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Evie's Letter Every winter the Phoenix staff votes for a theme to underlie the spring issue. Sex is always the runner-up. This year getting under your skin rules over stroking the surface as our Dreams and Unconsciousness issue challenges your psychological realities. Just when we get to your head, Marilyn KaUet's essay on "Teaching 'Dreamworks'" offers a sense of exactly how dreams can work as tools in creative work. Examine the art, read the words, and celebrate the freedom to explore our perceptions.


Phoenix literary and art magazine Dreams and Unconsciousness university of tennessee spring 2001

Poetry Blade Rapid Eye Movement Blues Tooth Fairy In the Dream Nemesis Monster Brimstone Lead Fire Nightmare Sonnet Light Shrugged Off Stars untitled Anneke untitled

31 26 6 14 16 4 17 18 22 20 3 22 23

Eater of Worlds Written About

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Marilyn Kallet

Teaching "Dreamworks": Seventeen Years and Still Going


Emily Lambertsen Ashlee Weitlauf Mariell Utsman Caroline Rumley Loretta Blanchard Kenneth Lennon Deborah Chaney Russel Mooth Bettina Wabby Ciprian F. Contreras Courtney Hager Michael McCormack Lucy Goan

At the Lake selections from Cancer Book Kolsubx Underneath Ophelia Looks Bestial Beings Propaganda Virtues untitled Texture Composition #1 untitled Acid Giraffe Peekaboo! untitled

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Rebecca Husband Stephen "Seed" Lynn Jodie Simpson

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Sherri Mahoney-Jacobs Kevin Saylor Ashley VanDoorn Lucy Goan Amelia Caron J.R. Wicker

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Fiction & Non-Fiction Editor David Welch


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Supporting Staff Jennifer Allen Selena Bishop Cassie Bowman Ande Campbell Jenny Darden Rebecca Husband Richard Riley Scott Underwood John Trombley

StaffAdvisors Eric Smith Jane Pope

© copyright 2000 by the University of Tennessee. All rights reserved by the individual conrributors. Phoenix is prepared camera-ready by the studenr staff mem bers and is published twice a ycar excl uding special issues. Works of art, poetr)" fiction, and non-fiction are accepted cluoughour the academic year.

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untitled / Ciprian F. Contreras untitled / Lucy Goan razor bite satin sheen flow of life targled skein gnawing thirst crimson stain thirst relieved fleeting pain

Monster / Bradford E. Tiee The night came on in docile steps, a black sheep across a landscape of photographic gray. I was standing in a forest of pine and cedar, on a riverbank watching peach petals of memory drift downstream through cattails and lily pads, sinking beneath sheets of shattered stained glass. The monster stood beside me in the twilight, his hand resting huge and meaty upon my shoulder as we waited for ice to break upstream. His shadow reeled under the dark trees, and as the first stars stole across the skyline I saw their light reflect glints of chipped silver from the electrodes in his neck. Here, I'm remembering faintly a pastan old movie, scratched and without color, where I'm running from the schoolboys. How I almost lost them in the bone yard, in the lee of the steeple, and how they found me, laid out in the dew playing dead with the pennies over my eyes. I felt their jeers from across a fog, stepped out of body and saw them prod me with sticks, hurl rocks and clods of dirt and mud, naming me freak amongst silken flowers. Then the shadow came, huge and obscuring, loomed out from the steamy cleft of the earth, as graves opened across leagues of my mind. They ran from my monster like heretics thrown out from hallowed grounds into wilderness thick with vine and exotic plants, ripe with fruits of thorns and poisons. A flock of magpies, spooked, broke the sky as the monster gathered me up and withdrew to the edge of the tree line. Now I always travel with my monster beside me, leading the way Orpheus took love out of Hades, through an underbelly of devils with leering faces. On the riverbank, we stand making plans to leave this place by night, head up north to the axis of longitudes, where the ice reflects the arriving light across the world.


