Flying

 

One night last month, I dreamt that I was flying

Not my normal flight-plan, though – usually in dreams,

I rev my qi up till my body blazes cool enough

For matter to transmute to energy
And when I’m lighter than the air — up I go!

I don’t have energy enough to reach the clouds –

No vast vistas with whole cities spread below —

Soaring  lazily is all I do, no loftier

Than the hangouts of the local mockingbird.

Sometimes, in other dreams, I’m in a room

With random people, and suddenly

I’ll float  across the floor and up a stairs,

Mildly hoping someone will take note–

No one ever does.

 

                                     But in my recent dream —

The one I meant to tell you of —

The mood was not the usual gentle play

But rather a fierce jubilance. I was violentIy tumbling

Among the trees and roofs of a farm,

Recklessly dancing and diving, more or less in time

With an invisible string orchestra playing much too loud

The first few measures of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons —

You know, that priestly-confident assault on spring:

Dat-dat dah da-da dah, dat-dat dah da-da dah —

Why that piece, I have no idea. The last that I remember,

I was floating down into the darkness of a barn,

Looking for a farmhands’ bathroom. Fortunately,

Before I found one, I woke up.

 

In Buddhism, it’s said that if you dream of flying

You’re headed to a heaven for an angel’s stint,

Or else you’re glimpsing memories of angel-time

Before your fall back down into a human womb.

No thundering judgment here, no celestial welcome,

Just the natural law of spiritual physics:

If your burden of emotion and bad karma’s slight,

Then once your body’s cells are reassigned,

Your spiritual avoirdupois is lighter than the air,

And you’ll rise naturally, sail through the gates,

And play in heaven till the time arrives to fall again.

 

As to the heavens, trust them for a spate of easy living.

Besides a gig as messenger, once in a great while,

There’s really nothing much to do.

In idleness there’s  always time for love, of course–

Here a subtle consummation via gentle glances,

There a chaste touch of  hand on fragrant hand,

While words of fondness flash in beams of light.

Bodies small sweet, all clothing flatteringly fits,

And the food‘s superb: one just thinks,“Lunch,” and there it is.

 

And all this unrelenting bliss goes on,

And on, and on, and on, and on,

For centuries, by human count —

I don’t think I could take it.

Flying-dreams, like Frost’s swung birches

Glimpse heaven, bringing gifts of light,

But we belong here.  Our mother earth is sick.

The biosphere has fallen captive

To zealots, poisoners, and thieves;

So many people are in need of happiness.

One can’t just leave. Besides, I’ve books to write,

Translations, too, to finish,

And nowhere else but here

Would I be spending Sunday evening seated in a circle,

Sharing poetry with good friends.

 

6.3.11