So why not starting myself with a little bit of action? Hey, if you're listening, we will need a new name for the new genre I was talking about in the previous post. You know, not an essay, not criticism, something like crossing your sensitivity (and your sentimentality, and your history) with something, an object you came to adore.
This is my first one:
A poem that comes with a song. You probably know it, the words and the sweet song that was born, like a little miracle, with them…”For Emily, whenever I can find her”.
What I dream I had:
Pressed in organdy
Clothed in crinoline of smoky Burgundy
Softer than the rain.
I wandered empty streets
Down past the shop displays.
I heard cathedral bells
Tripping down the alley ways,
As I walked on.
And when you ran to me
Your cheeks flushed with the night.
We walked on frosted fields of juniper and lamplight,
I held your hand.
And when I awoke and felt you warm and near,
I kissed your honey hair with my grateful tears.
Oh I love you, girl.
Oh, I love you.
I know it from the times I did not know the English language.
I sang it then, as phonemes, without knowing more than words like “love” and “cathedral”. Nothing more (nothing less) that a little song that, somehow, always moved my soul and attempted changing something in its insides.
Then I learnt English, so those words came again one day, this time beating against my memory, as if saying “you already know us; now you need to look again and understand what we mean”. So I did. I understood. You dream with something, then you awake to see, shedding grateful tears, that your dream is been there all the time, and you feel reborn.
And here I am now, coming back to the song, only because it talks about dreams and a honey hair.
If you’ve never heard the song,
or if you want,
like me,
with me
to pay a respectful and awed visit again,
see this
I’ll be waiting for you...outside. Looking forward to hear your words
