Tweetspeak Poetry

Shakespeare & Company: Dream a Little Dream Prompt

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Dream a Little Dream Shakespeare Poetry Hot Air Balloon
I started my kids early on Shakespeare—ages three and five. With a remote control in my hand and Michelle Pfeiffer on the screen, I simply fast-forwarded past some of the, well, “fast” scenes when they came along in A Midsummer Night’s Dream (not the innuendo scene in the fairy bower; sometimes it takes experience to understand a good intimacy joke, and though a child might get that the tone is communicating something intriguing, he or she won’t quite understand what that intrigue is all about. So, my policy was always to leave it in when there was no outward shock to be had.)

Needless to say, it wasn’t long before the girls were popping the disc in without me being there, so I’m afraid the little woods scene between Lysander and Hermia went uncensored. It doesn’t seem to have harmed them (the girls, that is). In fact, A Midsummer Night’s Dream later became a gateway for Macbeth and Hamlet. But that is another story.

One of my favorite parts of Midsummer is the deniability of it all. In the words of Puck:

If we shadows have offended,
Think but this, and all is mended,
That you have but slumber’d here
While these visions did appear.
And this weak and idle theme,
No more yielding but a dream…

A Midsummer Night's Dream Pfeiffer

Poetry Prompt: Dream a Little Dream

Dream poems, like the following by Frank Stanford, take advantage of the strangeness of the surreal. Objects connect with other objects they wouldn’t usually connect with. People or things engage in actions they wouldn’t generally engage in (unless your children really do put black Lady Fingers between your toes). Read Stanford’s poem, and see:

Pasture Dream

My daughter put black
Lady Fingers between my toes
I gave her a silver dollar
to buy oranges and a loaf of bread
and she came back with firecrackers
The dew was so heavy they wouldn’t light
My son was jumping the barbed wire
on his white pony     Oats in his hair
drunk from the honeysuckle
he cut his morning coffee with
His eyes were deep and green like mine
like ponds of sleeping minnows
My wife was looking for mushroom and poke
Her skirt was lifted high
over her thighs in the tall grass
Her crutch was like a divining stick
It smelled like root beer
Brother Leo told me the bell was ringing

— Frank Stanford, from What About This: Collected Poems of Frank Stanford

Try It: Write a poem about a dream, or write a poem with dreamlike qualities. Put items, people, actions, scents, sounds, tastes, feelings together that are unlikely bedfellows. Or put things in places they don’t belong. Dream a little dream with us, in a poem. You can deny what it means, if it means anything at all. That’s the beauty of a dream (and maybe a poem, too).

Featured Shakespeare-Themed Poem

Thanks to everyone who participated in last week’s poetry prompt. Here’s an untitled poem we enjoyed from Maureen Doallas:

You, mad motherless daughter,
in my muddied depths prayed to

sleep forever, and I, the brook that fed
the willow’s wail, your meanings gathered,

oft-cast from flowers spent: Rosemary,
to remember how you quick-obeyed

your father’s command that doubled loss
you too well knew. Pansies, for thoughts

of him, bloodied and confused, and a daisy
for dissembling, unhappiness bestrewed.

A bough of nectar organs horned, in form
of a king not dead, a cuckold made—

columbines worn in deceit’s own bed.
Fennel favored flattery a poison not refused

and rue, regret, that you in unsweet sorrow
wept and wept, for vengeance took all yet

none returned, and weeds thick-hemmed
in grief your garden grew. Had faithful each

to each other been, you in white, a vision,
might have dressed. But nettles sharp,

even stinging, clung, that by day’s end
more tragic deeds were done. Death won.

—Maureen Doallas

Photo by Jeronimo Sanz, Creative Commons, via Flickr.

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L.L. Barkat
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About L.L. Barkat

L.L. Barkat is the Managing Editor of Tweetspeak Poetry and the author of six books for grown-ups and four for children, including the popular 'Rumors of Water: Thoughts on Creativity & Writing.' Her poetry has appeared on the BBC and at NPR, VQR, and The Best American Poetry.

Comments

    • L. L. Barkat says

      It’s actually the only comedy of Shakespeare’s that my girls like. Sara in particular finds his comedies aren’t as layered as she’d wish them to be (not as layered as his tragedies). But maybe this one, with its play-within-the-play and the earnestness of the players (brought out so poignantly in the movie version noted above) has that extra “something” that tips the scale for her.

