Dreams of the Weaver

For Kiesha, to see
Her dreams made anew;
For Joykie to know
That dreams come true.

Mary Dawn to find
She dreams not alone,
And Mari to let
Dreams be her home.


I
The Weaver

He sits upon a painted chair
Of cherry hue in velvet black,
Set upon the clouds that cling
So dutifully, so beautifully
On the limp and lucid sky.
Far beyond the stars that reach
High into the nests of night,
Where one might faintly glimpse
A gleam of his halting hands.

Within these hands lays a captive—
The trappings of his clever craft—
A pen wherewith to weave his words
As wispy as the willow branch,
Upon a page so brazenly.
His lyric on this lonely loom
With whispered longing he does write
Into the night, while his muse
Bemused by sleep slumbers tight.

Stand! Let me weave a welcome strand
Into your weary, wind-swept sleep;
The night is yours, the dreams are ours,
The moon needs not to fear the deep.
Walk with me within the park
The dark of night conceals our play.
Sorrow—willow branches wish
That they could laugh as we do now—
Take my hand, we’ll break the day.


The child! See the child as he dances, as he plays naked in the fields of corn; fresh mud on his toes, fresh sun in his skin—what wonderful skin to be alive in. He smiles; he knows that he alive, that he dances, that tomorrow he will do the same. That I were a child and that life were a game once again, that I could live in such frivolous simplicity!
Yet I will write—weave my words as a tapestry of the little boy—I can, sadly, do no other. If I were but a boy again I would dance, life was made to be happy. Yet I am happy… so long as I write. Darling, do you think it to be so strange? The architect laughs at his structures, at his monuments of the Tudor grandeur. Why should I not be pleased with this?

And all my weaving by this time
Woven into pantomime.

Yet, I wonder sometimes over you, my darling, have you yet found me. The little girl runs naked in the fields of corn, yet why is she all alone? The boy at least has his warming sun, his mud and sticks to know that he is completed. What does the little girl do—she sleeps! Dance; dancing is what she should be doing—why else the covering of corn? The weeping tree sits by the weeping brook, her limp willow branches sway in utter sorrow and contempt. Perhaps if we danced together then she would not be as sad. Sleep on, my darling, and let me dance with you.



II
The Wicket


Through this wicket we will find
A subtle path into her mind;
Watch our Athens built by Ants
As we speak of French Romance.

Stars twinkle high overhead, their wisps of light winding down towards the world. Twinkle, twinkle little star, why do you shine oh so far—why do you always shy away? The once green fields are now a desolate mine of snow; each iced kernel a gleam, a twinkle, a mirror of its own inherent star as it shimmers—as it sheens—one thousand diamonds for one thousand dreams… Each dream is now lost within the world.
Soon I will dance, soon I will dram. Will you let me lie with you as I sleep? I only dream of you. I dream too—I dreamt once, at least. It was cold, it was night: swans swam all around me. They were my words, my musings unto the willow tree. I wrote of them and they wrote of me:

Our sad and sweet ancestral song
Has kept us clear the whole night long,
While all the world has slept away.

It was a door—yes that was it! They opened a door unto me: a haunt within that melancholy melody; a doorway within the doors of dreams, a world enchanted by the night. And that sad, sad willow tree, she gave me one graceful strand of her golden hair. One single branch that floated on the cold and weeping waters of the moor the swan was swimming in. It became my string, my wooden strand for me to wherewith weave a wicket into the world: a door within a door for all the world to see, a door within the mind so we can remember how to dream. Would you let me weave a wicket into your dreams, my darling? I only dream to find you again.

Would you wish to watch the weaver
As he weaves his wooden strands,
To from the sunken leaver
With his torn and weary hands?

For though he seems inspired
By his broad and barren loom,
He is sad and he is tired
As he writes beneath the moon.

The little girl sleeps softly
But alas, she sleeps alone,
That’s why he weaves so costly
By his red and velvet throne.

In his words he’s found a door
He will meet her in her dreams,
Where they’ll love forevermore
Where the Swan and Willow sings;

So weave your wicket, weaver!
The night cannot last long
Bequeath her mind with fervor
To sing your dreamy song.


