Netherworld - Dec 27 2025

 

Netherworld

Dec 27 2025

I lie in bed

eyes shut tight

determined to be still

as the fragments of dreams fade, distort, disperse,

trying to make sense

before they turn to air

and never were.

When the least little move

will shake them loose,

a slip of the eye

and a sliver of light

vaporize them instantly.

A third of our lives asleep,

when our minds wander

and lead their secret lives.

A third of ourselves

that’s a black box

even light can't escape,

a netherworld

which may be meaningless

or fabulist

or synapses firing randomly,

   . . . or may be

who we truly are.

I used to say I slept soundly,

didn’t dream

like everyone else. 

Back then, I envied those who did,

imagining the power of flight

and travel through time,

insights

and revelations,

or at least an escape

from humdrum daily life.

But now, when I’m thrust awake 

in heart-pounding sweats,

a succubus

with her claws in my chest,

and a reeling head

that’s a centrifuge

spinning madly off-centre,

all I long for is rest.

Glimpses of an inner life

I protest isn’t me.

But I visit him nightly, nevertheless;

an uncertain witness

and reluctant guest,

tied to a chair

with a gag between my teeth.

I started this poem by trying to describe the common experience — in that hypnagogic state between wakefulness and sleep — when those fragments of dreams begin to evaporate just as you’re staying still in bed, eyes closed, trying assemble them into some sort of coherent whole. But, of course, they not only disappear too fast, they’re never coherent. 

As usual, I started writing with no idea where it would lead. This serendipitous journey is, after all (at least for me), a big part of the fun. So this poem is not autobiography (unless it contains some subconscious truth I’m oblivious to).  I do (at least sort of) remember my dreams, and am better at this than I used to be (yes, I did use to say “I didn’t dream”), but they’re very rarely as agitated, nightmarish, or demonic as those depicted here. What is very much true, however, is the dramatic contrast between “real” life and the bizarre nocturnal world revealed in sleep. 

Dreams are mysterious. Even their purpose. All we know is that all sentient animals dream. And that dreams are essential for both learning and good mental health. Sleep has its own physiology and its own healing power, one not provided by either simple rest or drug-induced sedation.