A Dream Named You

At the time I began writing poetry, in the summer of 1996, I felt like a divided soul.

On one hand, I was given a public image as the Unabomber’s good and responsible brother. On the other, I endured a personal crisis as I watched my family and my world come apart. My innate sense of self was disrupted by traumatizing circumstances and by having a new, imposed identity. In my public persona, I felt vulnerable but transparent; in my more private space, I felt safe but invisible.

In time, I discovered a public voice that I used to humanize my brother, to talk about his illness, and to advocate for social justice. To be effective, I realized, I needed to be sane and rational. Connecting with others, especially those who had suffered losses as a result of violence, helped me feel whole again.

In writing these poems, I found a more personal voice: a more intimate way of telling my story. Writing poetry is my attempt to reclaim and reintegrate (and also to question) my sense of who I was and am, to connect in some way the inward-facing and outward-facing aspects that presumably are needed to make a “whole” person.

These poems are dedicated to and named for my wife Linda. Anyone who has listened closely to my public narrative must understand that behind the saga of the Unabomber and his brother there is an untold story – Linda’s. Whether or not her story of integrity and courage is ever told, her presence is a key to the larger story.

In most public discourse, blocks of meaning are presented and accepted with little questioning. But in a poem, everything is up for grabs. Poets do not aim to fill space but rather to discover it – to uncover a world that is less determined, more open and alive.

A Dream Named You is an attempt to trace a spiritual journey across such a landscape from loss to affirmation.