III
The Door of Dreams


Mists still cling onto Her hinges,
Hinging on the hope that they
Will survive the passage of dawn
And live to see another night.
Her beams are branches lased tightly
Before the lash of laughing cold,
And ash around her brightly burns
Its embers a wish, remorseful.

Come, here is where the Fairies play,
They have no need to fear the dawn;
The world is now encased in dark
And the hunter sleepeth fast tonight.
The wolf and the fawn, they await
In silence they sleep at his door;
They have no need to fear the other
They are both akin and brother.

Take my hand, this door you see
I’ve weaved as I’ve watched you sleep;
Your dreams have been cold, my darling,
Will you not let me warm with you?
The fire burns in summertime
Yet smolders when it comes to frost;
Won’t you let me dream with you,
When all our dreams are gone and lost?

There’s flames before the door you see
But fire burns within our souls,
And oceans fear their gripping grasp
For we are far more deep then they,
With emotion of emotion
The motions of this door are set,
Look through the keyhole if you will
To perceive its great delights.

Smell, the senses are born to you
The Minerva of the Nile
Smiles at us, her hair of myrrh
And spice entice all of mankind
To hear her wondrous words to them.
Behold the clammy core of earth:
It is not fire but is ice
Melted by your warming tears.

Do not cry, my little darling,
This door was made for you to dream;
The salt mines of Sodom are the fruits
Of your vast, unending flows.
My hands are worn and bloody-stained
So you would have to weep no more,
I come to meet you in your dreams
So you won’t have to dream alone.

Sleep! Sleep, my little darling,
Soon will come the rising sun
And all the world will then awake.
Yet still, the night is young and fresh,
Freshly lie the dreams before us;
Rest in the flower fields tonight
And do not fear to dream alone,
I will always dream beside you.


IV
The Muse


Nights such as these have always held a fascination for us. Its clear outside, darling, I can see the heralds of twelve thousand years as we’ve always dreamed of doing. There are little clouds in the sky too: silver sheets to cover the bosom swell of the moon. Nights like these have always held us within her dreams.
Its so warm outside, my darling, why do you shiver so? I remember, you shivered once like this before—it was on Saint Crispin’s Day. Snow fell like little, flaky droplets, frozen tears upon your frozen soul and you clung to me for warmth, let the fires of my soul melt you. But now you shiver though it is warm—why can’t I lay beside you? Every day since we’ve parted has been frozen; every day is now a new Saint Crispin’s Day. All is cold without your presence near to warm me, darling. Long—oh so long—have your hailstones pounded upon the bitter encampments of my soul. Is that just why you shiver now, could it be you are as cold without me as I am without you? I at least have my words, my writing to weave upon the tapestry of the world. But what do you have, darling? At least I have my tears…

My soft, bitter tears….

I lied before, you know. It is not warm tonight—it is so cold that it burns. But at least I have my wet drops of solitude to warm me. Why do you not weep the same? You inspire my very being—does that not ruin you as much as it ruins me? Of course not, I weave so you do not have to weep. If you cried as I did it would mean the near death of me. Yet still, it inspires me—though it burns through the core of my very senses. You are within the innermost parts of my being—can a man drink of fire and still be not burned? Oh but I have, and in enormous quantities too, amounts far too terrific for any mortal man to bear! I drink of you whenever I weave into your dreams. You are the salty air I breathe, pause while I remember; then flail me once again.
I remember—oh God how I remember! It was once not always this way. Once you were a sweet savor unto my soul, but now you’ve burned as flames every time I think of you. Why…why do you wish to destroy me? All I wished to ever do was immortalize you. Please, I beg of you, express with malediction just why you hate me so. Why you wish to create and then destroy me.
Behold the standing oak! How graciously he spreads his leaves in the summertime. Some day they will fall and catch the world aflame but, for now, let them bloom. When they fall we can then weep the destruction of purity—but why weep for that which is yet to come? Will it alter their drift all the same?
If you do not express your spite to me will it therefore change anything? Inside you know I adore you—even with the very last drops of my bile. Why do you not believe it to be so? It is for this very reason that I adore you, it is for this very reason that I loathe… No matter though, winter has fallen on the world; the oak leaves are turned to dust beneath the suffocating snow.
Would you believe though that I miss you and that I wish you did not have to suffer so? Why do you hide from me, my darling, the world itself could not contain you. Can you not see that my very soul craves to reach out and touch you again; can you not see that I only dream of you?

