What Kind of Dreams

The child was reluctant, obstructive, rudely derogated the rules of night-time. In return, the mothers smile crusted over; her anticipating face raged with love, with tenderness, with necessity.

Hold back desperation: “Shall I read you a story?” Yes, a boring story, a story to bore your little eyes closed and your little head droopy and your little snores out.

All children learn to say no and this one was a champion already. Still gentle and formless it was not quite male, not quite female. It was androgynous, sexless, precocious with the possibilities of a gender unslated -- as if pigeon-holes could be sated at a later date. A choice depending on pointing out a celebrity from a picture in a magazine, and saying: ‘that one’.

“I don’t want to be in bed.”

This was said from bed, defiant, huddled and muddled within the pastry of the sheets and wriggling like a still-living filling. Four-and-twenty blackbirds, all singing.

Isn’t this a pretty dish thought mother.

“But bed is good,” she reasoned, “bed is a fine fine thing to be in.” She eyed it herself, covetously, the crispness of the linen holding the warm buttered biscuit smell of a child’s hair.

“Bed isn’t good. It’s lonely.”

Yes, lonely, sang the mother to herself, alone to be with myself only. Swaying with sleeplessness, mother’s voice burst with secrets.

“Bed is good. It is. It is where you were made.”

And you, child, are a good thing. Making you was good. Therefore beds are good.

Mother blinked dreamily, lies rushing unbidden to fill the gap between a child's world and the truth; the question came immediately.

“Have you ever seen someone making a pot out of clay?” she asked in response. Her arms raised in front of the child’s face. “Have you ever seen the clay sculpted, squeezed?” Then she lowered them. “And this was the oven. This is where you were baked.”

She wondered what kind of dreams these lies would bring, dreams of whispered fertility, Freudian dreams of plumbers removing bottoms and widdlers. Dreams of children baked out of clay and, rocked from the cradle; falling, smashing.

Author's Note

Prose poetry.

Reviews

[VennelaMargame]

The phrasing is very nice, and I do like the final image - it's concise, but practical and it works with the rest of the piece. My concern is describing the mothers face like a moon and hair like a sunset. It's just a very familiar trope, and loses power for that reason.

[TLK]

Agreed. However, I wanted the imagery to conspire in her sleepiness, unguardedness, and lack of power. Finally, I though it a nice childish touch.

So, there are reasons for it being weak and crappy. (Which is what I tell people about all my weak and crappy writing!).

[Amie Rose]

Not many people could have portrayed what you did here. Well done.

[Kenneth The Poet]

An excellent piece, beautifully stark I would say. Poetry or prose or what have you, it's heartfelt and stirring.

[TLK]

There is a starkness to it. I think it grows out of the tiredness of the mother. She lets slip a little too much.

Maybe the falling cradle has something to do with an inevitable loss of innocence. I only just realised that this is possible. Hurrah for the subconscious.

[FJ Davis]

Not gettin' into the prose-poetry controversy, T.
This is what I call "excellent writing"; writing very few could have produced.

[TLK]

Then we must teach others, so that good writing is everywhere; and no-one will go hungry again.

[Ed Hart]

prose says things directly, though often enough poorly...prose-poetry includes things like 'consuming wakefulness' and all good poetry (prose- or not) is tangential

[TLK]

I WILL FIGHT TO DEFEND PROSE.
/puts fists up.

I hope this piece was tangential enough for you. I have to admit that, on rereading it, the ending is what convinces me that I wrote prose poetry and not just prose.

[Tai Ryens]

In all honesty, it seemed more like a story rather than a prose poem. No offence, I mean, you do have an interesting concept, but it's positioned in more of a chapter book form.

[TLK]

You define prose poetry for me and we'll see whether it meets the definition. Good luck with that task! ;-)

[Tai Ryens]

I'd sooner sneeze into a tissue and smudge it on a homeless person; in other words: I know nothing.

[TLK]

My first and so far only blog post is on trying to define prose poetry. I don't know if you can see my blog, maybe only friends can see it. If that is the case, here are a few prose poems to get you started:
http://cafeirreal.alicewhittenburg.com/simic.htm

[Tai Ryens]

I'm not too much a fan of prose; no offense intended. I'd much rather stick to freeverse and the traditional styles.