Same Song, Different Verse
On the Trail

Poetry Friday

Some poetry* for your Friday.

But first, some daffodils read to pop.  (Sadly, this was a week ago.  Before snow and freezing rain and a hard frost laid them down.)  (Not certain there'll be any popping now.)

Dafs before the snow

In Praise of Dreams

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

It's gratifing 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.

        --- Wislawa Szymborska
                from View with a Grain of Sand


* April is National Poetry Month.  Join me on Fridays - and maybe a few other days, too - for a silent poetry reading.

** I'm not bitter. (ha!)


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I love the idea of our dreams manifesting themselves in poetry. And yeah, my daffodils all bloomed and then got buried in snow. They are all laying down now. So sad.


Beautiful...thank-you. :-)


Szymborska is devastating real, and also, has a wonderful sense of humor in her poetry. I'll bet your daffodils will pop soon! They are hardy!


Lovely poem! I dream of Spring, and yes, I'm even bitter about the cold and snow. We've lost any possibility of fruit from our trees and the dead, brown blossoms make me so sad.


Indeed a lovely poem, made me smile a bittersweet smile as I remember my 94 year old momma always wanting to go back to bed. An older friend told me that sometimes, as you get older your dreams are better than your reality....... I hope she had some wonderful dreams. Thanks for sharing.


Beautiful poem! This cold has killed all the forsythia blooms, the bridal veil is brown and sad, and the lilac we waved from the trash heap last year had hints of fragile blossom buds that I fear will be hints only and it will be blossom-less again this year. The weather is a fickle lover, indeed.


struck by the irony of that image to illustrate the poem. it is perfect, isn't it?!

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