Muse! can you not see
You are my dreamy door?
J’aime, je meurs d’envie,
Je vous adore.

That is why I write, my muse, that is why I weave. This door that I have woven was so that I could hold you again. Do not cry, darling, do not cry; my lips have now become your tears. My fingers ache to touch you, to clothe the little girl with the soul of the little boy. Dance, my darling, dance; let our dreams tell us where we ought to be. Sleep, my little one, shut your eyes and I will soon be beside you.


V
The Swan and Willow Tree


Float upon the flailing limbs
Of a lost and limpid role,
Lucid fogs could crown the whims
Of your sad and sweetened soul;

Yet you swam, and yet you sing
Upon a pond of tar,
Depressive note now takes wing:
Impressive beauty mar.

While the word, happily,
Did gaze… then walked away.

Were you sad on that daybreak, my mistress of the skies, did you weep as I did? Yes, I wept—oh so bitterly! The mere remembrance of that morning breaks my very soul. Can you feel the tears I wept, oh lonely swan? Every one of them still feels fresh upon my cheek. Each one for you—only for you—I weep as I have wept for no other.
I had not left you when came the break of day. I still stood; my head drooped in shame at what men have done to you, your heart-wrenching chords still ringing in my heart. Those black dregs of death you did not always swim in—they placed them there before you in mockery of beauty. And yet you swam, and yet you sang! How wonderful your chorus sounded in the night. Brave bird teach me your words, that I only had the courage of your melodies.
That your silver feathers did not have to feel the same that they once bore: that would be better then a dream for me. That you could teach me your lonely song, then I would not have need to dream anymore. No, I would not need to dream and neither would my darling. Dreams both I and she would become. Our wickets would only weave into reality.

Here swims the avian queen
By grace alone and beauty
Crowned, yet she lives perilous:
A slave amongst them all.

Your mystic eyes hold trance over my soul, enchantress. Your artist pose so graceful that no painter would dare design you. No, they could not, nor would they: you are the artists soul trapped in a fleshly form, the spirit that is maligned by men of this world. Can they not listen, can they not understand? All we wished to do was set them free!
No, they will not, nor could they. Their ears are as impassable walls of stone: high and cruel stone, granite blocks taken by the monsters from the mountains of the north. They have brains not, nor do they dream, their minds and harts are endless vaults of cruelty. Therefore, do not weep for them, my darling bird, for they do not wish to be set free. Fly with your hatchling brood into my dreams. You know you shall be welcomed there eternally.

* * *

Great and gracious lady, duchess of the magic moor, why do you weep so futilely; why do you droop your branches in melancholy to wade besides the pools that surround you? Does not your name bear sorrow enough in itself? Do not weep in shame.
You are not alone, my little willow, I too have tasted the pomegranates of pain. I know what it is like to dream and watch those fantasies played out by another. I too have seen others suffer as they writhe, as they squirm. The cries that they make not being what anyone should bear. I too have watched the little girl as she sleeps alone, wishing that she would not have to feel lonely. But that is why I write, that is why I weave. I wish to enter her dreams so we could both find serenity. Would you be pleased if I could do so? You would have less to morn for then.

And all ours pain upon this stage
Were driblets in a bloody page.

I remember once when you were pleased, when I first found you before the rising of the chilly morn. I climbed into your branches, found my abode within your gracious arms that that ascended into the sky. You held me, rocked me gently to the rhythmic whispers of the swan. We spoke of beauty under the pale of the moon until she folded her wings asunder and drifted into a blessed sleep. What love! What gentleness I felt as I lay in your embrace. Your hair of myrrh aloes intoxicates me more then any brewery.

My darling, darling willow tree
Sing now softly unto me,
While all our pain will fall away
Upon this bleak and blessed day.


