There are still such things as dreams

There became an overstepping of the mark,

a thinning of the gulf between us and the brutes.

It lies in the past, but disfigures the future;

and though heaven is broad and blue

it cannot explain all that has passed,

why the shepherd turned his flock about.

And thus, we search, mostly among

suburban chimneys, below the clouds;

trapped in an insomniac hinterland,

where so much remains unexplained

and frankincence and myrrh

have all but faded from memory.

Of late, (so it seems,) science has rescued us.

Though only as panacea; a cure-all

of sorts; lauded as the only means

of escape at our disposal; that whatever

falls apart is predictable, and therefore
both explainable and curable.

Gone is Voltaire's 'mad daughter,'

replaced by method and order. Those

'little grey cells,' so beloved of Poirot,

designer outcomes the new raison d'être;

though lichen covered Aspens still decay

serenely, as priests preach decorum.

Here and there, pockets of resistance survive.

A last hippie, an Amish horse drawn cart,

those who have yet to visit Ikea and

re-assemble the brutalised jigsaw of a tree.

But the wilderness has been suborned

to the turning of knobs, the pressing of buttons.

Soon, of necessity, it will be time again

for the self sharpening ploughshare,

the gnarled, weather beaten hand,

as paleness, along with the unholy

precision of technology, passes;

and in passing, turns such wizardry

to so much chaff blown on the wind;

It will be likened to a rise of sea,

a fall of earth, a cleansing and sloughing;

allowing the outnumbered dead to rise,

sip wine and converse in civilised tones,

as all over the world, machines stop

and men, who once scourged, make peace. 

This will give us a  chance to dream again,

appreciate the beauty of ripening grain,

the silver leaping of fish, full gilled,

unpoisoned, absolving all blame;

as spring to summer sweetly births
and eyes, new open, find delight,

in sun and sky and songbirds flight.

Then again...

Reviews

[Patricia Wedel]

Beccy... the peace that surpasses understanding is temporarily on hold. Life is boldly turned upside down... the people in power have egos that are not tuned to the needs of our people. Our Country is not Heaven where people come to pray... just to either takeover or take away our freedoms. There may be one person who has tried without ceasing... an imperfect person... but what choice do we have. truly, Pat

[Norman 223]

Sadly, Beccy, technology, "instant" solutions and politically motivated guesswork has resulted in most of the problems that you have subtly and satirically revealed in your poem. Whilst not decrying the value of much of the progress, there is always the danger of "testing to destruction" undoing the advances .
But as your last line states...... Then again!!
Excellent poem giving much rise to thought.

Norman

[Tahsin (Taah-scene)]

As we fill the brim and cross the limit of wrongdoings, some calamities might renew the world. For a new bunch of lives to explore from the ashes.
After four years my whole family reunited in a house due to lockdown and we get to see each other's faces more othen just as we had wanted. What more shall our God provide even at our ungrateful-ness.
Loveliest words and thought assembled here dear Beccy. Like we wash our face with splashes of water and feel fresh, our world too needs a cleanup. Am grateful that it's not wearing off its most harmful product rigt now, humans.
I might dream this dawn, again☆

[barleygirl]

I can't decide whether to sing or cry, re-read your poem or write one myself. This is so inspirational on so many levels. I often think about how we, as humans, overestimate our power to engineer solutions to anything that comes as a splash-back to our insistence upon dominating the planet & everything on it. What? I little pandemic? We'll devise coping mechanisms & quasi-solutions! But it seems the plagues keep getting thicker & I actually dream of the day when humans finally destroy ourselves with our greed & self-absorption, such that this planet can heal itself of our abuse like the creatures coming alive again with distorted coping mechanisms after their habitat was decimated by some nuclear accident, say, but these creatures are fundamentally changed & that makes me pretty convinced that even if humans were stopped in their tracks & this mighty planet regenerated itself, there would still be those unavoidable scars on the creatures & on the land. This is such an incredible message, I'm not doing it justice a bit, but pardon me for blathering on! I wish I could address current ills in such a deep & sweeping way, but not have it sound like a tirade. (((HUGS))) Fondly, Margie

[Terpsichore]

Your clever use of our language is superb, and the originality of your thoughts, quite stunning here Beccy.

