“Years ago, a poet friend showed me a photo of her cat, taken on the spur of the moment, with a cigarette in her furry chops. The cat was walking across a thick springy lawn. If I hadn’t trusted my friend, I would have shrugged and said, ‘I don’t believe it for one second—get me another beer, please.’ This poem of mine is all about the unbelievable, which visits me in dreams, with the help of godsend Polish poet Wislawa Szymborska.”
—Gary Soto

Two days ago I shared Szymborska’s 1996 poem In Praise of Dreams. It was picked up last year, almost a quarter century later, by a poet of Mexican-American descent who grew up in the barrios of Fresno, CA, doing child labor in the fields and vineyards of California. When he was 5 years old, his father was killed in a work accident at the Sunmaid Raisin factory and the family faced extreme poverty.

Gary Soto has become a major voice for describing the experience and plight of Mexican American communities, both as a poet and a children’s author. His accomplishments as both author and educator have led to numerous awards, including a nomination for the Pulitzer prize.

He is, true to his roots, also an ambassador of the United Farm Workers of America (UFWA), which means that during his visits to libraries and schools, he introduces kids to the legacy of the United Farm Workers organization. The UFWA is the largest organization of farm workers in the United States.

Here is his version of the dreamscape.

In Praise of Dreams

By Gary Soto 

after Wisława Szymborska

In my dreams,
I lasso a wild steer on the first try.

I chauffeur Picasso
To meet up with Dali—
None of us is happy about this summit.

After licking my fingertips,
I play guitar masterfully.

I use index cards to make sense
Of the universe.

I discover my childhood cat in the neighbor’s tree—
So that’s where you’ve been, you little rascal.

I beg the alligator, por favor,
To make a snap judgement,
Will it be my leg or my arm?

Picture me swimming with dolphins.
Picture me with these dolphins
Sitting in lawn chairs.

I’m full of gratitude—
The lightbulb comes on
When the refrigerator door is opened.

Yes, I’m the scientist who solved laryngitis—
Now all of us howl at our own pleasure.

I get to throw a trophy from a moving car.
When I park my car,
I’m awarded another trophy—
Someone above is giving me a second chance.

Going out on a limb here, figuring these words are not all about the unbelievable, but a reflection of lived experience. None of the omnipotence of its Polish counterpart – none of the rigid structure either, stanzas varying in length, statements diverting from the “I can do this or that” on multiple occasions, making it somehow more conversational.

Here is the longing of a kid, stuck scraping beets in the fields, to work with cowboys, a moot desire.

Here is the servant to the narcissistic master painter(s), not a genius himself, just a chauffeur, as would be likely.

Protecting roughed up fingertips to play guitar, not unbelievable.

Using index cards to make sense of the world – show me an English as a Second Language speaker, I’ll show you the cards.

Time travel back to childhood, not ancient Greece, remembering the cat.

No invincibility when facing harm – just hoping it’s going to be an arm or a leg, not and arm and a leg as the loan sharks would extract.

The dolphins? No clue. Yes, unbelievable, unless they are fat tourists at the Gulf of Mexico.

Now gratitude for a working fridge, a sentiment never expressed or even hinted at in the preceding poem by Szymborska. Acknowledgment of plain necessities.

Solving a medical condition, a feat enabling universal howling: the state of the world that causes grief remains untouched.

But there are second chances – and explicit reference to a power above rather than the mastery of one’s own fate.

Belief in that is up to the beholder.

These remind me so much more of real dreams, allow for feeling closer to the dreamer, convey a modesty and realism that make this poem speak to the heart, where the original one spoke to the head. Both have their role, of course. But even poems deserve their second chance!

On days like this I go for the humanity rather than intellect. No trophies needed.

Photographs today are from Chicano Park at the Barrio Logan in San Diego.