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Tooth Fairy / Jodie Simpson At six years old I was losing teeth like coins from a slot machine, not so much losing, not so passive. I yanked everyone that moved from my mouth, unlike my sister, whose tooth extraction involved baby aspirin, dental floss, and physical force, I crunched bloodied apples at lunch, the other kids cringing as I twisted teeth dangling by the roots, like they twisted the chains of their swings at recess. At six years old, my grandfather newly dead, I spent the night with my grandmother most weekends, filling a little of the empty space in her king size bed, my teeth hidden under my grandfather's flat pillow, replaced the next morning with stiff dollars and sugar-free gum. One night, maybe asleep, maybe high from my grandmother's Ben-Gay fumes, I saw the tooth fairy, tiny and quiet as innocence in the creek between my grandmother's pillow and mine, carrying a magic satchel of glistening teeth and coins, cold, beautiful, and serene with a Tinkerbell bun, huge plastic wrap wings, and blue heavy-lidded eyes. The next morning when mom picked me up, I told her the story tlut she now tells me, how she almost cried and had wished she'd been an artist to paint my fairy for me, make it real for us all, take away sleeping alone and fitful in a big, forty year old bed, take away bloody teeth and no friends at the playground, bridge a ravine between two pillows big enough to lose the sadness in.


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Eater of Worlds / Josh Schendel 1. I died in my dreams once. Really. Dying turned out to be not such a big deal. My death happened in this way: my brother had a gun-he shot me in the head and I heard this (whump whump whump) sound rushing past my ears- the blood pouring out my head no doubt; as the sound (whump whump whump) repeated itself over and over in my head I thought of the mechanical drone in Contact. As I lay listening, on the floor, my life ended. blackness .. . nothing . . . The next morning I got up and went to class. 2. In the second story of the high school I graduated from --Clover Hill High School--I stood next to the staircase beside the teacher's lounge- a staircase appearing darker than usual, twisting into itself. A giant star with the devil's face hovered over the earth. As the star plummeted downwards and everyone began screaming, I fell to my knees praying. The star's shadow spread everywhere. That sound, (whump whurnp whump) the sound of blood rushing or Contact dwarfed my ears, the blackness rolling over, the (whump whump whump) intertwining and ensnaring. Screaming, the world ended. I woke up in my dream to find other people in other places. One giant swap. People I knew worked at other jobs. They switched their faces and houses with others ... Whatever.

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3. I visited a farm several times. The farmland lay near a beach. A dirt trail wound around the farm, miles of roadway-a maze surrounded by vegetation. Palms. The dirt, burnt sienna, had been shoved to either side of the path: like a snow plow drove through. The first time I reached the farmland, I wandered about its fringe, toeing the dark, tilled soil. I could not see a farmhouse. The morning after the dream, I thought I remembered seeing rows of planted crops-but now, years after that first visitation, I cannot remember any. I am convinced there were no crops. The land, bare, black stretched forward-a wasteland. The farmland flowed outwards, endless, reaching upwards at the horizon to become the sky, and the sky the land. In the air, ravens hovered motionless. "We are the eaters of worlds," they said. In a second dream, months, even years, later, returned to the farmhouse. I ran, sticking to its edges, my feet slipping into the soft dirt; the farmer saw me, yelling after me, inviting me to stick around and visit. In my mind I knew the farmer (Farmer MacGregor) wanted me stand around long enough for him to get his shotgun. I fled.

4. The Senoi of Malaysia believed if danger existed in a dream you should confront and conquer it. As I see it, this depended on whether or not you "know" you are in a dream-by this I mean if you experienced lucidity, or the conscious ability to control your dreams. I found over time my control of the direction my dreams were taking growing stronger. The other day I dreamed I was part of the new "Survivor" TV show- as I walked through the fields of Australia--Iong grasses, a breeze in my face, I "knew" I lived in a dream, yet I marveled at the beauty of my surroundings. I remembered standing speechless. In the same way, the "dangers" more intense dreams hold can be controlled. However, lucidity can only work in your favor ten percent of the time. The rest remained up to you. I never knew what I was going to get every time I closed my eyes. Sometimes, in subsequent dreams, I found myself near the farm. There I stood, on its outskirts, near its maze of dirt pathways. I thought about the farmer's quickening breath, the urgency to his step, and the farmhouse I could never quite see, where he kept his shotgun. I wake in the night, sweating.


You always listened.


you laughed.

But underneath.

