Friday, January 20, 2017

a poem for creatives when they feel out of place

In Praise of Dreams
By: Wislawa Szymborska 

In my dreams 
I paint like Vermeer van Delft. 

I speak fluent Greek 
and not just with the living. 

I drive a car 
that does what I want it to. 

I am gifted 
and write mighty epics. 

I hear voices 
as clearly as any venerable saint. 

My brilliance as a pianist 
would stun you. 

I fly the way we ought to, 
i.e., on my own. 

Falling from the roof, 
I tumble gently to the grass. 

I've got no problem 
breathing under water. 

I've can't complain: 
I've been able to locate Atlantis. 

It's gratifying that I can always 
wake up before dying. 

As soon as war breaks out, 
I roll over on my other side. 

I'm a child of my age, 
but I don't have to be. 

A few years ago 
I saw two suns. 

And the night before last a penguin, 
clear as day. 

No comments:

Post a Comment