This is poetry at its best, invoking a depth of perception that few possess. Love that line,
'Gone is Voltaire's 'mad daughter,' and stanza five in particular is just so very imaginative, particularly your portrayal of Ikea and the brutalized jigsaw of a tree, loved that!

Will end by saying that like every sane and caring human on this planet, I will pray for your last verse to become a reality.

[emmajoy]

It will be likened to a rise of sea,
a fall of earth, a cleansing and sloughing;
allowing the outnumbered dead to rise,
sip wine and converse in civilised tones,
as all over the world, machines stop
and men, who once scourged, make peace.


If only, Becky, if only. Methinks we know Man is too far along the road of self preservation rather than the saving of Man and his instinctive standing at the water hole, sharing the last teeny tear of water.

Your words, your thoughts, your You are unbeatable. And beautiful.

[Jimmy Yetts]

This poem is a lovely dream.
A gift from the gifted.

[Neville]

Hey Becky.. there is absolutely no point in me trying to be clever and finding words that come anywhere near the true mark.. to describe just how bloomin good these words of yours really are.. Each one of my eight reviewing predecessors appear to have pretty much used up most of the words I would have liked to have gifted you and this amazing post...

Neville

[h d e rushin]

'How has poetry changed you", was an article from a 2009 version of "American Poetry Review"'? It gathered all the modern poets together to comment on the impact of imagination; of how, even the slightest way, that impact has changed the course of their lives...You answered it in the final stanza my friend...if we could just go back, "find delight again in sun and sky". I mean when we contemplate "Moby Dick" we are never the old white guy standing up in some rickety boat yelling. Poetry means that you are the pearl in the stomach of the whale with finicky taste, doing that nickel dance against his worn down teeth. You're a wonderful writer.....dana

[Beccy]

Thank you dana, you are much appreciated. I would love to read that article. I have tapped it into google, but no luck. Can you help?

Beccy.

[h d e rushin]

I misspoke Beccy. The article "How Poetry Helps People Live Their Lives" appeared in the July-August edition of American Poetry Review in 2008, not 2009. And here's a quote from Joyce Carol Oates about a provocative remark of Wallace Stevens in his essay "Art As Establishment of Value".
"In an age of disbelief..it is for the poet to supply
the satisfaction of belief, in (his-her) measure and in his or her style..In this area of my subject I might be expected to speak of the social, that is to say the sociological or political obligation of the poet. He has none.":

"This will give us a chance to dream again
appreciate the beauty of ripening grain
the silver leaping of fish, full gilled,
unpoisoned , absolving all blame;
as spring to summer sweetly births
and eyes new open find delight,
in sun and sky and songbirds flight"


exactly....dana

[Beccy]

Thank you dana. Heads up much appreciated.

X

[Eilis]

This makes me think of that period of peace predicted by the Bible. There is a sense here of moving back and forth between simplicity and the over-complicated mess that we have made of our modern world. I was thinking just yesterday of how little time I feel I have now with all of the new technology that is meant to improve our quality of life. All those moments when, before the expectation of constant connectivity, I would just sit in my own thoughts and with a slow air and no thought of what was next.

And your poem has a bit of this about it. There was once...thought and deliberation and respect for something greater than ourselves. Reverence of nature. Amateur scientists abounded and in exploring the world in their own curiosities brought us many discoveries that have changed our world. Now we are devoted to the capitalist decree that happiness can be bought. And as such, we are willing to watch the beauty of the natural world fade to feed our frenzies.

I think our time of quarantine has reminded us in many ways that there is more to life than the rush and that thoughtfulness has an intrinsic value that we shouldn't discount. I love your nod to Poirot and think he would definitely implore us to think more carefully about who and what we align ourselves with. This is a great poem, Beccy. Almost like a manifesto for going forward from the moment we find ourselves in. Let us hope we have the courage to change for good.