Underneath / Caroline Rumley a


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Written About I Jenny Darden I. "Falling Forwards" makeup is a disgusting thing at two a.m. lip liner tracing mouth donut-nude from soda cans and other things foundation blotchy and mottled like a reptilian skin being shed mascara sludge raw sewage shit stains collecting around the rim someone call the plumber 'cause the water won't stop running yeah I guess you could say that I am 2000 flushes blue the whole situation so embarrassing that I'm laughing even though

II. "Advice" Someone not so wise once told me that the hardest part is getting started. III. "Would You Like To Come Over?" he does that at crazy hours from payphones buying beer or inviting me to half a basketball game on a night when I'd rather be in my flannel dog pajamas forgetting how to say yes am i invited or just my pussy? well your tits can come too if they want brain and mouth will have to wait outside sorry think my dance card's full tonight Reality: still blaming myself so that he can stay perfect. IV. "What I Really Thought Of Your First Album" If I could be anyone I would be the girl that boys write songs about. I would be the girl who drives too fast, but is never early. I would be the girl who never spills beer on cute boys' pants. I would be the girl who did you wrong and who never really loved you. My name would be a perfect two syllables, and it would rhyme with everything. V. "Apologies" sorry that i love you sorry that you don't love me sorry that you are so annoyed by my virtual inability to complete a VI. "About A Fling" early on a thursday morning you toss a coin (heads you get head tails you get tail) i beside you sitting mid-week sleepy and work-tired smiling and apathetic yes and yes again wishing that the holidays hadn't ended with a call from a payphone the liberal use of the word "fuck" a coin toss chocolate sandwich cookies with a smooth cream filling a soft yes VII. "On The Word 'Fuck'" Should I use the word "fuck" on the next album? All depends on what? The line goes something like this: "I treated her like an object! something to fuck ... "

All depends. How the fuck you using it?

{Paraphrasing Loosely}

Well there's screw, but screw just doesn't have the same ring to it. I thought that maybe I could substitute the word "fuck" with the word "use" As in "I treated her like an object! something to use ... " But that's not really what I want to say I want to say "fuck"

Hmm let's see Is there an alternai.ive? Some word that isn't "fuck" but means the same thing as "fuck" and with the same connotation as "fuck"?

Man if "fuck" is what you want to say then go ahead and say "fuck" Exercise your right as a fucking artist man

everyone else [and me] eating mac and cheese from the same bowl sans fork trying too hard to avoid eye contact pretending too hard that art does not imitate life. VIII. "What I Really Thought About Your Second Album"


You gave me a plastic coffin closed air-tight. You gave me a forced smile. You gave me a puppy but forgot to poke airholes in the box. You gave me a window to a sterile little round disc of a world that I

can never fit inside. You held me near you but our lips never touched. I drove a blue mile down Broadway on empty chewing on left-over listening to what you gave me Recycled bits of you. IX. uAn Ode To The Late Sylvia Plath


I know that you would never try to hurt me Words spoken in bed dipping Oreos into the shared glass of milk that is breaking a cold sweat in his graceful guitar-player's hand i know that you would never try to hurt me Knowing that he would not have to try He is the expert on accidents and everything else only an hour ago watching the Simpsons and tipping back a longneck Small wonder that he thinks himself stylish and unusual Avant-garde even So blissfully unaware of how his criticism stings Of how the venom in his words can seep through my veins to my heart Like the bitch who claimed that I was trying to be Sylvia Plath (Whoever that is) X. uTo Be Written About" To be written about is to be skinned alive and scalded purple with little-girl hurt. To be written about is to know that people are talking about you behind your back to your face. To be written about is to be reduced to a grammatical conquest, two happy syllables that rhyme with everything. Written about, I am not real anymore. I am Laylayougotmeonmyknees I am Roxanneyoudon'thavetoputontheredlight I am Lucyintheskywithdiamonds. uFucking" me like I'm nobody Watching me die from the inside out asking me what it's like so that you can write a song about it.

