The other night, I dreamed that I was looking at a list of forthcoming titles from a poetry publisher, and one of the titles was a collection of my poems, something like "Poems 1988-2011." In the dream, I was surprised, because I could not remember having heard anything from the publisher (and I wasn't even sure I had sent the publisher a manuscript). Then somehow I was talking to the publisher, and he said, "But I was told you were dead, and somebody gave me all of your poems to edit for a book." I was most emphatically not dead, even in the dream, as the publisher admitted. That's all I remember from the dream, except this: the overall tone was not weird or uncanny; it was just funny.
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I've had the odd publication dream. Re premature death-notices, I had one remarkably detailed dream: I was browsing in an old bookstore and found an odd bookmark, a slip of paper with a single typewritten line: THE LATE MR GRANIER. When I asked the old bookseller what it might mean he smiled and said not to worry; that when they ran their bookshop in Paris a Mr Granier worked for them and he was always late. The only dream I recall that delivered its own punch-line.
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