Rêver en Rouge
by
Nicole Marie
I
dreamt that I cloaked my whole body in red;
Drew
the crimson hood over my mind,
over
my head
It
seemed no more, no less of a sin than it had ever been
To
cover up, control, and contain for two thousand years, all
that
is woman
A
red so red, it was apple red; the bite of anti-life
Orb
both archaic and ripe, symbol of destruction,
wiles,
manipulation, and strife
Lodged
in the throat to obstruct our voice, bring us to an impasse
Everyone’s
darlings when we sleep that deep sleep, for,
we’re
so pretty under glass
Apple
red, pomme d’Eden, fabled fall of man by inquisitive feminine hand.
Our
mothers, Eve and Pandora, prejudicially condemned; still,
we
wear the brand
Red
of persecution, violence or curse;
life-force
drained
for
all we’re worth
Nevertheless
I dreamt, as befitting our kind, there was nurturing yet to be done
Faulted
delicate hands gripping a basket to take
where
forest paths cease to run
This
domestic charge allowed, even under the cover of night
but
the winter woods suddenly looked unfamiliar,
doused
of light
I
couldn’t find the sure footsteps of the vibrant women come before,
a
sense of adventure replaced with fear, desire to survive
rather
than explore
Primitive
howls, hateful, taunting calls from the shadows inspiring villagers’ dread
And
I, I a moving target, running, running
all
in red
These
atrocious attentions I and my generations of sisters did not seek;
alternatively
punished for being too powerful, attacked
being
perceived as too weak
Blush
of blame and shame I cannot own; I know who I am
He
who created me understands;
I
am both the Tiger and the Lamb.
I
couldn’t see but I could hear others in the woods screaming in voices otherwise
unheard
Seeking
fair reclamation for defamation, hearts and feet pounding in darkness, a
movement
Wakened
wolves stirred.
Sharp
branches spreading out to stifle and tear apart all I held to be true
a
kingdom divided, boiling with discontent, bleeding
from
all sides, all wounds, every distorted view
The
huntsman would not come to our defense now, he was sold a different dream;
All
of us watching magic mirrors to learn not all
is
as it may seem
What
good could my basket do with a legion of clouds having swallowed Grandmother
Moon whole,
And
those I would feed nursing a hunger not of the stomach
but
of the soul
I
stood still, knowing I couldn’t go back; none of us could
All
trying to find a way forward
through
that dark, wintry wood
Tattered
and tired, I finally noticed the red of the cloak take on a softer shade
I
thought of reds of life, birth, power, love—vowing
to
wear it as what meaning I bade
I
reached into the basket to fulfill my own need and hung the rest on a high
branch of a tree.
It
was where those deserving could find it, and the unworthy couldn’t reach,
weighing
slightly
less, for the deservingness of me
In
regaining myself, I started to be able to recognize other faces I knew before
long
In
shivering light we embraced, the moon became the sun,
and
we found that it was dawn
A
quiet calm seeped over the forest and beyond as the hours of shadows ended;
Bridges
were built where divides could be bridged, ruptures
that
could be fixed, were mended
Contorted,
callous carnivores chased the shrinking hem of darkness, unable to thrive by
day;
an
evil we could not forever banish,
unity
alone would keep them at bay
Orchestrated
illusion, panic, hurt, and confusion, how voraciously in the darkness they fed;
Sunlit
clarity where faces had names and shared stories,
Stole
their human bread.
In
nightmares of the ages, always a pack of few grow their number by the evil do;
They
consume or transform their prey by giving misfortune some dissevering name
The
better to mislead you
I
heard an echoing call on the wind from heroines and heroes living, and those buried
long ago;
Impelling
greatness, commanding strength, thundering an edict to remember
Centuries
of wisdom we all already ought to know
I
dreamt I’d run through a dark wood toward dawn,
amongst
the forsaken of a torn kingdom
cloaked
in variable shades of red;
Awake,
aware, I glimpsed there by my bed
the
shelf that holds my grandmother’s sewing basket
And
every color imaginable of enduring thread
Freedom
and responsibility
laid
in the part I would play to sew
a
land back together in every hue;
I
as one of many, repairing
by
threaded needle, brush, or pen,
the
diverse heritage of a kingdom’s rectitude
*
* * * *
Poet’s
Commentary: This poem took me down some unexpected roads. Its earliest
inspirations came from digital imagery I was working with this past summer
dealing with archetypes as a sort of personal reflection—what I’d learned and
embraced as a woman before entering another decade of my life. About two and a
half months ago I came across digital art of another’s and found it so evocative
that I’d later feature it as a prompt in a contest for fellow writers around
Halloween. Headlines in October brought about the early notes and reactions
more deeply rooted than I’d been aware of, taking me back to memories of a
small, patriarchal town that was largely anti-French. I thought of a very young
French girl in a red coat so Victorian in its design that it looked like a
cloak. I thought of a place long buried with very mixed memories; those of
light and those of darkness with an immoral few misusing religion and judgment
to sanction their lives and persecute the innocent. I was grieved these months
to read of hate groups rising and permeating the minds of some school children
to target classmates. A world shift in early November had me tossing a few
Magnetic Poetry pieces on the floor to try and mold early notes and phrases
into something cathartic. It was the invitation to submit to Writing in a Woman’s
Voice that urged me to turn in a poem I hadn’t intended anyone to see because I
realize we all need to use our voices now more than ever. Small echoes of past
pieces I’d penned triggered recognitions, such as the apple and the throat
chakra, as they had been referred to in a chapter I wrote on founding female
editors.
In
the poem’s unfolding, I discovered how apt all the metaphors were given the
fairy tale’s two thousand year history. Tales such as these were often used in
literary salons for societal or political commentary. The poem seemed to speak
its own language and came out in rhyme, finding symmetry in line word counts
which I broke up for emphasis. There is, near its center, a reference to the
poetry of William Blake and a personal interpretation thereof. Toward the end,
I wanted to revisit the beginning of the dreamer’s dream and find a new
direction when rhyming “red”—the image came to me of my grandmother’s sewing
basket. The basket seems to have the uncanny ability to generate whatever
obscure shade of a particular color one requires at a given time. It’s a
seemingly extensive collection in a small space, but in likeness to how my
grandmother was, always giving me exactly what I’m looking for when I need it
most. It wasn’t until I tried to work with this theme that I remembered how in
some of the original versions of “Little Red Riding Hood,” they sewed the
wolf’s stomach closed after their escape. Here, it has a more positive
connotation of mending, not concerning the prowling wolves, but a kingdom
divided. Given to me shortly before her
passing, my grandmother’s sewing basket has within it a prayer of gratitude for
a wish fulfilled. As I write this note, I know my heartfelt wishes for unity
and equality are shared by many and because of this I am both grateful, and
hopeful, for the future. The poem is signed with the name my grandmother
lovingly insisted I be given by my parents.
Nicole Marie has spent a decade as a
writer and editor of various mediums in both literary and journalistic
sectors. She has shared her experiences
and expertise in interviews, essays and contributions to professional
anthologies. Her chapter "Founding Female Editors: Your Voice, Your Vision
and How to Make it a Reality" was featured in Women, Work, and the Web: How the Web Creates Entrepreneurial
Opportunities, Encourages Women's Studies (Rowman & Littlefield 2015).
She has been an active Letters member of the National League of American Pen
Women, a national "organization for professional women in art, letters or
music," since 2009.
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