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Kolsubx / Mariell Utsman

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In the Dream / Jodie Simpson

erlt 01ni aosl0 gniqqib bsd ni ne>!oqa 2blOW sm nuri 01 Ylt lsvsn bluow uoy 1srlt won>! I 1sri! woml i bnsri a'leyslq-ls1iug lule:Js1g airl ni tsewa blo:J s gni)!ssld ai tsrlt >llim to 2aslg belsria -i:J:Js no nsqxs eri1 2i eH Ylt 01 'O\lS(\ ton bluow eri t6r1t gniwon)l em nuri at Ylt leven bluow uoY )/osngnol 6 )bsd gniqqit bn6 anoaqmi2 sri1 gnirl:J1sw ogs lUOri ns ylno sale gniritylsvS bn6 atnsb to s1swsnu yllulaaild 02 nsve eblsg-tnsvA IsualJnlJ bns riailyta lleamirl a)/nirlt eri1srlt lsbnow IIsm2 nssrl ym 01 anisv ym riguOlrlt qee2 nS:J ablow airi ni monsv srit wori lO agnii2 maioitj,:J airi worl (ai 1sri11eveoriW) ritslct sivly2 so ot gniVlt asw I 1srit bemisb orlw ri:Jtid erit s>!U

Katty and I are having lunch, I am telling her about my teeth, hoping to identify with her, that she will have an answer, I tell her about my gums bleeding, my teeth hurting all the time, dingy and unprotected, the enamel fizzed and scrubbed off from stomach acid followed by torturous brushing, pressing hard with the brush, my mouth filling with blood, replacing the bitter taste of bile. Frantic, not to hide the purging fro m others, (everyone knows), but to make it less disgusting to me, ta make me less disgusting.

"tuodA nsttilW e8 aT" .X ed oT .nuri hig-el:ttil rltiw elqluq bebls02 bns evils benni>la ed 01 ai fuods nettilw sd oT ed oT .s:Jsl lUOY at >!:Jsd lUOY bnirled uoy lUods gnbllst elS elqoeq tsrit won>! ot ai fuods ns1tilw rl1iw emyril tsrit 2eldsllY2 yqqsri ow! ,t2eupno:J Isoitsmmslg s 01 bS:Jubel ed ot ai tuods ne:ttilw ms I aeen>!ymnoem10guoyslysJ ms I .slOmyns ISSl ton ms I ,tuod6 ne1tilW . ~f\\\'\''f\'O\I'O m'l e>lil em "gnbbu=i" .abnomsibritiwy)/aerltniY:JuJ ms I trlgilbeleritnotuqotevsrlfnobuoysnnsxoA gnoa 6 etilw nso uoy tsri! 02 s)/il a'ti tsrlw em gni>l2s tuo ebiani eri! mOll sib em gniri:J!sW ybodon .ti tuods

Katty laughs and says how bulimia is supposed to be glamorous, the struggle of fashion models and Princess Di. You can even fool yourself sometimessliding your svelte new self into sleek size six pants, still able to eat steak and chocolate while unlucky girlfriends nibble salads and laugh even less than you. The mirage disappeared, my vision hazy like in heat, the first time i wiped the splashed toilet water and vomit from my face and determinedly continued, my finger down my throat until the yellow bile was all that stung my raw cuticle. Katty, the way I saw my mother when I was a child; no problems of her own, able to take mine, get in my skin and make them hers, says soothingly, Jodie, get rid ofyour hard toothbrushes. We need soft ones. We need to be soft with ourselves.

~\\~?~\J \hi",~M. \ ~~\t1.l\))\



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Virtues / Bettina Wabby

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Nemesis / Sara Bellah The yellow commander taps my eyelids with effulgent arms, telling me to turn my gaze to the window where a flock of birds pepper the mashed potato clumps in the sky. Two pairs of eyes roll around like dice, toss back and forth to each other, and land on my stomach. Smiles confirm the success of a risky gamble for my life. Excitement blankets my body when I notice the absence of syringes, strips, my monitor, medicine-memos of my nemesis that sits beside me in the form of a person. I grab the disease by the neck and squeeze it like a tube of toothpaste. My anger materializes into hateful hooks, jabs, punches, kicks. I always wished my enemy was a person so I could beat the shit out of it.

