Wrirters Circle Prompts: Space, Time, and Dream

Space opens now to think on things like space

and time and dream, Writers Circle prompts I

neglected.  Here in my safe space, I find

the time and quiet I need to think and to write.  It’s 

Christmas Eve, a rare unscheduled day, and snow

is falling gently, providing further

cushioning from the worlds of daily life,

passionate causes, meetings, and deadlines. 

 

Usually, these worlds crowd my space,

shoving aside the daily chores. I make

lists to organize the crowdedness, lists

quite often lost among envelopes

and half-finished poems on my desk.  Sometimes

the lists are on the envelopes and on

the backs of poems.  In such a jumbled space,

I lose things.   I lose time to see local 

friends because they are not in 

groups I spend time in lately.  I lose

time to complete a chapter

in my novel—though I have great

lists of what I’ll do next.  And I lose

time to assemble my next poetry book,   

though I’ve listed titles and locations

of poems I want to include.  Should I add

haiku, I wonder?  I haven't lost them,

because writing them is a morning ritual.

 

There you have it: space and time crowded

in my head, even when I’m sitting alone

in my apartment with a luscious hour

or two opened up to write.  Pen on paper,

I find my head is full of multi-colored

swirls like paisley rushing around the edge

of my mind, trying to slow down enough

to get to the middle.  The brain cylinder is

on the run!  Emotion and spirit try

to slow it down, sometimes laughing at it,

but always paying attention to colors

and shapes, thinking I should portray them on

paper in acrylic. I put that on

a list.  It’ll look like an infinity scarf,

laying down in a figure eight.

 

Thinking of inner space and time makes me

want to talk about visions of outer space

and time travel.  I haven’t taken time to read 

any of my beloved science fiction and

fantasy novels lately.  In them

possibility of life on other

planets looms large, beginning as dream and

prophesy, and ending up as reality—

whether friendly to earth beings or not.

Space travel and communication are

often advanced, while relations among

humans remain much as they are now.  

Among other things, authors ask if roles

and attitudes would change out of necessity

and invention.  Most of the novels I read

stay on earth but change the time period.

Often the plot begins after catastrophic

events.  Here humans must figure out what

to value and how to survive.  In one

novel influenced by indigenous

culture in Canada and the USA,

The Marrow Thieves by Cherie Dimaline,

the loss of the ability to dream

is the overwhelming problem, and the

solution is in the bone marrow of

indigenous people.  Those in power

trap indigenous populations to experiment

on abstracting the bone marrow

for themselves.  So, the book raises old questions

about colonialism and takes them to an absurd—

but not improbable--level. To be human

requires dreaming and art and imagination. 

 

What is the role of dreaming in our lives?

Dreaming at night is something I’ve started

doing since moving to Simpson House.  

I wake with snatches of dreams in my head,

the tail ends of something longer that I

don’t remember.  Once I woke in a canoe,

trying to learn how to steer; once

I was at a meeting of friends.  The conversation

was passionate, but I don’t remember

the topic.   I haven’t gotten to the point

of deliberately trying to remember night dreams

whole cloth and writing them down.  

 

Daytime dreaming and fantasizing, however,

are definitely part of my humanity.  Despite reading

dystopian novels, I am optimistic about the future

and am searching for the reason.  My latest dream

was that Kamala Harris would be president

of the USA, and that another four years of

democratic rule would ensure democracy

and programs that create more freedom

for the lower and middle classes.  

I’m optimistic that most of us will

survive Trump, but as of yet, I’m not sure how.  

I’m reading and listening, looking for reasons

to be optimistic.  I have to find them, so

I don’t sink into depression and despair.  

When I think of refugees from war,

political danger, and climate change,

I try to think of ways to accommodate

more of them.  What if I were among them? 

What would I want people to do along

the path of my journey?  Of my cat’s journey?  

I put this on a list to think about later.

And that's How my Garden Grows

A poem flowers in my garden,
spreading pollen and scent
to anyone who lingers. 
 
It may lead to strata beneath
or beyond reality, but
its words—its whorls of petals—
 
take us to where we want to go,
to where we must go
given this world and time.

source

© 2024 Susan L. Chast

Writer's Circle Prompts.

Please respect my copyright.