In the quintessential book on dreams, The Interpretation of Dreams, Sigmund Freud introduces the idea that activity in our unconscious mind can be interpreted. Freud theorizes that dreams are forms of wish fulfillment or an attempt by the sleeping mind to produce a solution from unresolved issues, past and present.
The virtuous man contents himself with dreaming that which the wicked man does in actual life.
The Greek philosopher and playwright Aristotle observed,
The most skillful interpreters of dreams are they who have the faculty of observing resemblances.
He believed in the metaphoric ability of our dreams to connect and transfer meaning. Another Greek scholar, Artemidorus, the author of Oneirocritica, the first modern dream dictionary, said
Dream interpretation is nothing other than the juxtaposition of similarities.
Every night during sleep, each of us creates around five dream episodes. These dreams can last between fifteen and forty minutes. This means we spend about two hours every night, dreaming. With over seven billion people on the planet, we collectively create about 35 billion dreams in any 24-hour period.
All of these dreams mirror fundamental patterns of human behavior. Some of the most common dreams and their possible meanings are:
- Teeth falling out
Dreams about your teeth can reflect your anxieties about appearance and others perception of you. - Naked in public
Being naked in a dream symbolizes not being able to find yourself, uncertainty, or being wrongly accused. - Flying
Having a difficult time flying in a dream suggests that someone (or something) is stopping you from moving to the next stage in life. - Falling
If you fall anywhere and are overcome by fear, it may signify insecurity about a situation. - Finding an unused room
If you stumble upon a new room in your dreams, it could denote new outlooks and abilities you have realized about yourself.
Try It
Think back on a particularly memorable dream. Was it a happy dream or a terrifying one? Write a poem on what you believe the dream meant. Create vivid imagery and use vibrant words.
Featured Poem
Thanks to everyone who participated in our poetry prompt. Here is a poem from Rick we enjoyed:
Living Room
With its eyes I see the mountains
pulse under a heart of sky,
in slow rhythmic oscillations.
I listen to the leaves—
those that fall, those that persist
on their dichotomy of stems—
in a wind that is nearly silent,
not like the hidden fingers on a harp,
but rather those of the guitarist
moving unapologetically up and down
the frets, so that into the music
she weaves the agony of callouses.
Dissection never reveals the whole.
The fragile rings hide their stature,
as the trees mock their seasons,
brandishing their rattling bassinets
in Spring and in the throes of Autumn
drop their dappled dress exposed.
There are memories that hold me
here, fibers that vibrate from my searching
for the words to describe them,
words, like houses made of trees,
that let the winds play at their doors,
and let the windowed light know where I am.
Photo by Eve. Creative Commons via Flickr.
Browse more writing prompts
Browse poetry teaching resources
How to Write a Poem uses images like the buzz, the switch, the wave—from the Billy Collins poem “Introduction to Poetry”—to guide writers into new ways of writing poems. Excellent teaching tool. Anthology and prompts included.
“How to Write a Poem is a classroom must-have.”
—Callie Feyen, English Teacher, Maryland
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- Animate: Lions & Lambs Poetry Prompt - March 12, 2018
- Poetry Prompt: Behind the Velvet Rope - February 26, 2018
Donna says
Richard, I really enjoyed that one! This line struck me, bringing me back to Rock-A-Bye baby over and over again – brandishing their rattling bassinets.
Great piece, Richard! 🙂
Rick Maxson says
Donna, thank you for reading and commenting. You’re right, Rock-A-Bye Baby does come to mind.
Rick Maxson says
Thanks for posting my poem.
Heather Eure says
Most welcome, Rick.
Rick Maxson says
Convergence
As if it were the dark device of dreams,
the road stumbled me early toward the shore,
from black to gray as day laid down its beams.
The waves rolled ‘round my legs from Tenerife,
from Portugal and Spain the waters came,
an ancient sea made new, so clear, though brief.
The realm of sleep dissolved with dawn’s bright fan,
flown with mist that hid the thin bent line
between open sky and where the world began.
Heather Eure says
The last line pulls it together so well, Rick. Love it.
Rick Maxson says
Thanks, Heather.
Andrew H says
I really like this one. It sounds like a truly refreshing dream.
