Once, in my teens or early twenties, I read a long epic poem in a dream. I still remember finishing the last line, admiring the illuminated first letter of it once more in the slanting afternoon light and looking up to a tall room (round or octagonal), lined floor to ceiling with book shelves of dark wood, high gothic windows looking out into a garden, dust motes dancing in the sun.
What I do not remember is anything of the poem, beyond the last line “Пчелою, а не цветком.”, which, I am certain, was intended to be a sad, but inspiring moral.
Since then I have occasionally dreamt of books and poems, and enjoyed those dreams a lot, but remembered them even less.
Today, however, I dreamt of a poem, and my dream came with an internal understanding of what life events were described in it – the small mundane happenings, the town, the conversations. And then I dreamt that I woke up and immediately typed that poem up, so as not to forget. And again. And again.
I woke up in my dream and immediately typed up that poem three times, and three times woke up again, realized that the typing up was a dream, and did it once more.
The last time I actually woke up enough to force myself all the way to vertical and actually type in an actual computer. Unless, of course, this too is a very realistic dream – but the ambient noise argues otherwise. My dreams have colors, and smells, and sounds, but never unnecessary noise.
Anyway, here’s the dream poem
Радостный свет над морем
И, с четырех сторон,
Встают облака когортой
Розовых знамен.Люди тебя осудят,
Потом, на закате дня.
Скажут: он был художник,
Он не любил тебя.Гордо ты сможешь ответить
Правду свою ценя.
Да, верно, он был художник.
Остался ради меня.