Archive for June 19th, 2022

Sunday, 19 June 2022

A Dictionary of Dreams by Benjamin Harnett

I was handling, in one moment, an urn,
entirely broken, and in another
holding firm. Ash and bits of bone.
Someone I loved
had died. If I could only
keep it together, by strength of mind
dream-logic explained, I could,
not prevent that thing, never—
but at least keep it unknown,
to myself, who already knew.
No one wants to hear
about your dreams. A true dream
makes no sense in the telling.
Dreams don’t emanate
from the two doorways,
hewn ivory or polished horn,
are not poured
with sweet sleep upon the eyes,
but jumble into half-sense,
from a storm in the gut.
Mind unmoored from its minder.
Who watches the watcher, watching
is how we imagine ourselves
pilot of our own life. Take stock:
the urn is already broken,
the bones we know
are our own, forthcoming.
The cat shifts on the wicker hamper
and that has the dogs up
and so am I, to make coffee, to feel
the sun rising over the mountain,
the dread of someone not
really dead, is lifting. But the dream
knows: what we do in holding
two opposing ideas
like the broken halves of an urn,
to know and to forget,
is to live.


Date: 2020

By: Benjamin Harnett (1981- )