Rick Maxson says
Thanks, Andrew.
Lynne Cole says
Hi Rick. I like your poem. You have some really good imagery in this. I especially like this line…’The realm of sleep dissolved with dawn’s bright fan’. I can imagine a lovely sunrise on the beach washing all the dreams away.
Donna says
I really love this post, Heather! Dreams are actually something I take very seriously as messages or clues from that part of me I don’t know how to listen to sometimes. Not all dreams have led me to big ah-ha’s but some have been life altering! HA! Go figure. 😉
Heather Eure says
So glad you like it, Donna. Dreams do have a way of sorting through our inner conflict, don’t they? 🙂
Andrew H says
So this is the most memorable dream I’ve ever had, and it was also the worst. I think I did a poor job of representing the pure terror and confusion, mixed with the knowledge that I was only dreaming, but it was a weird dream so it deserves a weird poem, heh.
Dark. Like a harvest field at night,
When stubble strews the slopes
With shadows made of stalks.
I’m standing there, a porch with one
Frail candle staring out the wind.
An old man, head of white – the darkness drips
Around his jowls and in his jewelled eye
To make strange contrast. Please don’t speak…
…But he does. It is a dream; of course he does.
And each word falls like serpent slime
Onto the ground before his slippered feet.
The sign squeals its uneasiness, and I agree
But cannot twist my form away. As phantom man,
I hear. He speaks, and this strange thing he says:
Aye. They came here, the folk, if it please you.
Ten years they come. I sit and watch. It’s like a river,
Do ya ken? I suspect you do. All life a river.
Some end sooner. Term-in-ate, aye?
These young ones found some thing here.
They walked beneath our boughs, smelled of our flowers
But in the end they paid their price. As we all do.
He creaks. Bones, chair or floor?
I do not know. I do not ken. Is that the word?
I do not know. There is something here – I feel it
In my bones, see it in the air, smell it around. But what?
I am confused, sad, scared and sure that somewhere
There’s a form. Swaddled deep in blankets – deep in sleep
Who’ll think of this come morn and smile. But now there’s only black
And some strange feeling of a harvest field
That not long since has felt the reaper’s hand.
He continues, gums displayed in gruesome grim.
Found ’em later, he sighs. Beside the creek -not in,
You see, but up above. The boughs they liked,
Aye, and the boughs they had. The last they had.
He creaks again, and to my horror I can see
The river bank within my head. He keeps his chant,
But now it spins me, turns me, cleaves me from my sense.
I feel the weight of glazed out eyes staring from up above,
Death staring from their tree-top tombs.
And then the horror. I can discern, like leaves in gusting wind
The rustling crackle of the killer’s breath. It’s on my neck
It’s on my neck. It’s here. Beside me. ‘Round me. Shadows see,
The darkness hears. Oh, light, it’s here! And then the vision swirls
As in a fierce storm, and I see me run. Through the trees. I can only think
That those dead eyes ran this same path I tread. And I can’t bear it,
No, not right now. A clack echoes, and I think gun, metal, hard calibre
But it seems that it’s only him – his story’s done, he tells me. Thanks for listening.
A piece of paper flutters on the porch, some paper telling of the deaths.
So many dead for one small town, all strung in trees like Christmas lights.
And then I know. I know as much as I know of the bed I’m in. Darkness gathers
Around my erstwhile story teller, and I know.
He killed them all, and now my time is up. The field will see the reaper now.
Heather Eure says
Andrew, I think you captured the terror well. Quite well– it gave me goose bumps. I really like this, the images, the mood…
Knew I was done for when I read, “Please don’t speak.” I thought, This is gonna be scary. I almost feel guilty for enjoying this poem. The dream must’ve been awful. But still… well done! What an interesting mind to come up with such a thing. 🙂
Laura Brown says
Why I Keep a Post-It With the Word “Enough” on My Desk
The dream boss sticks his head
through the door of the office
I don’t actually have, catches
me filling legal pad sheets
with notes I intend to type
to fully fulfill his request,
then — what a relief! —
says I’m doing it wrong:
“A few words
on a sticky-note
is enough.”
Laura Brown says
I suppose “The Dream Boss” might be a better title.
Heather Eure says
Sounds like a pretty good dream, Laura!