One of My Favorite Poems Revised: What Dreams May Come

Dream-like Reflection of Sycamore Trees in Water

Well, this poem from page 52 of Atheists and Empty Spaces (if you have the defunct Austin McCauley publication) took me a long time to revise. It is a fairly complicated poem written in Spenserian stanzas adapted somewhat by Keats, and any word changes or other revisions made sticking to that form very difficult. I do not believe that a particular form makes a poem, but choosing a form and not changing it can sure make a poet work awfully hard. This was a tough poem to write, and it is a difficult poem to revise, yet I make changes to it every single time I read through it. Please read through it a few times yourself. Like an onion, this poem has several layers to peel through before you get to the heart of it.

As many of you may recognize, the title itself is not from Keats but from an even more famous writer of verse, William Shakespeare. The words come from the end of line 67 in Act Three, Scene 1 of Hamlet, near the middle of the "To be or not to be" soliloquy. Hamlet says, "For in that sleep of death what dreams may come." I have taken the words somewhat out of context for my use though the "fear" of dreams is still very much at play in my poem.

Primarily, my poem was inspired by two things: John Keats' story/poem The Eve of St. Agnes and a dream that I had sometime in my late-20s or early 30s. The Eve of St. Agnes is a poem about two young lovers who, despite the odds against them and a very cold winter night, escape from her father's castle to live out a life of love. We assume. Once the lovers leave the castle, the tale ends with the Baron and his warriors dreaming of witches and demons. We cannot know how the lovers fare. My dream was not like the dream in my poem except that I dreamed I was locked in a wooden cage on a hilltop. The dream scene occurred during the day though a cold wind blew snow all around me even in the sunshine. The girl in my dream wore normal clothes and never spoke to me even though I asked her again and again why I was being kept in the cage. She was a real person that I knew, a young lady that I dated briefly after I returned home from college and whom I had treated poorly mostly because I was stupid about relationships and such at the time. She deserved better. Anyway, I think my dream occurred because of the guilt that I felt about not giving her my best. Who knows what dreams are really about?

Anyhow, after reading The Eve of St. Agnes for the fifth time, coupled with the strong memories of my guilt dream, I wrote this poem. I think I wrote it originally about 15 years ago, but I don't know that for sure. The initial writing pretty much came out all at once, in less that two or three hours, and I have been revising it since. I still do not believe that a poem is ever finished, and I hope it gets better with every revision. Please accept this highly revised, but probably never finished poem, and, as always, ENJOY!

What Dreams May Come

(Inspired by John Keats’ The Eve of St. Agnes)

The Prologue: Where John Keats Could Not Go

 Porphyro and his Madeline are gone.

The lovers disappeared into a storm,

But reckless tales of passion linger on

And seldom does the story shift its form.

A young man woos a girl remote but warm,

Asleep, she longs to be his loving wife,

Her dreams of him, like bees, come in a swarm

And drown in honey all their waking strife.

Such sleeping beauties rarely come to life.

Still, as John tells us, on St. Agnes’ Eve,

Young virgins might have visions of delight.

Should we find it more suspect to believe

That drowsing men build fantasies at night?

They fabricate erotic thoughts but light

Their feeble halls with matchsticks of desire

So that they soon unwittingly lose sight

That passions roused in visions don’t require

A willing, real-world woman to inspire,

For muses in men’s dreams are not divine.

Their music, yearning like a god in pain,

May just as likely be a fifth of wine

As any made-up goddess with her train.

To augur life from fantasy is vain.

He saw that woman in a crowd last year,

The reason for her presence is quite plain.

The construct summons, and she must appear,

But why aroused and naked is not clear.

We speak of dreams like good Mercutio,

But we’ll not leave our lovers roaming free.

He’ll be confined in deeds he does not know

And she’ll be but a wraith of memory,

Encountered in a hope that cannot be.

My Porphyro will never be so bold

To open up his eyes where he can see

And break away from dreaming’s carnal hold

And, thus, he’ll always be out in the cold.

