gary soto

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 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.

~ from Poems: New and Collected, 1957-1997, translated by Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh (Ecco, 2000).

Dreams, whether fleeting daydreams, wish fulfillment night dreams, or long held desires — are important indicators of who we are, what we value, and sometimes they serve to motivate us to achieve certain life goals.

They’re also a fun way to consider the subconscious, unleash the imagination and verbalize the unbelievable.

Szymborska’s poem inspired California poet Gary Soto to write about his own dreams.

IN PRAISE OF DREAMS
by Gary Soto

after Wislawa Szymborska

In my dreams,
I lasso a wild steer on the first try.

I chauffeur Picasso
To meet up with Dali --
None of us is happy about this summit.

After licking my fingertips,
I play guitar masterfully.

I use index cards to make sense
Of the universe.

I discover my childhood cat in the neighbor's tree--
So that's where you've been, you little rascal.

I beg the alligator, por favor,
To make a snap judgement,
Will it be my leg or my arm?

Picture me swimming with dolphins.
Picture me with these dolphins
Sitting in lawn chairs.

I'm full of gratitude--
The lightbulb comes on
When the refrigerator door is opened.

Yes, I'm the scientist who solved laryngitis--
Now all of us howl at our own pleasure.

I get to throw a trophy from a moving car.
When I park my car,
I'm awarded another trophy --
Someone above is giving me a second chance.

~ © 2020 by Gary Soto. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on September 29, 2020, by the Academy of American Poets.

*“Restraint 2 Cowboys Roping a Steer” by Don Langeneckert*

Szymborska seems to value artistic mastery as well as superhuman powers like flying and breathing under water, enabling her to face adversity, survive catastrophes and achieve a kind of immortality. She’s more philosophical and symbolic than Soto.

I like how Soto injects humor and a fond memory in his poem. His voice is conversational and accessible. Who can resist, “licking my fingertips,” the “snap judgement” of the alligator, or those “dolphins/Sitting in lawn chairs”? 🙂

Both express gratitude for their lives in lovely, distinctive ways.

Of course I couldn’t help but think about my own dreams. Not only fun, but empowering. Fantasy makes life more bearable. Part of me says “impossible,” while the other part says, “why not?” Doesn’t writing make it so? 🙂

*~ Maira Kalman (What Pete Ate from A-Z, 2003)*

IN MY DREAMS

Sam Heughan ~~begs~~ invites me to live with him in Scotland.

I teleport myself to England at whim and the weather is always good.

I own Harrods.

The real Paddington Brown lives with us.

I am fluent in at least 10 different languages.

I live at the Plaza Hotel and join Eloise for tea in the Palm Court every week.

I bake the biggest, most delicious pie the world has ever seen and the people who eat it are deliriously happy for the rest of their lives.

My house cleans itself.

I inherit Maira Kalman’s inimitable talent.

Colin Firth and Paul McCartney have me on speed dial.

My singing is simply divine and I look good in hats.

I can leap tall buildings in a single bound – with my eyes closed.

I win a tango championship in Argentina with Robert Duvall.

Jackson Browne is a neighbor and whenever I pop over he sings for me.

Whenever I read a good book, I can step right into it and become any character I choose.

When Shakespeare, the Brontës, Louisa May Alcott, Laura Ingalls Wilder, and Michael Bond visit the Cornelius Rattigan Tea Room, we assure them they will be read and loved forever and ever.

I see my parents again.

There is no such thing as hate.

Speaking of Vermeer:

*Scarlett Johansson and Colin Firth in “Girl With a Pearl Earring” (2003).*

What do you dream of?

The lovely and talented Catherine Flynn is hosting the Roundup at Reading to the Core. Bounce over to check out the full menu of poetic goodness being served up around the blogosphere this week. Happy December!

So, what’s in your refrigerator?

When I was little, I always used to see stuff like this:

A BEAR IN THERE
by Shel Silverstein

There’s a Polar Bear
In our Frigidaire —
He likes it cause it’s cold in there.
With his seat in the meat
And his face in the fish
And his big hairy paws
In the buttery dish,
He’s nibbling the noodles,
He’s munching the rice,
He’s slurping the soda,
He’s licking the ice.
And he lets out a roar
If you open the door.
And it gives me a scare
To know he’s in there —
That Polary Bear
In our Fridgitydaire.

~ from The Light in the Attic, 1981

But now, instead of celebrating things for what they are, I question everything.

2% or skim?
Dill spear or sweet gherkin?
Chunky or smooth?
Ketchup or steak sauce?

I purposely avoid asking butter or margarine?,

since this can quickly escalate to

tub or stick?
name brand or store brand?
regular or organic?
plain or whipped?

How and why did things get so complicated?

I keep hoping that when I open the fridge, a completely prepared, nutritionally and politically correct meal will materialize.

Or that issues of life and death won’t present themselves in the Velveeta.

Or that I can even remember why I opened the refrigerator door in the first place.

And another thing, I thought refrigerators were supposed to keep everything cool, and make them last longer. You just can’t put time on ice.

Excuse me, while I gaze at my navel oranges.

AFTERNOON MEMORY
by Gary Soto

Sometimes I’ll look in the refrigerator
And decide that the mustard is vaguely familiar,
And that the jar of Spanish olives is new to me.
What’s this gathering? The butter
And salsa, the two kinds of tortillas
And, in back, the fat-waisted Mrs. Butterworth.
I’ll study the plate of cross-legged chicken,

And close the refrigerator and lean on the kitchen counter.
Is this old age?

(Rest is here.)

Today’s Poetry Friday Roundup is at A Year of Reading.

Don’t take any chances, bring your own cooler!