Wide Awake in a Dream

Awww... you know I love you, Sureal. But this is a tough love critique. The poem is pretty, but towards the end it just rambles on at length about confusion, without being clear. And that's bad.

I've put suggested deletions over your poem -- I hope you won't mind. But anyway, I think it will clarify your poem and make it stronger. Right now it's much too long and rambly. But I love the idea, so I think you should edit it, just to see what you can do with it.

And mind you, this isn't the only thing I think you should do. But I would rather see what you could do with it instead of me telling you what to do. Because face it -- it is your poem, whether you like it or not.

Here's the tough love:

I.

To dream, and to know that You are dreaming,
opens a world where You are the alpha,
You are the omega, and unto none
must You answer.

II.

I was deceived, but now I comprehend
that the events of the past half-hour
rejected logic[s], and embraced chaos[/s].

And as an actor, I played my part,
oblivious to the irrational plot,
and blind to the neon-lighted holes.

How was it that I could not see
that which is now so joyfully obvious?
The truth being: the horror was naught but a dream.

III.

And now here I stand, a body within my own mind;
and all around me the dreamscape sprawls, [s]none of it real,
nothing more than a simulation made by me.[/s]

But, upon the ground I see particles of dirt and gravel,
and upon that wall I see rough brick, eroded by time,
and upon my hand I see cracks in the skin, the pores, the tiny hairs;
how could this be anything
but reality?

I look around, and ask, where am I?
This place is the town where I live,
[s]and[/s] yet, [s]it is different.[/s]
Instead of a hill, there lies a flat, endless road,
and where is the roundabout,
and what is that strange building there?
I look up. And above, the sky is a mess, as golden syrup attacks
clouds of purple, a mad mix of colour and texture.
This is not the place I know.

And the people I see walking, like zombies,
they are not real. In this place, I am [s]as alone
and isolated as [/s]the last human left alive.
[s]But, that person there,
I could talk with, laugh with,
trade secrets with. But they are me,
a product of me, and yet,
they are their own.[/s]

And now I walk. I wonder where to go,
what to do. If before I followed a script,
now I ad-lib; or perhaps I have left
the studio altogether, and I no longer
need to act at all, [s]the choice of what to do
completely my own. Perhaps, in this world of
non-consequence, I can be more me
than the real me, unhindered by society’s rules.[/s]

[s]But I wonder, what is it that controls this dream world?
What designs the locations, the people, the animals, and the actions?
Is it my unconscious?
If so, it is alien to me, a strange being
picking random things to throw into the non-material world
around my non-material body. There is no
order or control around me,
there is no logic to anything,
there is only chaos.

What sort of being would create such a world?
Is my unconscious truly a part of me,
or is it an independent creature,
one that just happens to reside in my brain?

Am I safe here?
In this state of mind, within my own head,
with such an intimate link to my own mentality,
could it be possible to somehow damage myself?
Or perhaps I am acting out, as a sleep walker,
the very actions I am performing here; could I harm
myself, or others, in this way?
Or perhaps, by achieving this state of being awake in a dream,
I have imprisoned myself within my own head,
and I will remain asleep, in a dream, in a coma, forever?

And as the worry increases, as fear sinks
its pale claws into my chest, the dreamscape shudders
and distorts, like the poor reception of an aging tv;
and suddenly, I can feel two bodies,
one standing in the dream,
the other laying.
And the world dims, and fades towards black,
and the sense of one body wilts,
and the other strengthens,
until the one standing is gone,
and all I see is black.[/s]

I rather enjoyed it. It made me think of Walt Whitman's "Song of Myself", especially III. I disagree with Brad's comment on the speaker's confusion--I think that, for the mots part, it adds to the charm of the piece. It is a meaning in itself. Some parts could definitely go, but the aspect of confusion as a whole, and acknowledging that confusion, appealed to me.

I agree with Brad in that it was a little ramble-y. Rambly? Let's just go with long.

I have little to critique other than its unnecessary length. Here are just a few things that stuck out:

oblivious to the irrational plot,
and blind to the neon-lighted holes

And above, the sky is a mess, as golden syrup attacks
clouds of purple, a mad mix of colour and texture.

And the people I see walking, like zombies,
they are not real.

But, that person there,
I could talk with, laugh with,
trade secrets with. But they are me,
a product of me, and yet,
they are their own.

If before I followed a script,
now I ad-lib; or perhaps I have left
the studio altogether

and distorts, like the poor reception of an aging tv

Sureal,


Oh my goodness, no.

1. An overabundance of first-person references, much in the form of a diary entry.
2. Arbitrary linebreaks.
3. Over-modified imagery notable only for its length.

The underlying idea may be sound, but this poem didn't do justice to it. It rambled on, and on, and on, and on, and zzzzz...

The problem, as I see it, is that you got confused by your own ideas, and all this poem really does is acknowledge your confusion. Why would anyone care?


Best,
Brad

Wow. I really wish I could be of more help but all I can think to say is, "Wow".

Though, I do think I might know of something you could fix.

the other laying.

Thanks all, for taking the time to read reply.

yeah its pretty intersting, sounds a little sci-fi and draws you into the dream
I like the last line

wow, this really draws you in and makes one think. it can mean so many things to different people. it is great and i loved reading it, infact i went thru it twice. keep going. great job

kim

It's cool, I like it when I know i'm dreaming.