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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