Brimstone / Bradford E. Tiee I went to Hell in the pocket of a leather carry-on case, wedged in berween Q-tips and a Trojan. How hot leather is, a second fleshsalted, dried, and infernal. I passed through customs on the outer circle, was sniffed out exiting by Cerberus and a packet of demons in rweed. Don't remember much of the interimBlunt blows, a searing wind, smoke on the air. I came to consciousness in a three-story mall, a Kasbah of jewelers, tailors, and dwarves selling songs for a quarterrwo dimes and a nickel will buy you stock in the soul. I washed myself in the penny fountain. Ex-wives passed in shock at the sightme in the baptismal, trampling wishes. Then I beheld him, the serpent in a garden of potted palms, reclining on a bench reading the Times. He was refined, subduedthe soft-spoken power of a meteor smoking. He studied me over the Business sectiona sea lion observed by a lobbyist for Exxon.

Bestial Beings / Deborah Chaney

He beckoned and I came, dodging mannequins over bleached marble, to stoop upon his platform. Centuries I spent at his right. Whispers crawled over my brain, and I learned.

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Then the Closeout Sale came- reduced prices rock bottom, dirt cheapso we bought and we sold the world in a day, haggling over bric-a-brac whittled from redwoods, tiny, ivory elephants taken home in plastics.

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I spent blood money, and I watched as the fountains clouded until the sparkle of pennies died like ember.


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I turned away- bought pastel palaces, tracts of open air, and countless suits of rweed .



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scratch the end of the line Lift it off the page And eat it.

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Stars glisten, tinfoil snow, I dream I am transparent-Light Shrugged Off Stars / Ashley VanDoorn hanging portraits on sky-hooks First there is a garden of birds-while reclining in a wall of water. eagles gleaning wind above my head, Back on earth, grasshoppers sip from shoe-print puddles. crows gathered in the oak screaming black Bees come to sting my lips closed, words from sleek black bodies, but words drain from my mouth in waves a cardinal silent and red and the bees fall to the ground. cracking a sunflower seed in its hooked beak, dropping the shell, working the innards down its throat, Meanwhile Erin has her own dream-the sick mallard I once brought to my mother, Adam as a mercenary of ice, alternating wrapped in my dress, crooning to it, between mercy and justice. She takes on the gauntlet before she told me to take the filthy thing of his body with ease, sways into it from a distance. back to the lake and let it die. He's a cityscape framed in concrete and vapor. She's winding along dusty streets, working through the maze in his head toward the masonry of a kiss: shattered brick.


At the Lake / Emily Lambertsen

A boy with glitter-coated hair and black-rimmed eyes dances in front of the flowerbed, flaps his arms so wildly his knuckles click like locks. 1 call him Christopher, cannibal of my panorama. My words are filaments carried in the grip of birds, Back in my sleep, Adam is telling me tinsel strings sent by winged messengers to catch them up-she tastes like basil and turnips. Adam and Erin, Christopher and my mother, He says at night while she sleeps he folds look through me I'm invisible now, her loose hairs into snowflakes. not a denizen of bedlam, not angry anymore. He's jealous of my transparency, wants to fade so he tips a bottle of bleach to his lips and drinks. It's absurd how 1 tried to be the hero My mother arrives in a blizzard of knots by inaugurating myself the derelict daughter, and last words, running on air, defending her against a surrogate child her heels tarnished, arsenic on her breath, who contains no disorder. This time a fusillade of remorse. we'll say the right things-- 1 go to the sky and bring back alphabets of light shrugged off stars, and I'm mixing the bright letters with our wrong words, an elixir we can eat, the vibrance of our gorging unavoidable.

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Nightmare Sonnet / Kevin Saylor From the next room I hear the springs creaking and know that Claus' wife and the bunny are at it again. She takes his money and gives him what he wants until he's shrieking. I love to hear their noise and watch, peeking through the hole in the wall. It's almost funny, the things Mrs. Claus will do for a twenty. They come Tuesdays, while Nicholas is tweaking the newest toys. She doesn't think Claus knows that she has a bunny for a playmate. He knows. He doesn't care. He spends in this motel as well, ripping off and nibbling on his tooth-swap does not care about the

Anneke / Amelia Caron Here she brushed her hair. Here she read. here she WROTE. Here she

~~NC~() ate. slept. laughed. dreamed. breathed.

Here Behind this bookcase she lived.