Part 1: Out in the Cold

On a scarred summit stripped of all its trees,

A man lies quaking in a wooden cage,

A crib that neither blocks nor warms the breeze,

A monument to someone’s icy rage.

He rests in slushy mud, nose to his knees,

And shivers as he surveys memories

For whom it was or what he has done wrong

And why that person’s hatred is so strong.

A freezing drizzle falls from steely skies

And melts in puddles on the muddy floor.

It mixes with the tears that sting his eyes

Until his ducts deliver them no more.

He kneels against the rope-tied door and pries.

He thinks he must escape before he dies

And leaves this world not knowing what he’s done

Or who would torture his poor Mother’s son.

His trembling hands test every stick and knot.

His mind recalls each adversary’s face.

He pokes his limbs through every open slot

And finds each pole fixed firmly in its place.

He finds no weakness here, not one damned spot,

Nor enemy whose ire would be so hot

As to condemn him to this hell of ice

Without so much as seeking his advice.

The daylight fades into a drifting snow.

He has no blanket nor a stitch of clothes.

Can he survive this night? He does not know.

The odds seem greater with each breath he blows.

Yet human voices haunt the vales below

And haloes rise above a man-made glow.

His hopes revive; he starts to walk in place,

And thinks tomorrow he may plead his case.

Sometime near dawn, the snow clouds blow away,

And bitter northern winds shake ice-gripped grass.

The man’s tired shuffle stiffens to a sway.

His feet are freezing in the crib’s morass.

When pitch-black darkness cracks with a new day,

He deems his only option is to pray

That one pretending god will end her wrath.

And look, a wraith appears upon the path!

The specter, walking slowly, wears a hood

And carries in her hands a pot or plate.

She often stops and stares back at the wood

As if her burden bids her hesitate.

The prisoner gives no care and if he could,

Her indecision would serve him no good,

For, in his mind, the phantom in the cape

Is now his first and best chance to escape.

Part 2: A Memory Materializes

As the veiled figure nears the wooden jail,

The captive seeks a face beneath the pall

And finds a visage that he knows quite well,

But, with its age and anguish, not at all,

A lover from his youth, now pale and small,

Who once was tan and supple, lithe and tall.

He whispers her first name from memory

And hopes it is the key to set him free.

She does not seem to hear him nor reply

But hands a rock-hard biscuit through the gate.

Through blue and trembling lips, he asks her “Why?”

She quickly turns to leave as if she’s late.

In desperation, he cries out, “Please wait!

I need some explanation for this fate.

Are you the one who holds me in this spot?

Whoever might have hurt you, I did not!”

She stops; he sees she’s bare beneath the cloak.

Her feet are red and shoeless in the snow.

But she acknowledges the words he spoke,

“You’re here because of me. Now, I should go.”

“I’m here because of you? How is that so?

I’ve suffered more than you have. You should know.

It was your treachery that caused our end.

You are the one who slept with my best friend.”

“That has been years,” he says, “My pain has died.

That deepest cut rarely crosses my mind.

We cannot fix old heartbreaks if we tried,

So it seems best to leave the past behind

And learn to bear a tolerance in kind.”

He makes his claim and scans her face to find

A spark of understanding or regret,

Yet what he sees he will not soon forget.

Part 3: A Matter of Perspective

In her cold heart, no amnesty is won.

His pleas have no effect on her blank stare.

She really must believe that what he’s done

Is crime enough to keep him captive there.

If he should freeze and die, she does not care.

Her judgement of the past seems so unfair.

But if she thinks his life should soon conclude,

What motivated her to bring him food?

“Why did you bring me food? I need to know.

Apparently, you still want me to live,

But if you keep me caged here in the snow

I’m more likely to blame than to forgive.

These bars are less a wall and more a sieve

To icy memories I must relive,

And no just punishment seems rash and harsh

As making all my dreams a frozen marsh.”

