This Is A Dream
An Ekphrastic Ghazal Inspired By "Second Dream, A Stroll in the Sky" (1847) by J.J. Grandville
Introduction
This is an ekphrastic ghazal
This picture I found on "Art A To Zed" here (it does take you through to their Facebook page)
The music is "Is It A Dream?" by Classix Nouveaux
This Is A Dream
๐๐ซ๐ฆ๐๐๐ฎ๐๐๐ฆ๐ซ๐
The First I Saw Was The Crescent Moon
Then There Came A Very Small Mushroom
๐
And Then The Small Mushroom Grew And Grew
Under The Light Of The Crescent Moon
๐
Look Again, And Now An Umbrella
This Strange Dream Has Left Me All Aswoon
โ
The Umbrella Twists Into An Owl
Across The Sky, Clouds And Stars Are Strewn
๐ฆ
The Owl Becomes A Blacksmith's Bellows
Then Magically Two Fiery Urns
๐
An Axle And Cart Towed By Two Horses
Heading For The Plough, To Be There Soon
๐
So Among The Stars This Dream Will End
Under The Light Of The Crescent Moon
๐๐ซ๐ฆ๐๐๐ฎ๐๐๐ฆ๐ซ๐
About the Creator
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More stories from Mike Singleton ๐ Mikeydred and writers in Poets and other communities.
Foot Bindings
I asked my grandmother how she knew she'd fallen in love. I am not sure I ever did love him, she said. This was before I met my husband. I was naive, a naked spring, a raw nerve of a thing. That cannot ever be me, I knew. Sadness swept in gently like a Moscow thaw. It is no simple thing, looking into a woman's vast soul and seeing its foot bindings. Now, in Italy divorced with my skin singed off, when I say I don't love him mean: I have succeeded at feeling nothing most days and it mostly works. Do you want the comfort of Nothing? Do you want Nothing, too? Be warned: you'll never be free, even when you are nothing. Here is what doesn't work: Accepting the stages of grief. Talking about it. Sitting with the feeling. Missing himโno, the person you were when you believed in death do us part. Writing poetry. That, too. When I say I don't love him I mean: I feel capsized in an endless, starved tide. What sometimes works: selective memory. You must forget ripe tomatoes and his beard and feeling perfectly sheltered in a big blue world. Forget coffee in bed, laughter watching TV, blowing out the candles on the birthday cake and the quiet all-encompassing knowledge that you are chosen. Remember only how love turned to a banal everyday survival act, a trapeze act unsure whether he will catch you, how the warmth stagnated and became sour, remember the foot bindings and remember the resentment boiling in your veins as you stick it out for the kids. Six-hour Netflix binges help, too. A man's fingers tracing your spine. Frozen pizza at 2 a.m. Random trips to the museum just to stand near things that last a while. The realization that crying wonโt change anything. Seeing that life is just a dream, and refusing to participate in your own suffering. Bite your fist. Walk on eggshells around joy. When I say I don't love him, I mean he didnโt break my heart, he just stopped touching it and it forgot how to beat right.
By Ella Bogdanovaabout 19 hours ago in Poets
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Comments (11)
Thank you, everyone, for your positive comments on this. really appreciated
The flow imagination travels along is a worthy muse! Charming and melodic, Mike - beautifully written.
Loved this so dreamy and expressive.
Mike, I bet you could turn this great poem into a story of dreaming something somehow. Good job.
I second Dharrsheena! This read like a dream where you can't quite make sense of everything that's happening, but it's so vivid and mesmerizing and pulls you in completely. I loved it!
Oooo, this felt like a fever dream. Loved it!
This was wonderfully whimsical. I loved the circular ending too.
The protean imagery gives this ghazal momentum as it shifts between forms. Nicely done, Mikeydred!
Ethereal imagery! Reminds me of the 70s, ๐
This remind me of what Alice in Wonderland might have imagine the moon to be a cat.
Now that made me think of Mary Poppins! You nailed the dreamy tone and atmosphere.