The library was big, but cosy, drenched in sunlight and spacious; on different levels, with carpeted steps leading from one level to the next. I was known to the personnel. I had a small cubicle there, almost like a capsule, where I retired after dark ... It was against the wall, between the shelves, just high enough for me to easily lift myself into its cushioned niche.
It was near the end of the day. I was walking towards my cubicle, when two young women approached me, one of them the librarian. Her assistent asked me: What can we do for a new project for the library?
I answered: I am old, and dusty, my mind is small; you are young and well-read. Why do you ask ME?
Now, I must admit, this is not an answer I would have given in real life, but in this dream I discovered, somewhat amazed, my own view about myself. I truly felt an anachronism ... and ancient.
Oh, but you are wise, she said.
I addressed the librarian, who was bending to stack books in a box:
Why don't you make videos of all the people coming here? Keeping a record of their thoughts, their lives? Like an Interview Video Library?
She laughed, and said: Oh, but there are too many people coming here!
If you start, you can do it, I answered silently.
Just start.
And of course ... then I woke.
*
I am a book of love,
niched in a shelf of life.
Sometimes I am too small to know
that I am a brick of soul,
holding light,
in this Wall of Love. And that guilt
may disappear, if I understand that self-worth
is to truly cherish the worth of others ...
and that self-confidence is to acknowledge
the interrelatedness of my dreams and life
and the dreams and lives of others.
Otherwise we may become
a buzzing, faceless, useless library
of irrelevant, dating knowledge
and I may remain
an untitled anachronism
caught in my own small mind:
a dusty book on a shelf ...
forgotten.
.
.
Author notes
I had this dream last night. It is poetic prose, linked to an aftermath poem. Perhaps you may find it worth-while. I did.
I am writing down my dreams since childhood. I often ask for dreams, before I retire at night. I call it REM-ember ... the Ember to recall dreams.
In a list
A contest entry
- Conflict With Your Inner Self by hand-in-hand.
450 points, ended May 21, 2008, 38 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Comments
1 - 7 of 7
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I found this absolutely fascinating to read. I love it...both parts are equally astounding...prose & poem..
I love this & the wisdom that shines from your words
"and that self-confidence is to acknowledge
the interrelatedness of my dreams and life
and the dreams and lives of others." > beautiful
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I initially thought that I wouldnt like this at all by your initial poetic prose... but in reality I think it's amazing and self enlightening.
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Unusual and interesting way to write down your dreams and to make poetry of them and to entwine prose and poetry the best posible way.
~Sonja~
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Maybe we all drift through as a dusty book and never actually read the words written on each page of a day, you just gave me a reason as to why I study people so closely, even if I never meet them, I still know more than they do about me...
You are wise dear poet. Love, C
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typically accountant fantasy
and as in any accounting world
there is profit to be count
and behind profit there are greedy fingers to count and manipulate the currency (whatever may it be)
and of course I don't mean you
people always interpret dreams through what they like and/or what they fear
the rest is left ignored
and all the rest is more likely
unused pages of self
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Not only do you write excellent poetry, but you write prose like a professional. I really enjoyed reading this--the prose and the poetry effortlessly combine to give a completely satisfying experience.
Bill
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I rarely enjoy prose but I love this one. You brought me into your dream as if it was mine. Before you revealed who you were, I thought you were a cat. Wrong!
I tried writing my dreams down once; I have fantastic dreams. Well, I put a pad of paper next to my bed and set my alarm. Sure enough I woke up and recorded my fantastic dream. The next morning I eagerly read what I had written. On the paper I had written; “Boy meets Girl”. It seemed a bit more exciting when I had written it.
Love,
Amera
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