{"id":15614,"date":"2015-03-17T06:36:56","date_gmt":"2015-03-17T11:36:56","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/lisadelay.com\/blog\/?p=15614"},"modified":"2015-03-17T06:41:27","modified_gmt":"2015-03-17T11:41:27","slug":"dreams","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/lisadelay.com\/blog\/dreams\/","title":{"rendered":"Dreams"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"MaryVican\"<\/p>\n

Dreams are something that have interested me since I was very young. I came across this poem and thought it captured the mystique and intrigue of dream life and I just had to share it.
\nEnjoy.<\/p>\n

DREAMS<\/em><\/strong>
\nby Mark Strand (April 11, 1934\u2013November 29, 2014)<\/p>\n

Trying to recall the plot
\nAnd characters we dreamed,
\nWhat life was like
\nBefore the morning came,
\nWe are seldom satisfied,
\nAnd even then
\nThere is no way of knowing
\nIf what we know is true.
\nSomething nameless
\nHums us into sleep,
\nWithdraws, and leaves us in
\nA place that seems
\nAlways vaguely familiar.
\nPerhaps it is because
\nWe take the props
\nAnd fixtures of our days
\nWith us into the dark,
\nAssuring ourselves
\nWe are still alive. And yet
\nNothing here is certain;
\nLandscapes merge
\nWith one another, houses
\nAre never where they should be,
\nDoors and windows
\nSometimes open out
\nTo other doors and windows,
\nEven the person
\nWho seems most like ourselves
\nCannot be counted on,
\nFor there have been
\nToo many times when he,
\nLike everything else, has done
\nThe unexpected.
\nAnd as the night wears on,
\nThe dim allegory of ourselves
\nUnfolds, and we
\nFeel dreamed by someone else,
\nA sleeping counterpart,
\nWho gathers in
\nThe darkness of his person
\nShades of the real world.
\nNothing is clear;
\nWe are not ever sure
\nIf the life we live there
\nBelongs to us.
\nEach night it is the same;
\nJust when we\u2019re on the verge
\nOf catching on,
\nA sense of our remoteness
\nCloses in, and the world
\nSo lately seen
\nGradually fades from sight.
\nWe wake to find the sleeper
\nIs ourselves
\nAnd the dreamt-of is someone who did
\nSomething we can\u2019t quite put
\nOur finger on,
\nBut which involved a life
\nWe are always, we feel,
\nAbout to discover.<\/p>\n

From Mark Strand’s Collected poems.\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n