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About This Author
My name is Joy, and I love to write.
Why poetry, here? Because poetry uplifts its writer, and if she is lucky enough, her readers, too. Around us, so many objects abound to write about. Once a poet starts with a smallest, most trivial object, he shall discover that his pen will spill out what is most delicate or most majestic hidden inside him. Since the classics sometimes dealt with lofty subjects with a lofty language, a person with poetry in his soul may incline to emulate that. That is understandable. Poetry does that to a person: it enlarges the soul and gives it wings. Yet, to really soar, a poet needs to take off from the ground.
 
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Off the Cuff / My Other Journal #809067 added March 5, 2014 at 10:47am
Restrictions: None
What if I get to spend an hour with….?
He enters into my dream still wrapped inside the same bed sheet, which is called himation, I believe. It's the same outfit he wore during his performances in Ancient Greece. One end of the sheet is thrown over his left shoulder. Even after two and a half millenniums, he remains a very attractive man, the kind who should still be on stage.
"You called, Mortal?" he asks haughtily. "Why can't you leave me to my own absurdity?" The last part of what he says is from Antigone. Show off! I think. But then he shrugs, reading my mind. "All men make mistakes, but..." He pauses as if he has forgotten his own words. "The only crime is pride, and I don't have pride. What about you? Is it because of your pride you summoned me?"
"Because of my blog, Sophocles, Sir," I say faintly.
Sophocles squints at me, as his hand pats his curly, rounded beard. "Your blog is a bog. How foolish your deeds!"
I can understand his snickering at my blog because he was the most-awarded writer in the dramatic competitions of ancient Athens. And yet, he has accepted to give me an hour. Hmmmm...Can this be because someone or some writing prompt is making him? Truly, I would understand if he refused. After all, he has spent a good part of his eternity with Asclepius and Zeus.
What? Zeus? Does he still believe in those gods after being in the company of the real higher-ups?
Solemnly, he straightens his back. "Gods are who or what we consider as gods. My gods are for me; yours is for you. Wisdom is the supreme part of happiness; and reverence towards the Gods must be inviolate. I say naught on the subject more than that, as no enemy is worse than bad advice."
He has done it, again. I must not forget that Sophocles can read minds, and I don't want to go into the sticky subject of comparative religions anyhow, so I ask him a question. "Please, Sir Sophocles, is it true that you gave up acting because of a weak voice?"
He lifts his chin up huffily. "My voice may have been weak for the Theatron, but people are still hearing me, don't they? Fortune is not on the side of the faint-hearted."
"Yes, of course, Sir Sophocles. We still hear you in the twenty-first century. And if I may, have you given any thought to the Oedipus complex? What do you think of Freud's interpretation?"
Sophocles frowns. "Freud is a fool. He took it all wrong. Alas, how terrible is wisdom when it brings no profit to the man that's wise!" He grimaces.
"I agree, Sir. I didn't think you approved of him, anyway. But let me jump to a different subject. While in my teens, I was mesmerized by your Antigone. I am sure millions also have been and will be through the centuries. What is your secret? How can I learn from you?"
"Learn from me? About what?" Sophocles rolls his eyes. "I died while reading aloud. I was reading Antigone. You want to die reading Antigone, too?" His laugh is loud, unexpected. "You must learn to ask clearer questions if you want exact answers. But this last statement, you just put it in my mouth, didn't you, Mortal?"
I feel the heat rising to my face. Did I just blush?
"In truth, Sir," I mumble apologetically, "that is what one of my teachers used to say, as this is a dream and dreams are my jumbled-up reality. Anyway, what I would like to know is: What is the most important thing in everything...writing, drama, pain of life, you name it?"
"One thing, one word frees us of all the weight and pain of life: That word is love. We are all born to join in love, not hate - that is our nature."
"You mean love will fix even my writing?"
"Loving writing will fix any writing. To whatever it is you love, you offer your effort, and success is dependent on effort, but think deeply of what you deem as success." He pauses a few seconds, as if giving me time to think. Then with a nod, he adds, "Love is the only success. When you love, you love even the most foolish, and this is true the other way around, too."
I push my glasses on the bridge of my nose. "The other way around?"
"Being loved, silly Mortal." He takes a deep breath, a sigh almost. "Remember, no matter how foolish your deeds, those who love you will love you still."
"Thank you for saying that, Sir Sophocles. Because...because sometimes, I worry about that. I mean the-other-way-around thing, for foolish is my second nature. Could be first, even."
Sophocles shakes his head. "Hmmmm...The keenest sorrow is to recognize ourselves as the sole cause of all our adversities, but in your case...I leave this judgment to you until you learn more, a lot more, and unbend your mind. Now, my time is up and I must bid farewell, as all dreams must come to an end."
And in saying so, Sophocles fades away, but as he is fading, I grasp a corner of the sheet covering him and open my eyes to a new day inside my own crumpled up bed sheets.
But then, that's the way dreams go.
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