Showing posts with label Barbara Kingsolver. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Barbara Kingsolver. Show all posts

Tuesday, February 23, 2010

Dreams, Jet lag and Synchronicity

“When you go on a trip, in your dreams you will still be home. Then after you’ve come home you’ll dream of where you were. It’s a kind of jet lag of the unconscious.”
- Barbara Kingsolver (from Animal Dreams)


Sometimes I am amazed by synchronicity. Just last week I came across a poem I had written back in 1985. Usually my poems do not rhyme. Rhyme fits in well with the 19th century and Hallmark Cards, but is not a scheme that I routinely choose. “Threnody Praise,” however, was one of those poems that came to me insisting upon rhyme and meter. The background for this poem is that I had spent two wonderful years teaching English in Hong Kong. While I was there, there were a few occasions in which I had vivid dreams of life back in the USA. Then when I returned home, I had many dreams of being back in Hong Kong. Sometimes I will still have a dream in which I hop on a bus and travel over the hill and across a bridge to arrive in Hong Kong – always a great dream!

So here comes the synchronicity part: reading another blog, I found the quote from Barbara Kingsolver’s 1991 book, Animal Dreams. She seems to be commenting on the very phenomenon that I was experiencing. So here is the poem. I hope you like it.



Threnody Praise

On a warm night in China
I saw the streets of Nevada -
Saw a breakfast cafe in early morning light.
And the hint of brewed coffee was such a delight.

Now I am back in the houses of the West.
Sometimes at night when I lie down to rest,
The sights and the smells of the crowded East
Fill my dreams when I suspect it the least.

In the heat of the race a child appears,
Silently pointing to what I once held dear.
And in the stillness of winter, sometimes it seems
That the spring of times past threatens future dreams.

Memory can be a joy or a dirge,
But remembrance allows my presence to merge
Songs of the past with hopes of the heart,
Weaving the being of a wandering bard.



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