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NOW
VOYAGER,
A
Dream Sequence
Were
I a gentleman true, gallant,
The
kind of chap with plumage in his hat,
Whose
cape readies for damsel's distress,
I
would say let us end it now; you are
Too
young or, even better put,
I
am too old for love with a beauty your age.
But
let us face it!
No
two-bit convention possesses me.
Long
ago,
It
was in the woods of Western Massachusetts,
I
saw time tunnel down the trail before me.
I
saw the nature of things,
The
whirl into which all we know disappears.
And
tonight faces of the dead startle me,
Yet
I do not awake. I dream that
Family
and friends float before me.
The
calamity, death holds both young and old alike!
Darling,
the air in my bedroom
It
drops to the temperature of ice.
I
envision my aunt, Helene, and see her
When
she says to the child, who is me,
"Stanley!
Go ahead! Touch her!"
My
cousin, Barbara, lies in her coffin
Before
the age of six; she was a year older than I.
I
remember how stiff and cold her corpse felt.
My
buddy, Burton, cut down well before prime.
Thought
of him occupies my every day.
Revelry
brings me to Joey who cried
"Whitney's
dead!" And right there
On
Fifth Avenue, opposite the Public Library,
He
placed his gun on the glass of the showcase
Counter
top. I was in the jewelry shop.
I
dream a slip back to my former ways, the drinking life;
I
could taste the whiskey shots, the beverage
Dispensed
that afternoon, it was Johnnie Walker Black.
The
haunting goes on;
More
of the dead, they parade before me.
Omar,
tall, dark, forgive me here for I know
No
better than the honest truth, handsome,
The
child, Spencer, my son's best friend,
My
high-school sweethearts, Arlene and Lynn,
All
taken, all unwitting emblems, as if to prove,
Life
bears no promise of continuance.
Nightmare
arms with disembodied hands,
Wag
imaginary fingers
They
seem to demand I pick up pen and write.
2.
But
before one dream ceases another appears.
The
scene abruptly changes.
My
fantasy goes from a somber, personal cast,
To
new vision of vivid color and improbability.
My
emotions are steady, yet I realize a rush of air
And
that I am falling. I have fallen backwards
Into
other, previous space and time.
The
world before me, though a tableau
Seemingly
breathing and alive, stays frozen.
It
wants animation, nothing moves.
When
I look, I see the birds of the air keep still --
Those
who were eating did not eat,
And
those who were conveying material to make nest,
Do
not convey it. And, as I further study
The
dream picture which enfolds
Right
there in front of me,
I
recognize that I am witness to
Low
surf beaches and natural limestone harbors
With
wharfs upon which anchor long ships,
Vessels
whose hulIs sprout tall, center masts
Which
themselves are rigged,
Tied
to great, single, rectangular sails, dyed blood red.
And
athwart these ships, from gar boards up,
Are
planks, broad-axed-hewed, and each of the planks
Has
paint a color its own,
And
each plank appears nailed one upon the other,
The
sides of those long ships are as,
The
bands of rainbows, red, orange, yellow,
Green,
blue, indigo and regal violet.
Color
upon color runs the length of keels,
And
a fierce dragon head in gold crowns the prows
Rudders
are mounted at right, and within each craft
Upon
rows and rows of chests sit oarsmen.
The
ships are set to sail,
Yet
the entire assembled host
Seems
as if stuck in stone,
Itself
as a painted sculpture done in high relief.
All
motion suspended,
The
waves have stopped, they break not.
What
a night! It is,
It
really is, what a remarkable night!
Never
before have I beheld,
Have
I seen such a Technicolor panorama.
My
own closed world of family and friends,
Familiar
events and their sad foreboding,
Now
become historical vision with scenes
Rooted
long-ago, displaying a physical geography,
A
world which I had never visited,
Environs
of which I had no familiarity.
My
bedroom warms. And a seemingly true,
But
sixth sense intimates Spring,
I
bear witness to a prelude,
The
dream carries me and I sense the long days,
The
glory of Scandinavian summer awakens before me.
Light,
bright, bright day dawns, and it thrills me.
I
ready for adventure. I am happy;
I
am exhilarated beyond normal human expectations.
3.
And,
then, suddenly, right before my eyes,
From
within a quick, upward swirling, light gray smoke,
A
bearded visage materializes.
The
image takes me aback.
