We know her myth,
the mystery and magic,
a master of her craft lost
to the sands.
There once was a sultan
who returned early from a trip
and found the love of his life
in bed with just about
everyone but him.
He became a tyrant,
blew through all the women
in his kingdom. People fled.
His trusted vizier at wit’s end.
That vizier’s eldest daughter
came to him and said,
send me. I will wed the sultan.
Oh absolutely not, none so precious
as your beautiful head. No tomes
you haven’t read, my most eloquent,
wise and well-bred. Send me,
she said, I’ll have this sultan
in hand.
Scheherazade
spun tale after tale
at the sultan’s bedside,
every night so enraptured
he could scarcely close his eyes.
She pulled from four corners, the entire
sphere of her knowledge and worked
so many subtly attuned threads
he thought her will his own mind.
Stories within stories within stories,
songs and poetry, worlds so real,
so intricate that if he could just
reach into them
he could believe in love again.
And he couldn’t be anything
but married by the end.
One such thread
the tale of Taj Al-Muluk
and the Princess Dunya.
He was a most adored prince,
ripened loins on both men and women
but to look upon him, exquisite manners,
a single glance worth a thousand sighs,
son of the Green Country, a kingdom
most wealthy. Low and high born,
young and old waxed poetic alike.
The very lyrics of desire sprung
from vile water.
You get the point.
Everything was good. Great. Alright.
Sumptuously dressed, silks richly dyed, pampered
apple of his father’s eye, driven to ride
further and further afield in spite
with his adoring men. Cast nets at lilting gazelles
through rolling savanna, medjool citrus oasis,
they spied vibrant merchants’ tents
and Al-Muluk paid them a visit
to ask the meaning of this.
What he certainly did not expect
was the most forlorn man he’d ever met,
resignedly presenting his collections
between swooning ghazal fits,
weeping over a handkerchief.
He implored of this Aziz,
my god man what has befallen thee,
and what is that kerchief, show it me.
If it is within my power, I will do anything
to relieve your pain.
What followed was the story
of a man who lost it all,
up to and including his cock,
because he chose to gorge and not eat,
bewitched by a floating handkerchief
cast by a terrible beauty
who was not the woman
bound to his side.
The kerchief all that remained
from the ashes of his former life.
He had made pilgrimage
to a far off land upon revelation
of its true maker, his calling
as a merchant revealed,
so that he might glimpse
a final vision of a woman
he could never be worthy of.
Spied from a distance
across a sacred garden
she who could only be enchantment
personified.
Al-Muluk held this simple linen
with a reverence, a thing so plain
set upon with such devastating skill,
sensitivity in every stitch,
eye for color and detail,
as if this Dunya wet her needle
in the blood of his own heart. Gazelles.
Verse. She sent other such missives abroad,
drama wherever they fell, so others might know
her people. Seek trade.
Well what Al-Muluk knew
was that it was Over.
The golden curse
of a life bisected, before and after,
bit the apple of knowledge that reveals
for you there is only One.
Good sense, reason, distance,
circumstance be damned. Taj Al-Muluk
fell hopelessly in love
with a woman he’d never set eyes upon,
from a place he’d never heard of.
Our golden boy likewise succumbed
to fits of ghazal.
United with his new best friend
in predilection for mope,
wasted and wept and sang.
His father said my boy, my boy,
good god why? Whatever is the matter?
How you’ve let yourself go.
You’ll give your mother
cardiac arrest.
Father I am in love
and I hardly know her, would that I
had even a face to make moan my passion,
press my suit, but no. Princess Dunya
of the Camphor Isles. How can I go on?
If the king grumbled of youth,
Al-Muluk heard not. His father promised
he would inquire after her hand.
Joy leapt in his throat.
It did not go well.
Dunya had a mind of her own,
the will to forge her own path, swore
should her father force marriage,
he who she wed she would kill.
To her reckoning
all men were brutes, scoundrels, and cowards.
Unworthy
of trust, strangers
to love.
As the fruit of a child bride his own self,
the prince couldn’t pretend she was totally wrong.
The king read Al-Muluk’s abject despair
and said son you could have a bride
from anywhere. Beauty and breeding
weren’t scarce. But it didn’t matter.
It didn’t matter. There’s the rub.
So many could simply settle down
and well enough’s enough. Never know
the searing arrow shaft of true love.
None of those women
would ever be Her.
Could never come close.
If he couldn’t chart a course,
navigate the shifting sand,
he resolved to wander without water
into the desert and death take him.
The presence and possibility
of such a high caliber match rendered
everything else mirage. Djinn smoke.
The king said very well, we can always
conquer her kingdom.
Al-Muluk said no,
he must win her by his own merits,
as a man. Dunya’s spirit
demanded an untraditional approach.
He would travel abroad
and set up shop as a merchant,
use his skills to lure information,
connections, oh he was certain
that if they could just meet
their souls would slip into place,
hit their stride like well worn
leather slippers. Soft tread footsteps
on a path always been there.