Here she died.


untitled /].R. Wicker One day When your eyelids Turn to shadows And that rattling window pane of a life Falls from its old worn hinges Flapping free in its wind That's when you'll see those old faded faces Saved on old dying shelves, Your former selves Falling inward, searching for a center. And you, You will just stand there under sunset and streetlight that turns to headlight on the dark stone tablet of your eye. The same shadow place you hid bloody noses and bycicle rides, and fast food wrappers. The same place you conquered your corners and jagged edges through ink scribblings that seemed to whisper:

"We will also foil inward, Andyou, You will be left alone. "

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Rapid Eye Movement Blues / Stephen "Seed" Lynn for Neicey

Baby dreams about blues She's deep in REM* sleep with Holiday and Hughes / I'm Probably the poet and baby be the muse/ or Maybe I'm the sound in her belly The blues It doesn't matter I should stay/ and hold her Through the nightmare/ tell her It's ok, I'm right here Like in the movies But tonight/ I love you be blues I love you be blues to Neicey Baby dreams off deep blue nights on speakeasy islands She/ floats on smoke Her spine inclined on clef notes as the blue notes breaststroke Now/ in this one, I'm the clef note Her musical masseuse/ atmosphere Like the cloud cubes in her sky blue juice Does it matter? I should wake her, tell her I refuse to be used/ that I don't want to be no song lyrics swimming in her blues/ that Love is a spectrum of many tunes and hues/ that Blend like black and blue in a bruise

But tonight/ I love you be blues I love you been blues to Neicey Who sinks beneath her sheets like a laden lady demon Who hisses at my love songs and begs me not to sing them/ who Stretched her buttocks into djembe skins and asked me to play them And I played them Who wants me to believe I have the power to seduce Who told me that her back was sorel and did not tell the truth Neicey, Who bloomed from her dream like a drunken rose And said I love you/ in the tone Of a question posed

(*Rapid Eye Movement- the stage ofsleep in which one dreams)



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Teaching "Dreamworks>1: Seventeen Years and Still Going

I had no inkling of what I was voyaging into in 1985, when I proposed a class on "Dreamworks: Poetry Writing." The material uncovered by the students over the last seventeen years has been surprIsIng, fresh, authentic, and confident. Poems from "Dreamworks" have tended to trust imagery rather than to intellectualize, to invest images with strong feeling, and to integrate many years and aspects of the poet's experience. In "Dreamworks," students are required to keep a dream journal. Reading aloud from the journals in class helps to bring us into a sense of community. Students always decide which journal material they will present. At mid-term, and at the end of the course, they are required to hand in a specified number of pages of edited journal material. The language of this edited journal must be crafted, "worked," of interest to an outside reader. Each week students hand in a poem drawn from their dream material; the challenge for them is to use language skillfully, to communicate rather than to leave the images in a private place. Immersion in such writing is like learning a foreign language; in the usual poetry workshops it takes about five weeks until everyone is "speaking poetry," the condensed language of images and music. In "Dreamworks" it usually takes two or three weeks for people to start speaking to each others' images and structures by creating their own. The quality of the dream poetry depends upon all the standard devices of prosody. Writing from dreams encourages formal experimentation-by mid-term I see concrete poetry, poetry and art, dream maps, performance pieces and prose poems, as well as more traditional lyrics. Mid-term and final manuscripts of edited poetry also receive grades. Textbooks typically include Robert Bly's News of the Universe, an anthology of Romantic poetry from Blake to the present; In Mad Love and War, by Joy Harjo (contemporary poetry); an anthology of Native American poetry; Rimbaud: Complete Poems, translated and edited by Wallace Fowlie. I have also used Andre Breton's Manifestoes of Surrealism, Nadia, and other Surrealist texts. On the optional list, I add Robert Bosnak's A Little Course in Dreams, a Jungian primer. At the outset, I explain that we are exploring our dreams for literary purposes, not to analyze them or to interpret them. Even the most practiced and brilliant dreamers will have times of not dreaming, or not remembering the dreams. Many students stop dreaming for a few days or even weeks after they start the course-perhaps because they start thinking of dreaming as an obligation. Dreamers are encouraged to note their "resistance," to keep writing, about anything, until the dreams return. I ask the students to use the Jungian technique of "active imagination" in exploring their dreams. Using this tool, they can continue their dreams, learn from the images and characters within, probe them and bring back insights and a sense of closure. This activity requires a kind of attentive daydreaming, where one allows the imagination to play over the images from a dream, to ask questions. Rose Becallo showed me a dream-journal entry that included the image of a cauldron. I suggested that Rose should use active imagination to let the cauldron "speak." She came to the next class with the following poem: The Cauldron's Reply My ladle clangs against her walls and she cries "Boum!. . .HMM. .. HMM . .hmmm. " Her voice travels round and round her lip. "Deep is my cavern, wider and blacker, thicker than this night. Talk into the hollow where I cradled hot boiling lye, the scent lingering in my pores. Take hold of the rim of me, the gristle of my cast-iron edge, worked up through the blazes of old toils.