It
is strange. It wears a helmet,
(The
likes of which I had never before encountered)
A
four-part, iron dome with a sharp spike atop,
A
braided chain surrounds its eye sockets,
It
gives a spectacle-like appearance to the visor.
Down
the back of this spectre's neck,
Mounted
from the edge of his helmet,
A
chain-mail curtain falls
Directly
to the shoulder of a thick, hide tunic.
A
strap from ear guard to ear guard
Runs
beneath his beard, holds his helmet in place.
He
says, "Action! Please!"
At
once, as though my dream a set-scene
Belonging
to some kind of cinematic construct,
At
once I hear birds of the air singing,
And
those who were eating, eat,
And
those who were conveying material to nest,
Now
fly about and convey it.
The
shipyard has come to life, the din already terrific.
On
horizon's plane I hear low thunder.
I
see the spray of waves sparkle in the daylight.
I
wonder do I sleep or do I wake?
Yet
the dream continues.
The
ancient director's voice commands my mind's eye.
Though
he speaks in a hoarse, low register,
I
clearly hear him.
4.
"Today",
the ghostly presence says,
"Before
I appeared in vision to you,
A
fierce fit seized my brain, and I took my sword
And
smashed it mightily against this stone.”
He
points to a boulder of height and dimension.
“Our
men had trundled it from the moraine.”
He
directs my dream to gaze upon one side of the rock,
A
polished surface which bears an engraved writing.
“These
inscribed characters,” he states,
“Intend to memorialize the deeds of my life."
Then,
wordlessly he hands me a leather roll to unfurl.
It
is a runic manuscript and though
The
writing, the script olden, it is Norse,
In
my dream I could read it!
"My
Darling Brunet," the salutation goes,
"I
am your countryman, a remote ancestor,
I
tell you true, and whether you believe me or not,
Or
how you choose to act,
The
matter rests entirely with you.
Nonetheless
I urge you. Harken!"
I
am startled.
While
I sleep an apparition has made me privy
To
an ancient correspondence by which, it seems,
He
means directly to address you.
He
salutes you as his, “My Darling, Brunet,” and says,
"Death
has deprived me of ability to speak.
The poet’s verse, the dream
It
communicates to you, is channel,
I
need this vehicle, my ghost employs it.
The
words you see serve as an intermediary,
His
copying them out is the medium between us.
The
letter goes on and it reads,
"You
have been witness to the hurried activity
That animates
the point of embarkation,
Note
anticipation of mere material success,
How
it dwarfs more noble human endeavor.
In
getting and spending we lay waste our power.
I
know of what I speak: the business these ships,
The
sails the poet describes that he had seen before him,
"The
business the ships portend had been mine.
"And
now voyager, you, as we once before you,
Pursue
the world to bring it to your feet,
You
seek new riches and hope
To
bring them home to dazzle compatriots.
"Yet,
whatever the greatness now awaits you.
Yours
can not compare to ours, to our accomplishment.”
5.
The
reverie continued with me reading the ancient text.
The
leather roll in my hands,
Wondrously
I unfurl it.
The
phantom's countenance appears on guard,
His
vigilance insures that I not awake,
That
I remain under his command and proceed
To
dream and tell his letter's story.
The
document sounds aloud as I mouth it.
"Forgive
the invidious note. Still mull it over;
Allow
me this moment. Imagine it!
"The
joy! We sat well in order
And
smote the sounding furrows,
And
sailed into the sunrise
We
headed toward the baths of the morning stars.
"And
when we landed, we crossed a vast,
Unnamed
landmass between Europe and Asia,
Harnessed
captives to forge the rivers,
Fought
numberless skirmishes,
We
used native allies to establish posts for trade.
"And
while we traveled we besought Odin,
"Oh
Father! Oh Father of Fathers! Oh Allfather!
Soak
us in the blood of enemies, and let its
Stench
increase our fury. Help us to violence!
Oh
Great God guide us to murder,
Death
to any who would dare to, who might defy us!
"The
greater bloody smell that filled our nostrils,
The
more the madness drove us to fight and conquer.
"And
when we lit the funeral pyres,
Made
from the ships of our current travel,
And
burned the bodies of our fallen comrades
Into
the heaven that awaits the warrior,
Our
hair became matted thick,
We
were crowned with the ash of the departed.
In
the smoke from those fires
We
breathed in the spirits of heroic conquest.
"We
were men of prayer and momentous belief,
Utterly
we turned our will and
We
turned our lives over to care of Father.
