The Dream of Dreams
This poem is set in the Turkish Ottoman period. The only visible sign is a tomb in Istanbul with the marking CENNETTE 1789. It is the name of a woman and it means “one from heaven”. The poem is about her and is in the first person. In this poem Cennette gets to meet Shehin Shah, the King of kings.
In the glowing golden hall
Anxious maidens line the walls
Scrambling and crowding with anxiety
To see the King of kings, pass by,
Restless waiting in their minds.
And I, am one of them.
Not in front, but behind.
Did he pass by?
In the glowing golden hall
The crowds of maidens
Push one another aside.
“We have to see the King of kings
When he passes by”, they say.
Into a corner I have been pushed
By beauties, way taller than me.
Kind as they may be,
They know not that,
I can no longer see
The One that all of us
Have the right to perceive.
Right by the door
That leads to the golden hall
I slip away into a room nearby.
A room so dark
As if drawn by the curtains of night.
Right by the door that leads to the hall
I find a bed to lie
In this place, oh so pitch dark!
Murmurs, whispers, giggles I can hear
And then a lengthy quiet.
So I thought, “He is gone,
And I am still here.”
Then from the far end of the room
A door, I knew not was there, opens
I hear the lord come through
Having said his goodbyes to someone there.
The swish of his robes
Wafts in like a gentle breeze.
Though dark, I now can see
A divan across the room.
There the King of kings
Stretches his gentle frame to rest.
A conversation he strikes with me.
He knew I lay there!
About his love for birds, I think
We speak to one another
In such a familiar way.
Then, quietly in the dark, he leaves
But only after he places
A seal of surprise
A gentle kiss, to my lips.
The King of kings
Leaving me with a smile
That quiet yet radiant joy
From the kiss of the Divine.
A flurry of attendants, rush into the room.
They request me to get off,
As they prepare my bed.
I tell them, that I do have a place
To retire already, next door.
They nod their heads and state,
“The King’s orders are,
That here is where you are to sleep,
Not there, anymore.”
In the wee hours of the morning
The crisp breezes cajoling
I wander among the trees,
Walking on air as it were,
Knowing that he has selected me.
Yet a secret it must be,
I know he wishes that for me.
Matrons including my mother
I see up high,
Gathering herbs and flowers
For a planned ceremony.
They offer some to me,
Which I deny politely.
My tender frame cannot seem to hold,
The secret within me,
Knowing fully well
That the King of kings
Has really chosen me.
As I pass by a bevy of fair maidens
I see one, dark and quiet.
I walk over to her to share
This precious secret of mine.
Just then, as I open my mouth to declare
I wake up from this Dream of dreams
Of being chosen in love
By none other than, the King of kings.
Oh, how sweet, how sweet
This waking is
With flavors and the fragrance,
Shehin Shah, now housed
In the core of my heart
From there spreading
Through my entire being.
October 10, 2013
Petaluma