A MYTH/MOVIE/DREAM: Poem Response to One Single Impression Prompt of 7/13/08
A MYTH/MOVIE/DREAM
Night after night he has summoned her
to his dark forest kingdom,
to quake before the cold throne
of his love.
Silent and brooding, he dips
his horned head in a massive
swoop of entreaty.
One taloned hand grips a stone arm
of his throne, the other trembles
vaguely toward her.
The pale wraith of her soul
flutters before him.
Why do you call me here, she cries,
night after night, stealing my soul
from the sleeping flesh of my body.
You know I will never love you.
Her small face waivers faintly
alabaster beneath the stars.
Yes, this I know, this I know.
He shakes his head sadly
and boulders leagues away tumble.
He shifts his goat thighs, and mice
and owls and lions flee for cover.
Yes, this I know. I have called you
one last time ... to set you free.
She burns briefly brighter, a pale
pink rose, under a sere moonwind.
He spreads his black wings, utterly
blocking stars, moon and sky
from her sight.
Then folds them around himself again
with a sound like a universe
of crumpling leaves.
You are free. And I ask only one thing
of you. He reaches toward her again,
opening his dark palm.
There in its center glows a small pearl,
black and glimmering.
Compelled, she steps toward him.
Accept this pearl from my heart.
When memory of me rises like the dark
of moon, and it will, this I know,
it will, hold this pearl of my pain
to your heart and think of me.
And no matter where I am, what worlds
or abysses I traverse, I will know
that I am not forgotten.
His huge hand trembles, almost closing
around his offering, but opens
at her touch, like a wilting flower.
She lifts the pearl in her insubstantial
fingers, then cradles it unsurely
in her palm, as a wind rises
like a long sigh.
When it stops, she is gone.
He raises his long face to the stars.
The only sound in the stark night grove,
a thin howling.
* * * *
Night after night he has summoned her
to his dark forest kingdom,
to quake before the cold throne
of his love.
Silent and brooding, he dips
his horned head in a massive
swoop of entreaty.
One taloned hand grips a stone arm
of his throne, the other trembles
vaguely toward her.
The pale wraith of her soul
flutters before him.
Why do you call me here, she cries,
night after night, stealing my soul
from the sleeping flesh of my body.
You know I will never love you.
Her small face waivers faintly
alabaster beneath the stars.
Yes, this I know, this I know.
He shakes his head sadly
and boulders leagues away tumble.
He shifts his goat thighs, and mice
and owls and lions flee for cover.
Yes, this I know. I have called you
one last time ... to set you free.
She burns briefly brighter, a pale
pink rose, under a sere moonwind.
He spreads his black wings, utterly
blocking stars, moon and sky
from her sight.
Then folds them around himself again
with a sound like a universe
of crumpling leaves.
You are free. And I ask only one thing
of you. He reaches toward her again,
opening his dark palm.
There in its center glows a small pearl,
black and glimmering.
Compelled, she steps toward him.
Accept this pearl from my heart.
When memory of me rises like the dark
of moon, and it will, this I know,
it will, hold this pearl of my pain
to your heart and think of me.
And no matter where I am, what worlds
or abysses I traverse, I will know
that I am not forgotten.
His huge hand trembles, almost closing
around his offering, but opens
at her touch, like a wilting flower.
She lifts the pearl in her insubstantial
fingers, then cradles it unsurely
in her palm, as a wind rises
like a long sigh.
When it stops, she is gone.
He raises his long face to the stars.
The only sound in the stark night grove,
a thin howling.
* * * *
The prompt this week at ONE SINGLE IMPRESSION is “Myth.” The above poem is based on a dream I had after watching a fantasy movie sequence on T.V. about the myth-like character Calibos in "Clash of the Titans." I wrote it in 1986. It came to mind when I read the prompt for this week, inspiring me to finally do the heavy revision I always knew it needed. So I am more than usually grateful for the prompts ONE SINGLE IMPRESSION offers. As always, I encourage you to give ONE SINGLE IMPRESSION a visit to see what other sorts of myths are being explored and/or created this week.