They were the same, face to face,
exactly the same somehow. A single pair.
Or the desert.
Al-Muluk, Aziz, and the Vizier set out.
The journey was of course arduous,
every day wondered if he’d gone mad,
mooning over a ruined eunuch’s report
of a spear-straight back, slender waist,
heavy hips and dark-bright eyes,
if he could get hold of that
he’d act all kinds of right.
The name Dunya after all
means the World,
this present life
nearest to us.
The name Al-Muluk imagines
a crown, pretends
dominion.
Well, by now we know
which boasts superior pull. The road
wore long and on the horizon
a crest crystalline, some trick of light,
thrust from the clamoring ocean,
some heady, heaving seafoam. Love’s spoils.
Its mess. His churning thoughts.
They would soon reach
their destination.
The first thing they did
after securing lodgings
was hit the bathhouse and flirt
with a dirty old man
for the best bazaar stall,
a prominent place.
While the tumultuous two worked, the Vizier
gathered up the manly gossip about town.
Who’s who what’s what local pollen,
jabber they get up to at a tea house,
possessed that gift of gab.
Skirt whirled streets, dust and grit,
children at play,
swags, rugs, and mosaic lamps,
Al-Muluk cherished this time anonymous,
just another working man. Hardly slumming it,
but still. Honed his clever tongue
on all manner of folk. Quite a reputation.
The princess was jealously guarded,
seldom seen since she came of age,
between royal wills a stalemate.
Some said lack of mother to blame,
raised by maids, kept to her ladies,
courtyards, chambers and apartments.
Scarcity magnified intrigue.
The prince despaired an opening.
Then, one day an old woman hobbled by
and they received her with customary grace,
sat her down, fanned her sweat, offered drink,
this granny’s lascivious eye did partake
of this stall’s particularly fine
wares
and said it was a lucky young woman indeed
who got her arms about that waist,
and Al-Muluk never missed a chance
to preen those masculine wiles
his mama gave him. His father
got what he paid for.
As for Granny, she sought a gift
fit for a princess.
He had just the thing.
She returned with a chest
of nothing but the best
at a shockingly good price.
Such a deal social debt implied,
a favor bestowed
for what caught Dunya’s eye,
or who might. Granny crowed delight
at her finds, reported no finer
wares
in the Camphor Isles.
Oh that merchant was no less
than the full moon dune-glow
to her rising sun, such a comely traveler
would look oh so good
kiss drunk, cheeks flush
between the heaving sea fairy swell
of her breasts.
Dunya pretended shock
at Granny’s lewdness. Bade she capture
that favor, this merchant’s humble request.
This old maid who nursed and raised her
returned with a letter.
Now Al-Muluk wasn’t stupid,
Dunya already had her dagger drawn,
hackles up, coming at her with a caterwaul
all yes hello trust me I’m your soulmate
totally not like other men
would not be well received.
Instead he engaged with riddling verse,
invited further exchange,
desperately trying to quell
his heart’s fancy footwork,
telling him to go whole hog,
head to hooves apple in his mouth,
do with him what she will.
Restraint
piqued her tongue, or fingers,
thus began their dance of wits and words
though never so clever
as to be insincere, more
gentle knuckles sweeping, toes weaving
side to side
through sheer silken veils, the art
of the drape incense curled
and brass pooled flame.
A merchant must know
how best to present
his wares.
When one sheet of fabric
a breath’s flicker between them
he asked if they might meet.
Al-Muluk was denied
and plunged into silence.
Why
was an anvil
strapped to his chest,
and he walked dangerously close
to those seaside cliffs.
Aziz and the Vizier stressed
what they’d tell the king
if his dear son departed this world.
Then Granny hobbled by
to assure that the princess Dunya
was not made of ice, not stone,
no trick of his mind, lifelong
nightmares
plagued her flight feathers,
the recurring theme
of two pigeons separated,
wherein the male abandoned
his mate.
If he meant to persist,
Al-Muluk must seek her
in the solace of her private garden,
a pleasure permitted once a month,
the closest thing akin the taste
of freedom. He must show
steady hands,
stay the course.
And just like that
our lovestruck prince
was back on his bullshit.
Merchant, that is.
They arranged a reconnaissance mission,
and even if all he impressed were some plants
he wouldn’t be caught dead
looking a mess,
bath fresh hair did dapper pants,
clocked the sad state
of the courtyard’s plaster.
He finally saw her.
Wending thoughtful through
everything she’d planted
for her own amusement. Boughs
heavy laden with fruit, blooms
wafting humid intoxicant,
alighting on every carefully selected
specimen.
Dewdrops or sweat pricked,
the entire expanse of his skin
so sudden,
so sudden.
Nerves a hummingbird’s wings.
Whatever it took.
