Classic and Contemporary Poetry: Explained

Lawrence Raab’s "In Dreams" is a meditation on the peculiar logic of dreams, the tension between impulse and restraint, and the way the past resurfaces in the unconscious. The poem explores the limits of control within the dream world, where thought and desire often collide, revealing the boundaries that persist even in fantasy. Raab constructs a dreamscape where fear, temptation, and memory intertwine, ultimately suggesting that dreams function as a kind of theater—one in which we remain bound by the same struggles and moral hesitations that define our waking lives.

The poem begins with a paradox: "Sometimes, in a dream, I?ll find myself avoiding / the reckless choices I would in life also turn away from." This moment establishes an expectation that dreams should offer freedom from the constraints of waking life, yet the speaker’s behavior remains unchanged. The realization follows quickly: "And I?ll think: / But this is a dream, you can do what you want. / But I can?t." The speaker’s awareness of being in a dream does not grant him control; instead, he is still governed by the same cautious instincts, the same inhibitions. This disrupts the common idea that dreams are a realm of unbridled fantasy, showing instead that self-imposed limits persist even in the unconscious.

The poem’s central insight follows: "Thus thought / is shown to be the enemy of action. / Which we knew already." Here, Raab touches on a universal truth—overthinking can paralyze action, whether in dreams or in life. The speaker recognizes that the more he tries to exert control over the "loopy story" of his dream, the closer he gets to waking up. The structure of the poem mirrors this process; it does not linger in one dream for too long but moves fluidly from scenario to scenario, mirroring the restless shifts of the unconscious.

The first dream vignette follows a familiar trope: "I turn a corner, certain I?m being followed. / Pursued. / Chased by a vampire." This classic nightmare scenario builds suspense, yet the dream takes an unexpected turn: "Who keeps gaining on me until I see these huge doors swinging open. / A concert?s about to begin." The abrupt transition reflects the disjointed logic of dreams, where fear can instantly give way to something else entirely. The vampire—a symbol of predation and dread—is forgotten as the speaker finds himself in a different scene.

Here, the dream takes on a more seductive tone: "I sit down next to a beautiful woman. / She turns to me and smiles, and touches my arm." The contrast between being chased and being desired highlights the unpredictable nature of dreams. Just as the vampire pursued him, now another kind of pursuit begins, but this time it is attraction rather than fear. The woman’s touch seems to carry an almost hypnotic significance, drawing him into another scenario: "Then I?m somewhere else, maybe it?s her place." The ellipsis of transition is implied, mirroring the way dreams fluidly shift between settings without explanation.

The dream then collides with morality: "She?s unbuttoning her blouse, I?m telling her I?m married, / and my waking self is crying out— / No, no, don?t do that! But it?s too late, / she?s gone." The moment is brief, almost anticlimactic. The speaker’s conscious self resists the temptation even as it unfolds, but his moral protest is irrelevant—the dream moves forward on its own terms, and the woman vanishes before anything happens. "Do I feel virtuous? / Not even a little." The speaker’s reaction is telling; rather than pride in resisting the moment, he feels only emptiness. This suggests that in dreams, as in life, the greatest consequence is not sin but loss—the fleeting nature of what could have been.

His failure to recall details reinforces this sense of transience: "What did she look like? / I don?t remember. Like no one." The woman’s lack of a distinct identity emphasizes that this is not about a real temptation but a broader human longing for something just out of reach. Yet despite her facelessness, her touch lingers: "But for a moment I can feel the place where she touched me, / on my wrist, near the vein." This physical memory, almost tactile, suggests that the dream’s emotional residue carries over into waking life. The detail of "near the vein" hints at something deeper—a pulse, a connection, a brief brush with something vital.

The final lines frame dreams as a form of theater: "In this way the past returns, dressed up / as a ragged troupe of actors trapped in their most famous roles." This metaphor presents dreams as a stage on which familiar archetypes play out again and again. "The callow youth. / The worried, untested knight. / The terrible monster. / The beautiful woman without mercy." Each figure is an archetype, a recurring role in the dreamer’s unconscious—youthful uncertainty, moral trial, fear, desire. They are "poor ghosts, whose deepest wishes must be sleep." This final line offers a quiet irony: these dream figures, so restless and insistent in the night, ultimately long for the very thing they disrupt—rest, oblivion, the absence of action.

"In Dreams" is a meditation on the tension between control and inevitability, between thought and impulse. By exploring the recurring figures that populate his dreams, Raab reveals the way memory, fear, and desire shape the unconscious. The speaker’s recognition that his dreams reflect the same limitations as his waking life suggests that we do not escape ourselves even in sleep. Instead, we encounter versions of our past, fragments of longing, and echoes of old fears, all playing out on the stage of the mind—again and again, until they, too, long for rest.

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