My Dream And Carl Poem by Herbert Nehrlich

I had another dream,
one of so many, lately.
Interpretation is a laugh,
the book has yellowed
through the ages, was born
in Switzerland, in Snowy Valley,
not far from the old hut.

Out on the ridge and overlooking
the Loetschental, and its small brook.
Carl had spent many summers here,
to locals he was a well worn recluse
who smoked a pipe to help the flow
of thoughts and brilliant poppycock,
which he would turn into new theories,
while tolerating not a whisper,
even the wind did have his orders,
the Master was in thought, it was enough.

What would he say, in Jungian Depth,
that Tiefenpsychologie, it had conceived
itself under his watchful brows.
Would he screw up his weathered face
and nod, while earnest eyes regarded
first me then new dimensions deep inside,
and would he pull the corners of his mouth
down in a gesture of a modicum of pity?


'I have discovered in my dream, dear Sir,
the meaning of the word we all call LOVE,
it was a simple answer to an ageless riddle,
and left to me as a decipherer of note.

The trifling act of gently placing, softly
the covers on a child, as if a lullaby
could take the time to stay and be a part
of little dreams and rosy cheeks until the morn.
I know with certainty that even teddy bears
do always welcome this companion, it's called love.'

And Jung took out his pipe and stabbed at me,
'Young man, you may be right, you surely
and unexplainably, do have me baffled,
just a trifle, you understand, it will take time
to carry out an examination of this hair-brained
and layman's theory, call it hypothesis.'

Re-lighting his companion he espoused,
eyes dark, downcast at first then bright as glacial ice,
'it will be necessary now to find if proof exists
so let us wander to the village to procure
a child with rosy cheeks, all ready to retire.'