      Reply

  2. Richard Maxson says

    Nocturne

    Sleep is a map made of glass,
    no matter where it leads
    you are lost―
    the night may speak to you
    with its wings, its songs
    made of silk, yet you know
    only your dreams of walking
    where the streets are water,
    beryl gutters dripping
    their light through the halo
    of gas lamps, you are following
    the rhythm of boot heels,
    as lightning paints a Picasso sky—
    all is forgotten now,
    the glass darkens, the mute stars
    show where you have been,
    your feet are moving without you.

    Reply

  4. Donna Z Falcone says

    The 7 year dream.

    I closed my eyes and
    the right side of the world fell silent but
    the left side of the world gobbled up all the sounds
    spinning my head and
    I fell into a pool of mixed up words swimming as hard as I could when
    my two bare feet sunk deep into cold mud but
    no mud could hold me and
    when they finally wriggled free came
    a steep climb up the mountain
    slowly descending to the heavy waters that
    pulled every weighted inch of arms and legs to the floor while
    I watched my head float up to the sky like
    a red balloon tethered to an unheld string when
    suddenly a door opened and
    swallowed me into a room filled with no one to share the dizzy air so
    I sat down on the ceiling and
    waited for the music to fill my ears together so that
    all the spinning would

    stop.

    Reply

  5. Monica Sharman says

    Sleep Paralysis

    Afternoon nap in the heat.
    Muscles slumber to keep
    from sleepwalking. Mind wakes
    but body remains stone-sleepy.
    Would I breathe easier
    to act out my dreams?

    Reply

  6. Richard Maxson says

    Exordium

    Among the spare leaves, only zephyrs
    disturb the mystery of a dark window
    in a darker room, and a flux occult—
    the course of night across my skin.

    Enter, the moonlight, curtains part
    then fall for a moment, a form like music,
    as the air rolls in waves under them;
    I am, I know, where dreams begin.

    Reply

    • Donna Z Falcone says

      …a dark window in a darker room.
      Wow, that’s a really vivid image, Richard.

      Love your piece. Some people notice that place you mention… where dreams begin. Do you? I never do. It all runs together like watercolors.

      Reply

      • Richard Maxson says

        I get there the times I am trying to stay awake to watch something or think of something. Slowly I begin to go in and out of some kind of threshold. A few times I’ve been reading while sleepy and drifted off, book in hand, and I briefly blend another story with what I am reading. Later I mention that part of the book to someone who replies, “I don’t remember that part.” My favorite state is when I am dreaming and somehow I know I am dreaming. Ever had that happen?

        Most of the time your description is perfect for my dreams, running together like watercolors.

        Reply

        • Donna Z Falcone says

          Ah, that’s funny about the part of the book being something you dreamed! I can relate, now that you mention it. I often say “maybe I dreamed it” and people think I’m kidding, but I’m not because that has happened to me, too, though I can’t recall the details. I can’t recall a lucid dream although I’ve had kind of the opposite – being awake but thinking I was dreaming.

          Reply

  7. Glynn says

    I went off in another direction that turned circular.

    Anne Hathaway’s Dream

    I dreamed, Will.

    I dreamed of London and its crowds,
    its noise and even its city stink

    I dreamed of hearing the Danish prince
    and the Scot usurper and St. Crispin’s Day
    and the king’s daughters,

    and seeing them, Will, in garish torchlight.

    I dreamed I saw the Queen, Will,
    nodding to the crowd as she walked
    by the white hall palace, and I chanced
    a smile, Will, and she returned it.

    I dreamed I saw the river, Will, and rode
    a barge close by the Globe.

    And nobles in the finery and common folk
    in plain dress, both clean and dirty, and I dodged
    the bedpan emptied from above,
    and I watched the crowd watch a hanging
    or two. Or three. They brought refreshments
    with them.

    And the food, Will, the food in the taverns,
    and the drinking with Marlowe and the Earl,
    and the laughter and the arguments and seeing
    them all, even you, scratch quills on parchment.

    I don’t want to die too soon, Will.
    I want to dream again.
    I want to dream, Will.

    Reply

    • Donna Z Falcone says

      Ah, this sent me to Google for some research! Glynn, this is so clever in so many layers. 🙂 It makes me wonder about a lot of things, not least of which is what type of refreshment does one bring to a hanging?