A notion came upon him as he spoke.

The frozen snow and slush began to run,

His goose-bumped skin was warmed as if a cloak

Had covered and revived him like the sun,

Which, suddenly, throughout his cell had spun

A glittering web of cheery rays, and one

Of those beams drew him to the woman’s face

Which now revealed no hatred, not one trace.

Her guise had transformed to a lusty glow,

His eyes fell to the curving of her breast,

He felt a stiffening tingle down below

And blushed at sensing that he was not dressed.

She pulled her robe aside to bare the rest

Of a body lusty Venus surely blessed.

Then, all his thoughts of how compassion goes

Are overwhelmed by passion’s pulsing throes.

He reaches through the bars and grabs her hips.

He pulls her back against the wooden cell

He probes a finger in her moistened lips

And gently rubs a stiffening pink swell.

He pokes his penis through the gate, but Hell!

His tip can’t reach the wetness of her well.

But, he can’t stop what thrusting has begun.

Before they are quite started, he is done.

In spasms of release, the sun goes dark,

And deep within him grows a sense of shame.

He feels he’s been a sadist lover’s mark,

A helpless pawn in her tormented game.

But now, he knows this woman’s not to blame.

All his attempts at union end the same.

He gazes at the lady with no clothes

And sees in her form every “she” he knows.

Part 4: The Persistence of Memory

He falls exhausted to the muddy ground.

Portentous storm clouds gather overhead.

Nearby a dove is cooing, but the sound

Seems like old Charon calling for the dead.

“It seems that in this orbit you are bound

To shine light on my shame when you come ‘round.

Please offer me, if it can be, advice

On how to end this awkward sex and ice.”

He half expects that his whole-hearted plea

Will fail to breach her most indifferent ears,

But as he struggles to a mud-caked knee

And braces for the advent of new tears,

She tosses him a double-sided key

And says it is the charm to set him free.

He hardly sees, when caged in sticks and rope,

How this dull bauble gives him any hope.

“You’re here because of me. I cannot lie

Though I am but a figment in your dream.

You put yourself inside this cage, but why?

Contrition is your most repeated theme.

You conjure forms like me as succubi

To trap you and expose you till you die.

Each time, you are seduced and semen’s spilt,

Your lack of consummation becomes guilt.

What you have left undone, I do not know.

I only voice the words you’d have me say.

This former girlfriend’s shape, this cell, this snow,

Are mental reminiscence run astray.

In dreams, you let your past afflictions grow

So that they overwhelm the status quo.

You’ve brought me here so I might set you free

And ease the pain of shameful memory.

The key is but a totem that unlocks

A place to store your troubled fantasies.

And if you lay them in a three-lock box,

You may detain the fruitless reveries.

But, memories do not keep time like clocks.

They stream through dreams as water spills past rocks.

You might direct a brook to a new course,

Or floods may overwhelm you with their force.”

She says and pulls the cloak around her tight.

The wind has brought a pattering of sleet.

“Well, I think I’ll survive another night,”

He flings the worthless symbol at her feet,

“My constructs are not real and they’re not right.

I have no guilty conscience I need fight.”

Saying thus, he curls up on the floor

And swears he will be dreaming her no more.

Epilogue: A Place Where John Keats Can Go

No more, dear John, we’ll live through dreams no more:

No nightingales, no fairy girls, no knights.

Ruth made a husband on the threshing floor

And not among incestuous Moabites.

But we will be inspired by plainer sights

And not the foreign fancies of our dreams.

We’ll seek our guidance in authentic lights

And not where shadows fill our minds with seems

And other more destructive psychic schemes.

The dreams of gods are fumes that smoothly pass

Into immortal blisses sweet and pure,

But in night’s visions, warped like wavy glass,

No finite human spirit can endure.

We saw the shadow; now, we are secure

That it was merely nothing in the night.

We walked into the depths of the obscure

And neither held nor loved its dread delight.

John, do we wake or sleep? I think we write?