Last night I dreamed of a woman called Arete.
She is the one sung in the Song of Solomon. The one who sings in the Song of Solomon.
Her eyes like dove's eggs. Her mouth wide as a river of longing. Her hair the memory of time, glossy and black, to be climbed up or down or among. Her sweet white teeth.
Her children, a girl and boy, deserted by their father. The boy asks him to come but he is busy working. The boy does not ever speak to his mother about his father. He has his pride.
Pride will get you killed in a war, you would rather die than admit to fear.
She is from Persia. Her name is Greek because of Alexander's passing, two millennia ago. Or for some other reason, her courage perhaps, her spirit, the sheer elegance of her person.
I heard her name called three times, that was all the dream was; her attributes I divined later, while still under the spell of the vision.
Today I saw her in the street, looking into the bakery shop window while she waited for the bank to open. So slender. Immaculately dressed. Beautiful.
I could not tell if she had seen me or not, but as I passed by with my newspaper I turned, caught her eye, smiled and said Hello.
Hello, she said. How are you today?
I'm well, I replied. Then the door of the bank opened and she passed inside, out of my sight for now.
Arete! the voice called. Arete! Arete!
She is the one sung in the Song of Solomon. The one who sings in the Song of Solomon.
Her eyes like dove's eggs. Her mouth wide as a river of longing. Her hair the memory of time, glossy and black, to be climbed up or down or among. Her sweet white teeth.
Her children, a girl and boy, deserted by their father. The boy asks him to come but he is busy working. The boy does not ever speak to his mother about his father. He has his pride.
Pride will get you killed in a war, you would rather die than admit to fear.
She is from Persia. Her name is Greek because of Alexander's passing, two millennia ago. Or for some other reason, her courage perhaps, her spirit, the sheer elegance of her person.
I heard her name called three times, that was all the dream was; her attributes I divined later, while still under the spell of the vision.
Today I saw her in the street, looking into the bakery shop window while she waited for the bank to open. So slender. Immaculately dressed. Beautiful.
I could not tell if she had seen me or not, but as I passed by with my newspaper I turned, caught her eye, smiled and said Hello.
Hello, she said. How are you today?
I'm well, I replied. Then the door of the bank opened and she passed inside, out of my sight for now.
Arete! the voice called. Arete! Arete!
5 comments:
Beautiful. This reminds me that I had a very important dream last night. It was one of those dreams that goes on for maybe months. Very detailed. That's all I remember; it was long, and detailed. Nothing else.
You describe dreams very well. I have been enjoying a read of your taxi blog as well. Makes fascinating reading.
Hey, Jean, the dream courier's been busy lately. Claritas, well, sometimes ...
Think perhaps dreams describe me, Chief. There isn't much else these days, except taxis. A different sort of courier.
Maybe if I write a poem to/about the dream courier, s(he) will grant me remembrance of the dream...
that sounds like a good idea, Jean ... then, even if the dream doesn't come back in it's entirety, you'll still have the poem. I'm sometimes (often?) confused as to where the dream ends and the writing begins...
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