Ifyou ask,

I will talk of the long night past, of my mother's vein within the clay The crusty black flakes from my walls. My ore dies in air. JJ


Rose's poem holds its own lyrical magic, centered around images connected with maternity, magic, and witchcraft. For her Master's thesis, Rose presented a book of poems called The Cauldron's Reply. From the dream, the poem, from the cauldron, a wealth of creative life. Over a semester, dreams often provide the poets with the opportunity to explore difficult emotions, and to grieve when necessary. Claire Hall wrote wonderful poems about her grandmother's death which had hit her hard. Claire's concise poem recalls healing songs from the oral tradition: Dream: I Join My Grandmother The fire that warms our house is slowly burning its timbers. Grandmother says, It's been good to have this time. There's so much to die to. [ hope [ die like a good fire, too, bones rotten with heat, collapsing into smaller hotter piles till there's only what a breath could blow away.

At the beginning of the semester it is common for students to record dreams about swamps, dark places, tunnels, basements, etc. The journals tend to support Bosnak's outline of the alchemical sequence Jung saw frequently in dreams. At the start, the dreams often take place in the stage called "nigredo," (Bosnak 67), a desolate place which can be a signal that a transformation is about to occur. This positive way of relating to the "dark" images is helpful to the writers, as it casts even the difficult material in the light of self-discovery and potentially useful imagery for poetry. Drew Dumsch's first edited journal entry began: "1. walking through gray wasted streets (Waste Land?" streets are dark and yet there seems to be much movement from behind (inside) the buildings." The end of this entry outlined serious concerns: "I look into the window with much curiosity and inside I can see these acts: suicide (man about to hang himself), pin-up women undressing, young people smoking (drugs), rape? murder. .. " The ensuing dreams record images of sunken ships, sharks, earthquakes ("I begin to fall in but I'm pretty well willing it not to end here ... a cassette tape (among others) falls past me and I grab for it ... ") Drew saved the memory of the journey, the record, and the feelings: "I can only save one thing of remembrance and it is a card made by a little girL.such a sweet sad feeling this sacrifice ... " Drew began to cherish the artwork created by the little girl-by the opposite, or "anima" figure. The final passage recorded in the mid-semester journal by Drew Dumsch depicted him in a playful mood, at a prom. His date, "Jennifer Joyce," was wearing "white chiffon," and as to Drew's costume: I am funky clad: tan suit with black bowtie, shoes, suspenders, white tux shirt. on my head a Frank Sinatra hat, black shades too. Dancing like a maniac and everyone's hip to it until [ do the famous cosmic lift move, hoist myself in the air by the crotch and hit some poor blonde next to me in the nose with a stray elbow...

Drew depicted himself as the Trickster, the archetype of the artist in his playful mood, the anarchist but also the culture-giver. At heart a writer of fiction, Drew was letting me-his poetry teacher-know that he was taking "Joyce" to the prom. Sexual energy is the artist's source of movement and flight here, though he's a comic and his slapstick won't help him him much with the blonde. These images integrate the "black shades" with a white tux; white signifies the "albedo" in Jung's schema, the world of reflected light and poetry (Bosnak 67). The hint of the next stage (If cor:sciousness, the "ruSedc" in Jung's theory, showed itself ir: the tan suit ;::.nd the "blonde," whose coloration suggested the "light," the movement toward meaning, and "the path oflaw" (Bosnak 72). When students are conscientious about recording their dreams over a semester, their journals that begin with images of pain often end with lines that explicitly speak of relief. Mter working through difficult material concerning her father, Jennifer Murrian concluded her midterm journal with this dream: "I have a pain in my foot that has been with me in waking for years. It is in the area just under my toes. I know that it is a piece of glass. I pull it out with tweezers with relief." The faithful work of recording dreams and shaping them into poetry often results in narratives or images of healing. The writers in "Dreamworks" tell their dreams in their own words, inscribing themselves in poetry as they envision themselves. Over a semester, dreamers often move closer to the center of their dreams in terms of spatial images. So many transformations have taken place: dreams to words, dreams to poems, self to creative self Embracing transformations is part of the lesson of "Dreamworks"-we learn to shape our dreams, to become active toward them, as they send us back into our lives with new clarity and enthusiasm. Marilyn Kallet Acknowledgements: The dream poems and excerpts .from student journals are reprinted by permission ofthe authors. I am gratefol to each of these poets.


