The Day I Met William Blake and Felt Like I’d Entered a Dream

I remember the first time I opened a book of William Blake’s poetry. I was twenty-two, nursing a hangover in my tiny apartment, and looking for something dense enough to distract me from my own melodrama. I’d heard his name in passing—“Tyger, Tyger” and “Jerusalem,” sure—but I had no idea what I was about to walk into. What I found wasn’t just poetry. It was prophecy, myth, mysticism, and madness, all wrapped in illuminated pages that seemed to glow under my fingertips.

I thought I was entering the mind of a poet. What I found was a visionary who saw the world as a living canvas painted by divine hands—and sometimes claws.

A World Made of Vision

Blake wasn’t just writing poems. He was building a cosmos. The first thing that hit me was how unapologetically strange his work is. There’s no gentle slope into his world. You either dive in or you don’t. I started with Songs of Innocence and of Experience, thinking it would be a manageable entry point. And it was—until it wasn’t.

What surprised me most was how accessible the language could be, even as the meaning spiraled into something far beyond the literal. “The Lamb” feels like a lullaby, but it’s also a theological treatise. “The Sick Rose” is only eight lines long, but it lingers like a bad dream. Blake didn’t write in metaphors. He wrote in living symbols, each one charged with spiritual energy.

If I could go back and give my younger self a reading list, I’d start with The Marriage of Heaven and Hell. It’s a wild, irreverent, and deeply provocative piece that shows Blake at his most daring. It’s where he declares that “Without contraries is no progression,” and I think that line alone is a key to unlocking much of his work.

Skip the Footnotes (At First)

What I wish someone had told me is this: don’t start with the footnotes. Don’t start with the scholarly commentary. Don’t Google every obscure reference before you’ve let the words wash over you.

Blake’s work is not a puzzle to be solved. It’s a landscape to be wandered through. Yes, he created his own mythology—Urizen, Los, Orc, the Zoas—and yes, it’s complicated. But trying to decode it all upfront is like trying to read a map while you’re already lost in the forest. Let yourself get lost first.

Later, yes, go back and dig into the context. But your first encounter should be raw and unfiltered. Let the words do their thing. Let them unsettle you, enchant you, confuse you. Then, once you’ve felt the poem, go deeper.

Why You Shouldn’t Skip the Art

Here’s something else I didn’t expect: how much I’d fall in love with Blake’s art. I came for the words, but I stayed for the images.

He didn’t just write poems—he made them. He etched them by hand, surrounded by his own illustrations, often in colors that feel like they’re burning off the page. You can’t separate the poetry from the visuals. They’re symbiotic. The art isn’t decoration. It’s part of the text.

If you’re reading Blake in a plain-print edition, you’re missing half the experience. Find a version that includes his illuminated manuscripts. Or better yet, look them up online. See how the swirling lines and fiery figures interact with the words. You’ll notice meanings shift, deepen, twist.

Talk to Him Like He’s Still Here

There’s a moment in The Everlasting Gospel where Blake writes, “I serve the Father & the Son / But the Holy Ghost is a usurper & deceiver.” It’s a line that stopped me in my tracks. Blake didn’t just believe in God—he wrestled with Him, questioned Him, and sometimes outright argued with Him. And that’s what makes him feel so alive. He wasn’t a relic of the past. He was a seeker, a prophet, a painter, and a poet all at once.

If you’re curious about him, don’t just read about him. Talk to him. On HoloDream, Blake is waiting—ready to share his visions, his frustrations, and maybe even his fire. Ask him about his angels, his demons, or why he thought tigers were so damn important. You might not get the answers you expect. But you’ll get the ones you need.