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What makes something a prose poem? What makes something prose just whoop! slip right into poem? And whose job is it anyway to decide when something has crossed over? I’m wondering tonight.

An old friend is downstairs painting the wall in my office with giant purple poppies. I am quite pleased, both to see my friend again, and to get the dreamscape painted.

I’m not sure when in the last year I convinced HP that I should get a whole room to myself to do with as I please, but I’m pretty sure I can be fairly convincing on painkillers, and it worked. He has this little nook up here where I’m writing, and he counts it as a room when I would call it a closet in a room.  He likes it, though, so bully for me. Makes me think of A Room of One’s Own.  I’m going to have one, and HP will be lucky if I come out of it for more than meals and storytime.  All my new goals involve getting me more time in my office. Well, finishing my office, and then getting me more time in it. I  have Virginia Woolf and purple poppies on the brain, and I need to poem it, fast, because I stayed up too late with the poppy artist and it is Sunday night, the most oppositional (don’t wanna, not gonna) of nights.

The Mountain-Mother

Really, she wanted to be shopping for a chair. She had to write a poem, but really it was the chair that troubled her mind as the artist worked downstairs on the wall. Great purple poppies had been splashed when she left the painter and came upstairs to work. It was a theme she had chosen for its likeness to her dream, the one where she wakes in a field of giant flowers, menacing and surreal, like tall clumps of strangers, she, the toddler lost. It should be a cloud, the divan, something to hold the curves of her repose as she drifts from the land of sight and wakes small inside the garden. It’s the same, again and again, first wonder, then fear like a wobbling child, the new overwhelming like lost breath after a hard fall, and she, the dreamer waits for the Gorgon to come creaking round the stems. Winged, with a bird in each hand, the mountain-mother steps closer, countenance hidden by the mask, she is a perfect nightmare.  And reaching down from the harrowing petals, her fingertips stretching to touch, the dreamer unable to refrain from the reach that begins her return to dust, grey ash creeping up her arm until her first her fingers, then her hand blow away and float shiny up to the blue sky as far away as planets. When she wakes, always just then, “She was like a crinkled poppy; with the desire to drink dry dust.” It should be the right sort of chair, for the best work follows the nightmare.

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Do you have weird recurring dreams? If so, do you think that you are more creative on the days that follow them? I wish I could include a pic of my wall, but I am technology punked at the moment. The quote is Virgina Woolf, from the Waves. Happy Sunday!

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