Not Our Hawai'i
dreamed 2008/8/20 by Wayan.
I wake shivering and sweating. Never blooms into a fever but I ache all day. My mystery illness, back again! I wonder if this relapse is because I've committed to do whatever it takes to get well, after decades of just stoic endurance. Mere attention may be a shock to my system! So I think I'll keep just focusing on it--to fix anything, you first have to see it. And I haven't.
I'm also still mulling over how to write dream-poems. Today's mentor is Denise Levertov. Hmmm. Her rhythms are subtle, looser than mine. That's probably wise, I get heavy-handed. But at times she's too loose for me--a dilatory muttering of unaccented syllables. Not always--I think it happens when she retreats from heart to head, into the voice of a Literate Adult. Still, she has an ear. Unlike, as she points out, Robert Bly, who's evidently deaf...
I float in the Pacific by my sister Miriel
off a squinched Hawai'i: the Big Isle
mere yards wide, but a witchhat--volcanic shields
tipi-steep! And not quite our Hawai'ian Isles:
see that craggy northeast satellite? Between
lies a sheltered strait whose verdant shore
is home to a tribe adoring war, unsubduable still
by feathered would-be kings of the archipelago.
Unconquered thorn-isle, jab the empire's toe!
What year is it? Pre-Cook, I know--before
Then Miriel and I sail past the rebel shore,
We stray into a current--several knots--
Miriel and I let the torrent rush us on.
I conjure a rope, to Miriel bind, devise a code
I wake at moonlit 3 AM,
Well! A complex one tonight, but you're an able-bodied dream-hand now. Let's give it a shot.
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