Dreaming Memory
Prose poem prompt: Liminal landscapes
Afloat — in this oceanic unconscious realm, tossed from one dream-wave to another, leaving nothing but swirling fractals of myself behind, miniscule particles of salt suspended in seawater, soon dissolved. Dreaming memory works in reverse, instantly destroying what was made. Yet, sometimes, I emerge onto the shores of conscious life, with salt on my cheeks, wondering are they tears, or traces of the sleeping mind’s unbridled imaginings?
Now that Hypnos has had his way with me— holding me under his watery spell of sleep — every night I must learn again how to breathe underwater, growing gills where the skin of my neck is softest. Floating through cities I visited as a child, buildings looming over me, submerged underwater like modern Atlantises. Swimming above the wreckage of abandoned longings, drunken ghost-ships leaning forever starboard with no stars — never again — to guide their path. I try not to get trapped in their half-loosed sails and rigging — groaning hulls emitting strange calls like lost whales. I’ve survived another night.
If you reach out to touch me now, will your fingers pass right through me — or slow down, as if moving through water? I am barely there. Watching my feet walk far below me, in this liminal realm between the ocean of sleep and the grainy shores of waking life, I walk like the fairy tale mermaid, given legs to dance for her Prince. I walk with the memory of a mermaid’s tail, with soft sweeps so as not to disperse this delicate sea-foam state.
Neither asleep nor awake, solid nor liquid, senses and sounds about me both magnified and muffled, as if my head is still underwater. My body, retaining cellular imprints of myself at different ages. I am sixteen, walking the foamy ocean’s edge of a deserted coastline, breasts bared to the breeze. I’m twenty-seven, relishing sand between toes, hand in hand with my dark-haired poet. I’m five, holding hands with my mother, as we hunt for shells on a never-ending tropical shoreline.
And the sun, and the sun, and the sun — always the sun, as it brightens, and blazes and burns.
I tell myself to keep hold— mother, lover, younger self— to bring them back with me, an alchemical, time-space miracle. But, as this bed becomes more solid beneath me, their substance is of water or sand, flowing and falling away through my fingertips. I will myself to stay here just a moment and a moment and one moment more —
Hush, world — don’t wake me yet.
© Melissa Coffey December 2022
Note: Hypnos was the Greek god of sleep.
Here is this month’s “rotating” prompt — I’m trialling alternating between a poetry and prose poem prompt per month for a while, as things are somewhat unstable in my life at present. December chaos has made this rather late, but not too late to be wrapped in a big red bow and put under the tree in time for Christmas.
December’s Prose Poem Prompt: Liminal Landscapes
Lately, I’ve been having prolonged periods before fully waking up where I’m still dreaming, but aware I’m dreaming. These dreams have been vivid and intense, sometimes disturbing, leaving strong sensorial imprints after I wake. This led me to musing on liminal states of consciousness, and how they’re often seen as sources of creativity.
For this month’s prompt, paint a picture in words of a liminal landscape intriguing or fascinating to you. It could be fiction or something you’ve experienced. Liminal states are characterized by disorientation, so feel free to dive into the surreal, the fantastical, or the absurd. Try keeping a notepad and pen right by the bed and writing stream-of-conscious style as soon as you wake up!
Merriam-Webster’s definition of liminal is:
- of, relating to, or situated at a sensory threshold : barely perceptible or capable of eliciting a response
- : of, relating to, or being an intermediate state, phase, or condition : in-between, transitional
Some liminal scenarios that you could explore are:
- between sleeping and waking, or the reverse (both generally known as hypnagogia)
- rites of passage
- between life and death
- the early chaotic phase of pandemic life
- transformations (magical, mythical, mystical)
- Temporal / seasonal spaces: twilight, dawn, solstice or equinox
- transitions into any other altered states of consciousness
Check out this fascinating Wikipedia article that discusses the various concepts of liminality — from anthropology to depth psychology and postmodernism.
Lastly, a shout out to Sheri Jacobs and her awesome article on ways to access creativity. Sheri discusses “hypnagogia” as a creative state. Originally, that was my prose poem’s title and the starting point for this prompt.
Tagging some of our stupendous Scritturites. I look forward to seeing what you conjure up!
J.D. Harms Jane Smallwood Ilaria Mangiardi Jeff Langley Samantha Lazar Joe Luca Joseph Lieungh Barry Dawson Jr. IV Ann Marie Steele Andrea Juillerat-Olvera Annine Massaro Rowen Veratome Lori Lamothe Laurie Perez Sally A Mortemore Kristie Darling Suzanne V. Tanner Mimi Bordeaux Alice Armour Paroma Sen Era Garg Josie Elbiry Jenine Bsharah Baines Wry Welwood Danielle Loewen Eleanore Christine Lennie Varvarides Caitlin Rebecca Pablo Pereyra Sydney Duke Richey Sydney J. Shipp Caroline Mellor Erika Burkhalter Rachel K. Gause Amy L. Bernstein Breathe & Be Still Betsy Denson Niki Madore Mark Tulin Dana Sanford Jesse M. Gonzalez I am not a Robot Viraji Ogodapola Marilyn J Wolf Rhonda Marrone Enne Baker allie wisniewski Blake Blossoms Ravyne Hawke Laura Misener Ana-Maria Schweitzer Gary Chapin km. rowe
Thanks for an amazing year of edgy, brave, inspiring, galvanizing writing — wishing everyone a Merry Christmas and happy holidays!
Keep up the wordsmithing & metaforging …
Melissa
On Idea Generation:
