Thursday, November 20, 2003

POEM OF THE DAY THE GOOD DREAM   The blood smokes in the snow. That is the good dream. The leafless, moonless trees asleep under the stars. The stars:  Embers sucked of their marrow. By such ghosts of light are my eyes sewn shut. That is the good dream. The blood smokes in the snow.   Dana Pattillo, November 1993   Note:  This little poem came while I was suffering from severe, unmedicated depression.  I lived in Denver at the time and the weather that November was bitter cold.  It is the closest thing to a suicide note I ever wrote.  I’ve had a bad couple of days. I post this poem to remind myself the current round of blues is not as bad as all that; as bad as “the good dream.”  The following sentence is written in pencil on the back of the typescript: "you have to pass thru the terror of existence to reach the joy of being" (PoD 70) 9:19:01 PM    comment []