Before they begin their tapping
dreams nestle in shadows, napping;
growing, groping and grooming
in the blood the day is drawing
from the wicked wounds of walking—
In all meter and measure
beyond meaning and pleasure;
with each tick wounds are dripping,
with each tock midnight is waiting!
Though lagging and lacking
the speed seconds requiring,
the Minute Hand must outstand
all the heartbreak till the day’s end
and tally each looping sally
of seconds’ light-footed rally
around all measured rant,
rushing like a foraging ant
ticking and towing crusty crumbs
from Time’s forbidden lumps.
Until the iron-booted Sentinel
watching each hour’s terminal
sounds the late day’s knell
and salutes the midnight spell
with spear prodding straight up,
tapping napping dreams to wake up.
Now, they flood the heavens’ starlit strait,
milking the dreamer’s cataclysmic cosmic plate.
Hence the eaves of the heavens droop
and sag in a sleepy silent stoop,
scooping minutes’ heart-ached soup
on the brink of a dream laden swoop.
Here the heavens sigh in shallow heaves,
whispering dreams
from where Shadow lives—
far below the sun-bathed eye;
yet, far above the sighing sky.
Now is the time to drop all drooping drapes
and steep in a nether land’s old golden grapes
that Philemon aged within scented staves,
mulling archaic aches in shadowy shapes.
From his kingfisher blue and the nightly hue,
shadows leap through to ***** and find you.
Not to destroy, but to explore you;
not to wage war, but to restore you.
Dark as Poe’s black winged Raven;
thus, not good for the cringing craven.
How you didn’t know you bore them laden,
hidden yonder in you, native and graven!
They toss you in a gale you’re scared to sail:
“When they hail, you think they wail.”
They restage a rending rendezvous:
“When they woo, you think they boo.”
They pretend the pain of piercing spears:
“When they kiss, you think they hiss.”
They dance in your drastic defeats:
“They chant in cheers; you think it's jeers.”
You blanch Fear comes to hunt you;
you didn't see it's for you to pursue.
You fear Wrath comes to burn you;
you didn't see fire will forge you.
You panic Pain comes to ******* you;
you didn't see it also will push you.
You fear Darkness comes to consume you;
you didn't see it is what's cradled you.
You fear new wounds come to find you;
you didn't see they’re windows about You.
A grieving Poe was sure;
We ‘stand amid the roar of a surf tormented shore’,
while we ‘dream within a dream...'
...and that which keeps carrying us
~like a stream~
may also be a dream…
…within a dream.
‘a doorway to the past opening—'
an empowering offering keeping us going...
So, Philemon is no demon—
that which you deem as sweet
may sometimes sap in dreams' sourest seed.
© Hirondelle, August 04, 2025
Arif Hifzioglu
Philemon is Carl Jung's envisioned guide to the shadowy inner world where our subconscious fears roam. In his Red Book, Carl Gustav Jung recounts his journey to his own subconscious, led by an old man in kingfisher wings and tusks upon his head. Whether these were lucid dreams or an actual meeting with Philemon is not yet clear. However, the ambiguity is haunting.
I used Philemon as a central figure to be the portal for our dreams springing from our subconscious as a result of our past pains and fears. With Philemon, as with Jung, I intended to tread the fine line between the conscious and the subconscious encourage confronting our inner darkness and find growth and peace.
