Arabian Nights and other stories

It occurred to me that ‘One thousand and one nights’ could have been the story of a woman stalling death through self soothing soliloquies. Marie Antoinette went grey the night before she was guillotined; so it must take a lot of strength to wax eloquent in stories, before ones imminent execution. I read one very tattered copy, lying around my childhood home, at twelve I think and loved parts of it. Today, I will try some haiku, tanka, waka maybe …

Sweet Scherezade,

spins in soft soliloquies,

sepulchral solace.


April blossoms are,

the laconic wit of Spring

at a shy winter.

She sings syllables in hue,

to a frosty reluctance.


Virgin bedchamber,

sweetly ricochets in tales,

like peas slumbering

in pods that divulge secrets

ripening in explosions.




Despite the dreary circumstance of Scheherazade’s storytelling under duress, within the bedchamber of Sultan Sharyar, she apparently gave birth to three sons during the period. Ok, poetic license I reckon but this is one heck of a strong woman.

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