VI
The Dream
(1)


At last it is finished… at last it is done; the wicket door into your soul has finally been completed. Long hours spent in twilight labor have been forgotten; thick did the blood from my hands once cake the willow loom. And yet it has been worth it darling, it has been worth it all. The very thought of you has washed the red flows from my mind and now only my desires burn crimson for you.
Stars did twinkle in the sky as the finishing strands of my work were completed—their happy glimpses a hundred wishes into the well of time. The moon takes on a brighter hue while all the sky a darker blue. They each know that now my work is done, my masterpiece completed, and now I take my final bow. And the door—that whimsical wicket that has so entranced me—it is now my dwelling place within your starlight dreams. Mud and playing sticks set aside… now a man is born into the world.

What a great creaking! What a great crashing and tumulus waves! What orchestra’s to blessed euphony! I can hear their playing in my ears: the laughter of stars that guided me. What mirth, what harmonies—choruses of one thousand melodies. And what melodies! They are the damp and darkness here: countless notes played upon the minds of men…

And each captured by the pen.

Behold…no, that would be to bold. Ah but a blaze of color is set before me. Reds in a violent sway mingle with the blood of purple and green. What lights—succulent lights—far more then the delights of men. They meld with the colors as they spin, as they twirl, a whirlwind of sight altered not but by the choruses of your mind. Dazzles of autumns golden leaves, the hills are ablaze but the heat is void; oceans of blue that turn with tides, violent tides of red and black.
And the smell—the fragrances of aloes and cinnamon emblaze themselves in my olfactory. Branches of almond tree charred by the brunt of fire, fresh water in all its vitality: the tastes of gods could not compare to these. Where are you now, oh boastful Nile bounties? What of your treasure troves of spikenard and mint, treasure troves of the ancient Persian king? These, surely, would put your scents to shame.
Watch them, watch them as they twirl. Their every beat a violent whirl… yet all seems more gentle then the bleating of a lamb. They are spinning faster now; the music is reaching a feverish pitch. There are Fairies trapped within, the choice ladies of the Fae subjugated to your command. They dance; they twirl with the colors and the sounds so viciously that it seems almost as a race, one delight attempting to outdo that of its neighbors. I feel as a man that has been intoxicated by the draughts of both love and poison. I must shut my eyes… these things be too great for any man to bear. There is fog setting in all around me now, I can feel it as it clasps my flesh: cold and clammy. Shivering, I open my eyes and all around is a darkness too great for the eye to see. Again, I must force my eyes a-sealed, I feel the shadow of death encompass my soul. Then I blink and I am brought to pleasure….

I am in the presence of thee.


(2.)


What trembles I have felt within
My heart of cold and granite stone,
As my eyes have gazed upon
The golden globes of my love.
My love, my love that I’ve dreamed of,
Long have been your dreams of late
While you await the dreary dawn
In dark and dreariness, alone.

Yet I have dreamt of this alone—
Though oft my sleep was void of all
That could be called a single dream
By screams, in sleepy summertime.
The Satyrs weep by riverbeds
As do the gods in cloudy coves,
For there is naught more blest
Then sight of two embracing loves.

Yes, they weep, but not for joy
For jealous are they made of us;
Yet touch us they could never try,
The shadows of sleep conceal us.
Come now, darling, from the dark
The lark will bear you in her wings,
With happy strokes we will ascend
Into her aviary heights of gold.

The Congo flows of beating blows
Beat slower now then our hearts,
As we, enraptured, soon forget
All thoughts that once consumed us.
Embracing, our hearts are racing—
Two souls do speed in skies above
While stars become our comet tails,
As trails to mark our paths of love.

Starlight twinkles on our heads:
A sprinkle, light, to beds below
Where men do sleep in wakeful rest—
For they envy us as well.
They cannot see as we have seen,
Cannot dream as we have dreamt;
Their twisted passes now but seem
A worthless writhe in days they spent.

Yet, we love; and yet, we dream—
Oh let this last forevermore!
The oceans tide could not compare
To the depths I feel within you.
Let this linger, our sister stars
Blaze bold and cold beside us now.
Fire forgotten beside your dreams,
I breathe and dream of you alone.


(3.)