"And
I ask, again, how may yours compare to ours,
How
may your enterprise
Compare
to our conquest of the East?
"We
founded Kiev, established the thrones
That
became the Royal house of a great nation.
"All
the way from the soil of Stora Alvaret,
We
had sailed, we traveled land, river and sea,
Until
we crossed the Bosporus,
Where
we battled foes on the plains outside Byzantium,
Our
work was in the employ of oriental Emperors.
"We
had conquered a vast expanse of land
We
ruled from Baltic to Black Sea.
"And
when we returned to homeland shores
We
had ships which were filled with slaves and honey,
And
were heaped with all variety of fruit.
“We
brought women to the North,
Awesome
beauties of the East were ours.
“We
stole the horses of the Hungarians and the Czechs.
“Our
ships returned laden with pelts, fur, which we
And
our people used to win our great fight against winter.
"We
had returned home rich beyond measure.
“No
one need tell me how great the events,
How
the gravestone script commemorates
The
immortality of your ancestors’ deeds and mine.
"Yet
nothing matches the warmth, the memory,
My
dear wife’s body lay in bed, her sleeping next to me.
"And
now, so many years ago, I remember
I
happened upon my wife while she lifted
Our
son to seat him on the front plank
Of
an oxcart tied to a post at the front of our home.
"I
must convey that there is
More
lasting memory and real worth for me
In
the way dappled sunlight
Had
illuminated my son's head
Than
is upon all the runes in the homeland today.
"Our
paths emerge but for a while
Then
close forever within a dream.
"Time
cuts us a length so short only the moment
May
be cherished, all else, vanity.
And
once we recognize the transitory,
The
fleetingness of all we savor,
We
may seize the instant and know treasure.
"I
am a phantom. My victories mean nothing.
"Were
I only able to spend
An
hour more in bed with my beloved,
Could
I once more bear living witness
To
sun’s light across tree tops at height of day.
"If
only it possible to play, to tumble,
To
crawl along with my toddler son,
Were
we to have opportunity for our knees
And
our hands to be upon this earth once more.
"Goodbye!
Sweet woman, Goodbye!
"Farewell!
Farewell! Remember me!"
6.
He
vanishes. His voice and face are gone.
The
runic, leather manuscript,
His
letter with its seemingly magic unfurling,
The
record of the glory and the moral of his story,
I
attempt to continue my grasp,
To
keep in my hands on the record's handles,
But
it has disappeared, I hold nothing.
I
flounder. I try to rouse myself.
I
am anxious to remember the dream vision's sequence,
The
words and the phrases of its message,
Fearful
that the coming dawn,
That
daylight would deprive me,
Blot
out the details of my night-time experience.
Yet
though I try to shake myself awake,
So
to get to pen and table, and write,
I
am engulfed, again,
A
drowsy numbness guarantees, forces my sleep.
And
at this moment the dream scape has turned green.
The
color now before me matches the hue,
The
verdant, the summer green of those
Preserves
of forest that stretch
For
mile upon mile along the River Deplanes,
The
green equals the shade of the woods,
The
same shade as the leaves of trees,
Which
circle the cemetery stone,
The
burial ground of the Chippewa Chief
Whose
bravery saved the pale skins at Fort Dearborn.
The
green is the summer color surrounding the burial plot,
The
Indian Burial Ground where I played in my youth.
And
out from behind this world of green, voices,
Voices,
which I hear, but do not see, they declare,
"Go
slowly, my lovely moon, go slowly.
"Time
chases upon our heels,
Before
long it quickens its pace to furious gallop.
All
earthly stores succumb to this onslaught.
In
a wisp, as with the language of our monuments,
We
cease, and we are remembered no more."
And
now -- over and against this flood of green --
A
white, spectral chorus appears.
And
from amongst the ensemble
A
single, ghost figure steps to the fore, and says,
"I
am here to repeat ancient wisdom:
"We
care not; who cares what the joyless say?
They
should get lost, all of them!
"Once
our tiny, brief light is pinched out,
There
be no night, like that everlasting night,
When
earth, it replaces heaven.
"So
let’s kiss, and let’s kiss again.
Let’s
kiss a thousand times, and, then,
Let’s
do it all over again, those kisses.
"How
many? How many? How many?
How
many, you say?
"Let’s
not number our kisses.
There
are people with evil eyes,
Workers
of black magic,
Who
would wish to bewitch us.
"They
should not know how many."
