As part of our Necklace of Stars project, we’ve invited participants to reflect on the world around them during the pandemic, sharing experiences of the “new normal”, including the subtle echoes in the parallel world of dreams. Here, writer Lorna Dexter discusses writing her dreams during the pandemic. Below is her prose poem (The Reconnaissance Airship), followed by digging up thistles. The poems “confront my old childhood fears of the all-seeing, all-knowing, judgmental, punishing God of my Fundamentalist Christian upbringing – fears triggered again by the Coronavirus ‘plague’.”
Over the years I have tried to turn some of my night-time dreams into poems, and Philip had suggested that I make a small collection of these. Maybe as a result of this encouragement, I found myself actually dreaming of writing and remembering what I had written when I woke up, crossing the boundary between waking and dreaming, between conscious and unconscious writing. Both these poems, which came within two days of each other at the start of this year, emerged in this way.
(The Reconnaissance Airship)
She was standing in the forest when the long – very long – grey, very dark grey
airship floated silently overhead. She stood stock-still, in case there were
movement sensors behind those mean little windows and portholes, glad she
was wearing green. It took a long time to pass overhead, only just above the tree
tops, and when it was gone she still didn’t move. She was thinking what she had
in the house to drink, if this was the start of an occupation: a carton of soya
milk, some fruit juices … Later, down in town to stock up, she found herself
taking a photo of herself at a crossroads, looking up at the signpost with its
street name boards – a selfie, with the identifying evidence of where she lived
normally, where she was ‘last seen’ – just in case she ‘disappeared’ and her
phone was the only evidence of where she lived before – before what? – before
whatever that huge reconnaissance vehicle signified...
digging up thistles
I walked past a familiar field today –
a rough piece, a wedge of grass
at the valley’s rim, fit only for grazing
half a dozen sheep, a horse or two –
in it, a group of men, all ages, dotted about,
bent double, digging holes, some very deep.
The farmer and his sons stand and wave,
acknowledge me – and all look up,
some long-bearded, long-gowned,
from the local monastery, used to hard work,
some local lads in run-down fashion gear,
old codger neighbours in rough working clothes
all eradicating thistles by the root, organically –
a communal act of friendship, a joint effort
to rid this plot, protect the whole valley
from this pernicious weed. I walk on –
at the field’s edge a sycamore sapling
is opening out its new bronze leaves.
digging up thistles came ready-written, as it were. I dreamt I was writing it, pen in hand, laid out exactly like this, line for line, word for word. When I woke I thought I might not remember the words, but they came back as soon as I actually started to write them down, despite an interruption to go to the loo! Similarly with a third poem Starting the Novel, though in this case it was in prose, and I knew I was ‘starting a novel’ – not something I have ever planned to do. Both dreams seem to refer, in their different ways, to the struggle I have had in the last couple of years to confront my old childhood fears of the all-seeing, all-knowing, judgmental, punishing God of my Fundamentalist Christian upbringing – fears triggered again by the Coronavirus ‘plague’, part of the biblical prophecy of the ‘end-times’ for a wicked world – stories which I now believe to be ‘pernicious myths’, rather as thistles are pernicious weeds.
A Necklace of Stars, working with older people in Derbyshire, is supported by Arts Council England, Arts Derbyshire, DCC Public Health and Derbyshire County Council Home Library Service. This project is particularly aimed at countering isolation; during the pandemic we’ve been working using distance methods – post and phone conversations. Alongside writing and embroidery themed around childhood lullabies, we invite written responses to the pandemic, so that people can share their experiences as an antidote to lockdown loneliness. Lorna Dexter’s dreamed poems chime with the unsettling, haunted times. The photo is by Booth Centre volunteer Sue Dean.