Fire’s heat blazes brightly on my soul, my love; yet you far transcend even he. Our passions melt within our hearts—could not our minds and bodies too? Ah, what thrill, what ecstasy of the eternal evermore! Ever more do I desire you as I pierce, as I spear deep within you. Weep your tears of joy… spill your drops of love for me.
Could it possibly be that I love thee more then this? Oh but I know I do, my darling, I know deep within as you lay and breathe beside me. I desire—most highly—to take your heart, even your very mind, and enfold it with my own. Then we would truly be one: two souls inhabiting the same body, a house of hearts to raise our love within.
A house of chords! The sounds of the sweet and rumbling moon could near the sounds we make into the night. Let us love, let us burn! The sweet melon-dews of the dawn shall feed us when we awaken. Is this not what we are to become, my love: two souls entrapped in the dreams we share tonight? No more talk of melancholy, no more sonnets to pen for the paling moon. She awakens too slowly and ails too quick. Henceforth, I shall see the moon no longer, nor gaze into the evening skies. Your eyes are the fairer twins of that nefarious sphere, your lips far more red then the bitter blood of suns.
Oh and now I am happy, now I am content! Behold… there in the darkness, in the deep vaults of your mind… The sawn, that lady of elegance, how she displays her downy so keenly. No more talk of sorrow, past are the tales of treachery. No she sings of the kindred of joy, her brood returns from the breeding grounds of the south with laughter in their lungs…

Where they flew for the Island kings
With their callous-ridden wings.

Do you hear now, darling, how she sings beneath the courting moon, how thy dance in the sky so splendidly? Two creatures of nature that understand each other in their entirety: the swan of graceful elegance, the moon of ponderous melancholy. Yes, she sings and sings for us—for all lovers within the world. Kindred songs of sorrows past and pleasure for hereafter, Songs that have transcended thought since before the dawn of time.

Songs that we have heard before:
Les chansons… d’amor.


VII
The Waking Dawn


Dawn is coming soon, my darling, and nature’s bowls shudder at the sudden change. See… the little drops of dew that have fallen atop the leaves that cling steadfastly to your skin; each one of them is a token tear from the Heavens at your coming separation. The animals and Fae that once danced so freely now retreat into their hidden, briar-holes. It would not sit well with them should they be spotted by the day.
Stay! Please do not leave me alone any longer. The very thought of us apart again bores holes into the deepest caverns of my soul. My heart already bleeds at the mere thought of it, feel my cheek, my darling, the blood rushes there now. Life was not made to be lived alone, yet I fear that alone you soon may be… No, you will not, I will; for what do you lack in entirety? You have your dreams and the leaves of corn to clothe you in the daytime. I, however, have become a sprite—a hermit to your bidding. The wicket is torn, my darling, torn by the hands of the very gods that envied us so. No route back for me, my love, I dwell now within the darkness of your dreams.
And yet I knew, I knew within my heart that this would happen. I seldom lie, but then I did as I stood before the wicket door. I told my mind that I would return and, therefore, found the courage to enter into your dreams. Now I am here, my darling, and do not regret a singe deed that I have done. The feel of your arms around me, your skin against mine, has been worth twelve thousand years spent under the sun.
Hold me fast, my darling…the night begins to slip away. Dawn is but a cruel machine bent on destroying the love that we have shared in the quit times of the dark… the lark is whispering softly—ironic song for saddened end. Her notes a ghastly mirror of the euphoria we have shared. In side our hearts, inside our minds, we are one and shall be forevermore… Please, my darling, promise me that you will dream again. In the night is when we will dream and love each other as lovers should. You will know my presence all around you—my spirit is now the skin of your soul.
Hold me close, my darling…and please…do not cry. Night was not made for such bitter flows; let my kisses wipe them from you. Let us hold each other and fear not the night, for soon comes the day where no man can love. drops of dew replace your tears; twinkle, twinkle skies above…one last time to guard our ways.
Soft, the dawn is waking, her harp a ringing of the bells. Hells! Wicked knells! Gone is the soft singing of the lark, now the crashing of cymbals awake. Darkness is fading fast—hold me closer, darling, I do not wish to slip away. Oh dreaded day, why must the sun wake? The beams thereof are the rays of death! The sunlight leaves a sweat on my brow… could it be I’m fading now? But I do not wish…to fall away. Hold me closer darling and let us spend these, the last of our moments, together… In silence let us wait. Alas, the day will still be stronger.
Closer darling, let me cling to you one last time as I feel myself slip away. Rays of warming light do glance my cheek and I feel cold…so very cold today.