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Each Christmas, my father complains often wohnlw 5rb 2blSW01 L5I~0.s ~oi1JiG 21 5th about visiting my grandmother. ,11 dguo1fb JUO ;goDIooI 100 lUd "The house is so hot ,q.s115d no ;goin5' bns '{I~25InJ55q2 b5hlol 2bnsrI they keep that thermostat up so that .5won 15d 2.s ln5li2 2.l> heavy hands seat you down wi£l1uJ 5 us;g JIh dguo1fb ~nilJj[mum 1r1~iI 5n1 d1iw and press you forever into the couch, in front of the television. ,15n hnid5d Watch talk shows until your eyes bleed out." oidJ 15n hnu01£ ;gniYluJ '{h5h051 ,lisn Los bS5d 15d 2qUJ Ji .5)£ldrn, h5nlOm £ oj I say (to myself) 25'{5 15d 10 5uId 5Ib dJiw 2552 5n2 J£dw 15hno'N i nwob gni~oo ,{Ii}bi12 lIin ,5Jsl15d 10 JUO b5ni£lh it's like remembering dreams 215hlIJod2 15ri OJ gni;gnib bo.s that you really shouldn't.xr:w 5~iI airless and stuffy; the slight endless touching of soft images mo01 5riJ ~ni15J05 me i against your skin, you look down ,h5ib 15dlOITIbo£1;g-1f>51S '(m 515nw ,25msl) 51UJJiq qu gobbiq and see the scratch marks.;g '{m 1£ gflj~ool ,15Ib.r.1h01n;g '{m nJiw X£W 5rb qu b515dJs~ bsd 5n05m02 I15dw >.hsd .2J~))b02 5'{5 15n omi )bsd 5uld 5rh b5f!Joom2 hos entering my grandmother's house is like committing a crime, disturbing the air with the movement of the door feels like 5wod 2'15nJOcobnRl;g '{co goiY£51 co£ i breaking into a home and robbing it... 5wod h5d1omhosl;g '{m ;gniYS5l bos here i follow the ugliest brown carpet to the mirror ,5min .& ~nil1immoJ 5~i1 2i where 5~iI 2b5110ob 5dli0 ln5m5vom 5nJ nliw lis 5dl ;gnidlU}2ib not so long ago ,ii oq2 01 JUO JooI 5dl ~Iliys51 hflR ::>coon s ;goidd01 i was not so tall hhow 5bi21UO 5dl oi gnin5l as to allow my head to appear in its image. my teapots are still .5biwi J.& b5rlwn I155d Lsd Jsnw '{llsnn hoI, there, on the table. 5wod 2'15dJOmhflsl~ '{m ~niYS5l i place my bags in the room where my great-grandmother died. 15vol ,UO'{ ~ni'{sll5d 5~iI 2i my brother lodges himself in front of the television. 5won h::Hhomhn£lg '{CO aniYS5l my mother blindly begins to cook and clean. ;gninw01b ~n'uo'{ ;gniJl5g101 5){i! (i my father sweats and tugs his sweater, trapped. '{£W.& ~njn01J1 5){iI


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Freudian Slip Like Freud this slip can help you interpret dreams or in this case the dream-like content of this magazine. To clearly view the content, simply slip the blank side of this sheet behind each page you wish to view.


'~~ULJ .'~



Phoenix - Spring 2011  

The editorially independent student literary and arts magazine of the University of Tennessee.

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