      Reply

  8. Sandra Heska King says

    Hog Stew and Doughnuts

    The quicksand tried to swallow me.
    Then the train came
    and an elephant held out his trunk.
    When I grasped it, it wiggled into a rainbow’d snake
    that flung me into the red Corvette convertible
    in Canadian National auto carrier #1000
    graffiti’d with gifts.
    We snaked our way through a jungle
    and across the Mackinac Bridge
    before the car came loose, and fell into
    Lake Michigan where it sprouted oars.
    I rowed to the beach
    and drove to Ann Voskamp’s
    where we shared bowls of hog stew
    and Krispy Kreme doughnuts in her writing cottage.

    Reply

    • L. L. Barkat says

      This is *such* a fun poem. Regardless of whether it chronicles a real dream, I’d love to see the end of it stay in that deep dream state, maybe like this:

      ……
      I rowed to the beach
      and drove a bowl of hog stew
      into a writing cottage
      made of Krispy Kreme doughnuts.
      Ann Voskamp showed up
      and said she wanted more.

      Reply

    • Donna Z Falcone says

      Ha! Fun images – elephant’s trunk flinging you, rainbow style! Love saying Macinak Bridge, and sprouting oars is just so convenient! What a combination you end with. My tummy did a flip to imagine hog stew and doughnuts!

      Reply

    • Michael Garcia says

      I’ve had crazy dreams like this; and it’s funny how we get all these images when we sleep. This was the funny kind that it’s one thing after another and how they all just seamlessly go from one scenario to another. Thanks for sharing.

      Michael

      Reply

  9. Maureen Doallas says

    Breaking up at Whole Foods

    was certainly nothing
    I’d have dreamed — me
    stuck with the cloves,
    you still counting sprigs

    of rosemary like grains
    of un-premeasured rice.
    Every mustard was too hot
    to your taste. You wept

    at the sight of leek-eaters,
    chided the Siberian garlic
    chives (likely as not to leave
    you onion-eyed). Soured on

    Concord grapes, you gagged
    on the smell of lavender
    and fennel, garlands of bay
    wafting too near the honey-

    dew, so many out-of-season
    cherries bursting like fire-
    works between your thumbs.
    So what that you didn’t call

    Dole Chiquita Bonita bananas
    cheap, overripened plantains
    in designer labels. Would you
    have tried almond-rice milk?

    That last aisle was the last
    straw. There you were, alone
    at the olive bar, me checking
    out with one spicy vegan pizza.

    Reply

  10. Michael Garcia says

    Dream Crazy

    3:17 am and I’m awakened by a sound;
    something eerily familiar comes around
    and it brings chills down my spine.
    It’s here again and it’s stealing my time
    nothing in the house seems to be amiss;
    but somehow this gut feeling still exists.
    It’s a presence I feel but can’t shake
    and the reason as to why I’m awake.
    It seems to be only messing with me,
    my wife is asleep but it won’t let me be.
    So back to the bedroom in the bed I climb,
    I pull the covers over me and look at the time;
    it’s 4:38 am and I’m trying to get back to sleep again.
    As I go back to sleep I wonder if this was all pretend;
    time to wake up as the alarm goes off; it’s now 6 am.
    I asked my wife how she slept and I get a surprise
    she said she didn’t sleep a wink – I can see it in her eyes.
    She said I tossed and turned all night long
    and that it was me that kept her up all along.
    “So I didn’t get up earlier this morning around 3 am?”
    “no she said, and I tried to shake you again and again
    but to no avail, you just laid there out like a light.”
    But I could have sworn it was the other way around;
    it was me that was awakened up by a sound!
    She just stared at me and then said a few words;
    “Now that you’re up I can sleep” and THAT was all I heard.

    Copyright by NewLife2008

    Reply

  11. Heather Eure says

    I have weird dreams. Here’s a recent one:

    the marble relief of a man and horse in flight
    could be written into a grand epic

    an old villager heard my thoughts and said
    it’s best to rethink it

    some forgotten battle alone and outnumbered
    running in retreat

    the steed decided to turn galloping to the fight
    running over the heads of their enemy

    their heroic escape cut short with an
    accidental leap into a boiling vat

    the town’s embarrassment the old man said
    the only document a proverb

    something about never allowing your horse
    an opportunity to make decisions

    or to never name your son Kenneth
    he forgot which

    Reply

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