Most of us are not simple. And by that we are not just one thing. We are this … and that … an maybe a little of that other thing … and of course we are just a tad of this …. we are a mixture.

A mixture of this & that.scraps of dreams complex

 

And that is what makes us interesting.

 

And maybe that is why we consist of scraps of dreams. It makes Life more interesting.

Consisting as I do of scraps of dreams … of things I have yet to do … of places I have yet to see … of thoughts I have yet to think … well … I like that person.

 

I like that thought.

 

—–

Here is ‘TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN’:

 

Consisting as I do of scraps of dreams,
of lands I’ve never seen, of underpinnings,
of air and salt, of elemental things
unmeddled with by endings or beginnings, 

of clay and iron, and of ocean wave
and shingle crowds of feet have trod upon,
of faith and hope, stood at the wall, to brave
the rifles, turning into heavenly stone, 

of quiet and simplicity, bestowed
upon us by a woman among women,
of emptiness that stretches like a road
into a vastness where things lose their meaning, 

of whisperings, of looking long at that
which goes among us by the name of God,
at death, which never was, and now is not,
at life, of which so little can be had. 

 

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Written by Bruce