I’m Pulled into the Dream
“And the proud dreaming king who flung the crown
And sorrow away, and calling bard and clown”
—W. B. Yeats (The Secret Rose)
Yeats rambles on; and I say rambles;
I can’t make heads nor tails of much;
But imagery invites me to lie down
On a Celtic blanket, close my eyes
And listen
For the lips to alliterate, make love.
“And the proud dreaming king…”
My ears navigate the waters…he’s proud;
He’s dreaming; he’s king. I float
On my back; danger’s near, I might sink;
How so? I lose my bearing…proud…
Dreaming…king. I’m lost in the middle;
It is my beginning. I lose my mind:
“…who flung the crown” I’m pulled
Into the dream…the jewels of the whirlpool;
Big glowing diamonds, rubies and gold;
Only the rich long to drown in such. Cease;
Be silent, until I prepare myself for more.
I tender my glass of red,
Watch it sparkle,
Circle,
Slide into the sea,
Then I slowly sip,
Sip, sip…Yeats moves his lips…He commands;
He’s the conductor. He reads the last line
One more time, for effect. I sigh,
Lean in for more. The blanket of
His arm around my shoulders.
“…who flung the crown and sorrow away”
I could meditate on this all the long day.
…and calling bard
And clown.
The mind goes wild like a frenzied crowd.
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