“Is all that we see or seem | But a dream within a dream?” ~ Edgar Allan Poe, from “A Dream within a Dream”

 

Edmund Dulac The Haunted Palace from The Bells and Other Poems 1912

Edmund Dulac’s “The Haunted Palace” (1912, pencil and watercolor) from The Bells and Other Poems, by E. A. Poe


“They wave:— from out their fragrant tops
Eternal dews come down in drops.
They weep:— from off their delicate stems
Perennial tears descend in gems.” ~ Edgar Allan Poe, from “The Valley of Unrest”

Wednesday afternoon. Sunny and cold, 40 degrees.

Edmund Dulac-alone-from-the-bells-and-other-poems-by-edgar-allan-poe-1912-wikipaintings1

Edmund Dulac’s “Alone” (1912, pencil and watercolor) from The Bells and Other Poems, by E. A. Poe

We have Olivia today, but she has a cold. You can really tell when she isn’t feeling well. It shows on her whole body.

Anyway, this post contains some works by French artist Edmund Dulac (1882-1953), who created a series of illustrations as a companion to Poe’s The Bells and Other Poems (1912). Click here to see the rest.

I came across the Kin Fables video below, created by Seb and Ben McKinnon, and it reminded me of both Poe and Dulac, so I have paired the video with a few Dulac illustrations, a few selections from Poe,  and the Margaret Atwood poem, “Helen of Troy Does Countertop Dancing.” By the way, Atwood turned 75 yesterday.

It’s a veritable cornucopia of things.

More later. Peace.

                   

Edmund Dulac The Valley of Unrest from The bells

Edmund Dulac’s “The Valley of Unrest” (1912, pencil and watercolor)from The Bells and Other Poems, by E. A. Poe

 

Kin Fables:

                   

Edmund Dulac TO --- --- MRS. MARIE LOUISE SHEW from the bells pencil and watercolor

Edmund Dulac’s “To — — (Mrs. Marie Louise Shew” (1912, pencil and watercolor) from The Bells and Other Poems, by E. A. Poe

Helen of Troy Does Countertop Dancing

The world is full of women
who’d tell me I should be ashamed of myself
if they had the chance. Quit dancing.
Get some self-respect
and a day job.
Right. And minimum wage,
and varicose veins, just standing
in one place for eight hours
behind a glass counter
bundled up to the neck, instead of
naked as a meat sandwich.
Selling gloves, or something.
Instead of what I do sell.
You have to have talent
to peddle a thing so nebulous
and without material form.
Exploited, they’d say. Yes, any way
you cut it, but I’ve a choice
of how, and I’ll take the money.

I do give value.
Like preachers, I sell vision,
like perfume ads, desire
or its facsimile. Like jokes
or war, it’s all in the timing.
I sell men back their worse suspicions:
that everything’s for sale,
and piecemeal. They gaze at me and see
a chain-saw murder just before it happens,
when thigh, ass, inkblot, crevice, tit, and nipple
are still connected.
Such hatred leaps in them,
my beery worshippers! That, or a bleary
hopeless love. Seeing the rows of heads
and upturned eyes, imploring
but ready to snap at my ankles,
I understand floods and earthquakes, and the urge
to step on ants. I keep the beat,
and dance for them because
they can’t. The music smells like foxes,
crisp as heated metal
searing the nostrils
or humid as August, hazy and languorous
as a looted city the day after,
when all the rape’s been done
already, and the killing,
and the survivors wander around
looking for garbage
to eat, and there’s only a bleak exhaustion.
Speaking of which, it’s the smiling
tires me out the most.
This, and the pretence
that I can’t hear them.
And I can’t, because I’m after all
a foreigner to them.
The speech here is all warty gutturals,
obvious as a slab of ham,
but I come from the province of the gods
where meanings are lilting and oblique.
I don’t let on to everyone,
but lean close, and I’ll whisper:
My mother was raped by a holy swan.
You believe that? You can take me out to dinner.
That’s what we tell all the husbands.
There sure are a lot of dangerous birds around.

Not that anyone here
but you would understand.
The rest of them would like to watch me
and feel nothing. Reduce me to components
as in a clock factory or abattoir.
Crush out the mystery.
Wall me up alive
in my own body.
They’d like to see through me,
but nothing is more opaque
than absolute transparency.
Look–my feet don’t hit the marble!
Like breath or a balloon, I’m rising,
I hover six inches in the air
in my blazing swan-egg of light.
You think I’m not a goddess?
Try me.
This is a torch song.
Touch me and you’ll burn.

~ Margaret Atwood
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3 thoughts on ““Is all that we see or seem | But a dream within a dream?” ~ Edgar Allan Poe, from “A Dream within a Dream”

  1. Try drinking a glass of water when you are dizzy and see if that helps. I read that dehydration can cause dizziness. And, I guess now the heating systems are trying to drag all the moisture out of our bodies…

  2. Can I please just hibernate until spring?

    I really need to move myself towards finding a smaller house that I can insulate well and heat & cool easily. One with gas logs for those nights when you just want to be really, really warm…

    We went to the wisdom tooth Dr. in Rocky Mount today. We turned the heat in the car way up… Next Wednesday my son goes back for removal.

    I went to the library yesterday, borrowed two books, came home with them in my purse. When I went to open the back screen door to unlock the garage door, they fell out – into the rain barrel! So, great. Now, I owe $50. for 2 hardback books. And I feel like I have a mark on me now for wanton destruction of books.

    Have enjoyed all your posts… Stay warm and don’t get what Olivia has…

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