The Poets

April 23, 2012

My Dream, and Beslan

I know this isn’t ‘poetry’ in the proper sense of the word (a sense that I’m still trying to define concretely) … but I thought that, since dreams are essentially a of coalescing images, and poetry and imagery are intimately related, I thought I’d post on a dream I once had. 

Do you remember that absolutely horrible, horrible event that occurred in Beslan, Chechnya in September 2004? Terrorist took over a school full of children and, after negotiations collapsed three days later, they set off explosives in the gymnasium and began firing on the teachers and children … over 300 people were killed, 186 of them were children.

This disturbed me so deeply that, a year later, I had a dream that was heavily influenced by that awful event- the first and only dream I ever recorded. The second I woke up, I mean the very second I woke up, I wrote this down …

I'm afraid.

I feel like my assailant is all around me. But I have my gun, a black gun (a glock).

I think I'm in an old schoolhouse in Chechnya- everything is bluish gray... the paint on the walls are peeling.

Wait a second, there, about six yards ahead of me at the end of the hallway to the left, I feel a presence. I fire off three shots ... POP! POP! POP! It was really loud but the echo terminated quickly.

Now I hear movement upstairs, and some more down here... now I'm afraid.

Someone’s coming to get me.

Now I know for sure that I'm in a schoolhouse.

I think my assailant is trying to come down stairs (there are teenagers hiding in the hallways- I can see them through my periphery as I focus the gun where I think my assailant will emerge).

As a warning to my assailant, I fire two more shots down the corridor to my right... POP! POP! Loud thunderous echoes in the hall terminate quickly, my right ear is ringing.

I'm afraid and nervous, my assailant is closer, I know it (he- or maybe she- is tracking me from my gunshots).

There, ahead at about five feet to the right, there's a staircase leading up- I think my assailant is up there. I have to go.

How many bullets do I have in this gun?

There are people hiding.

I swing my gun around that staircase and point it up slightly- I thought my assailant was there (I almost shot another bullet … I'm glad I didn't).

The stairs zigzag to the left, I'm still going up- I swing my gun to the left now, slightly pointed up.

How many bullets do I have?

I'm almost at the top.

I see an empty room- it feels like someone is in here.

The paint on the walls are peeling. I am in a Chechen school.

I'm at the top.

I'm afraid.

I'm going to fire a warning shot somewhere.

Someone’s here.

I pull the trigger... 'click.' I'm out of bullets.

There's someone here-

I'm vulnerable...

... I wake up.

1 comment:

P.J. said...

If this isn't poetry, what is it then? You still focus on the rhythm by cutting of the lines and you still focus on imaginary.
Here in Sweden there was a poet that published a poem of 10+ pages with just one letter on each of them and if that wasn't enough - it was the same letter: å (which also is a word and means river). It was called a poem, so if that's a poem this is definitely a poem in modern sense. But it would be enough if I took, let's say, T.S Eliot as an example.
Keep up experimenting whether it is within visible boundaries or not!

As of April 9th, 2010