[Image: from the 1981 MGM movie "Clash of the Titans."]
* * * *
‘til next time, keep dreaming,
**** [aka: Patricia Kelly] **** If you wish to copy or use any of my writing or poems, please email me for permission (under “View my complete profile”)****My other blogs: ROSWILA’S TAROT GALLERY & JOURNAL and ROSWILA’S TAIGA TAROT, and Yahoo DREAMJIN: Group for Dreamku – Haiku-Like Dream Poems ****
Labels: dream poem, dream poetry, One Single Impression
posted by Roswila @ 3:54 AM
22 Comments:
This is great!
Incredible! More than a dream, a vignette! Brava! Brava!
Outstanding. What a great narrative! Thanks for this.
I always enjoy Clash of the Titans when I get a chance to see it.
Your dream version of this scene has a happier ending, odd as that may seem.
Hi LGD,
Oh, yes, that's because my dream was not of that movie scene, per se, rather it was inspired by it. My personal psychology took over and re-wrote it. (At the risk of telling you more than you want/need to know :-D and of repeating the more obvious "Freudian" content, the dream was -- at least in part -- a wish to get rid of a powerful negative male internal figure and telling that wish/story in a way that partially redeemed the negative male. This was actually preparatory inner work that led to fully redeeming that male figure within myself in subsequent years.)
..Thank U for a fascinating poem..
A gripping tale! I like the comparisons you make. It's a wonderful poem to be read more than once. I appreciate your visit earlier.
I am awaiting the sequel!!! I love this...I wanted her to yearn softly and quietly in the aftermath of his sweeping away....I think she has. You are an artist indeed! ...did you feel that...?
Hi RIC,
I actually recently posted the below dream poem that could be considered a sequel, in which the healing of the negative male figure has progressed further:
THE DREAM
She swirls with her father
above a winter sea.
A welcome absence rests between them.
His smile sad and open to the starlight.
His ghostly fingers barely brush
her back, her hands, as they glide
together through the silence.
Following her lead at last,
he asks no more of her than this,
this one sweet dance,
this accident
of grace.
My spine tingled. Lovely.
You ARE the romantic! How very interesting this was.
Hi teric,
I can't help but be amazed at how differently poems can be related to. To have this called "romantic" gives me a bit of lightly surprising amusement, given I know its deepest significance.
However, this is not the first time I've been surprised at a poem of mine being called romantic. Sooooo, maybe I'm not fully understanding what is intended when that word is used to describe a poem. Would anyone offer some further explanation? The first time someone said a piece of mine was romantic (decades ago), I asked him what that meant. And he got huffy with me, as if I weren't being genuine in my questioning of that word with respect to poetry. But I am. I really am not fully sure. (Sigh, more explanation...I don't have a college education so I'm self-educated, which means there are big gaps in what I have learned over the years.)
Impressive work. The final line blows me away...
Superb piece! I need to read it again and again!
building balconies inside your head
This was great. Did I ever get caught up in your poem. I don't know the movie, but I think from the comments that your version is probably better.
I also do not know the movie.
But the poem pulled at my heart with its longing.
thanks.
I don't know the movie, but I don't care. This is an utterly exquisite poem/myth/dream that you have written. It probably says something about me - or any of us - which lines touched me/us most deeply. For me it was these:
And no matter where I am, what worlds
or abysses I traverse, I will know
that I am not forgotten.
Just beautiful. Thank you.
oh, the push and pull of myths... awesome roswila... there are so many lines that tell a beautiful story...
I find myself asking which character is really the mythical one by the end. Lovely. :)
An excellent poem, Roswilla. I njoyed the story very much.
I really like this myth poem. The line, "with a sound like a universe
of crumpling leaves" is wonderful.
This is great!
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