Her garden was a jungle, thick
with such intimate sustenance,
so green as to be gore,
and he wanted nothing else
to pass his lips again.
After Dunya left
he went to see a man
about that plaster.
His final move
spanned one month more.
Al-Muluk plastered and painted
an answering dreamscape in triptych,
the secret side of her nightmares,
that which was hidden from view,
a male pigeon struck dead
by a kite’s talons. He returned.
He would always return.
Stained half his clothes,
even grew calluses. He wrought
for Dunya a masterpiece.
Al-Muluk waited.
At last she beheld a mural
whose beauty embraced her garden,
a perfect complement. How could someone
she’d never met
know so well her heart’s chambers,
as if the very bated shadow breath
between beats?
Dunya asked of Granny,
who’d sent everyone else away,
the name of this artist, his identity,
and Granny said, your merchant is here
if you would meet.
Dunya’s discerning eye
sampled heatedly his
wares
and duly decided, yes,
she would be having that, yes,
very,
very
suitable to her palate.
Granny dressed Al-Muluk as a woman
and snuck him into the palace,
he’d run the risk of losing his head,
both of them, so long as he first
put them to their purpose.
For six months hence
Dunya put his endurance to test,
scarcely a moment she did not
catch and suck his lips, small nips,
grip the curly down scalp to navel on
of her specimen,
hungered every inch every day,
some act of scathing revenge
for how long she had to wait.
Al-Muluk served no complaint.
Dunya would not be rotting on the vine,
drank from her mouths both musk and wine,
clung to her hips and thighs for dear life,
split the night with swallowed cries,
she was so very
ripe.
Granny worked double time,
washed at the break of dawn
Dunya’s wrecked bed sheets in the wake
of a focused and generous lover, our pair
writhed almost every night as serpents,
oh their pleasures plunged
a wide berth.
Nothing but the best for her girl.
Their mutual passions
only further inflamed, steady oxygen flow,
increased with exposure, the madness
of a perfect match.
God would blush. Or perhaps
this was how
the most High is best known crescendo
over bass thrum. Bright star
above the ocean.
When Al-Muluk was not
panting in her garden
or nestled in her crook, some dozing dovecote
of murmured conversation,
he haunted the many rooms
of her apartments. Intricate interiors,
curiosities and books, crafts and their tools,
cross breeze screens and windows
carried birdsong and distant bustle, laughter,
cast sunlit patterns
on the beautifully loomed
floors and walls. Velvety jewel tones.
Ached in these spaces
as she must have done.
Worlds within worlds.
He wanted more.
Found some traveling bags
carefully packed. His leaping heart.
Then one night it was different,
her nails bit his behind, hungry
in a new way. She would have him
spent deep between her legs.
She was not asking.
He expended utmost
generosity.
As they lie wild and sated,
his fingers still stroking the pungent,
dewy flush of her bud just
to revel in how her speech caught,
once, twice, some sweet tears, dipped
to circle her swollen comb
and offered the sacrament
of their mingled mess. Accepted.
What man done better with his flesh
than to inspire the wanton might
of his woman’s creation?
If you must do a thing,
do it right.
Al-Muluk thought it time
to reveal that he was not in fact
a merchant,
but an embarrassingly wealthy prince
of the far off Green Country,
and though he wouldn’t dream
of forcing such a journey,
demanding she leave everything behind,
she made him want to be a man
worthy of the responsibilities
his accident of birth implied.
Should he feign death
or otherwise slip the harness
of such status, his station,
it would spur his father to violence
from which he’d previously retired, and pierce
his mother’s heart,
and her pain he could appreciate
all the more now. Nor would he make
Dunya a fugitive from her own people.
No.
He was Taj Al-Muluk of Green Country,
and if she would have him,
he would make her its queen.
Found himself
indecent again, Dunya mounted
without ceremony
and said yes until his legs gave out
and they fell asleep in each other’s arms.
Our lovers were discovered.
All hell broke loose.
After six months and no word,
his father was en route
with their entire army. Her father
had him thrown in jail and beat,
thinking this merchant debauched royalty,
did Dunya dishonor. A mongrel’s disrespect,
however pretty.
Several rounds of fury, explanations,
and blood.
Dunya pulled a knife like bitch she might
commit regicide. Twice.
The prince’s true identity revealed,
intentions clear.
Their fathers stood down.
Al-Muluk and Dunya were married twice,
according to respective customs, so everyone
could celebrate, and somewhere on the road
everyone pretended that was when
she “lost her maidenhead”
as was proper.
His people adored her,
and if Dunya’s belly
seemed awfully swift with child,
that was just a djinn’s coincidence.
Their king and queen stole about their palace
as if only recently in the throes of courtship,
for pigeons never cease wooing their mates.
You might say Dunya killed the man
she wed after all,
but not for many long years
in each other’s arms.
@~^~
I took great liberties and don’t apologize. Hope it was worth the wait.
wyrdwind 