Tuesday, July 22, 2014

A ZOROASTRIAN MASTER

Kay Hassan



“This is my  recent  regret to  an  Indian  Zoroastrian  Lady  who  had sold ,  for  her son’s journey,  her only  prayers'  book ; the rarest  papyrus of  the Zoroastrian cult in the universe.     Ironically, however ,in the  bootleggers’ language,  every now and then, I tell her son . ‘Alas, we are the real heir of Zoroaster,  you should  have told me, man. ’”


When  swarming  locusts   digest your cult
Gracefully rip up your cocoon,
You have no maritime command,
And rocks are  never like waters,
Truly,  no one  would  stand by you
No more hide in the ancestors'  caves.
Set  a  sail  down  the towering mountains ,
To the pastures,  where your folks  dwell,
Don't hold back or
 hide your diamond  face in the mountains,
But never work  on  Kings’ horses again,
Play the  longest  game of the chest,
Learn the  trade of  silk  yarn-ing- fabric knitting  ,
Or  under  Hephaestus,   (If you are angry at Xenophon,  remember he was  the worst student of Socrates.) 
Acquire skills in  arts and  metal smith-ing,
To forge  out of the gold of  your  tumbledown soul,
 the best craftsman of all time -  il miglior fabbro*.
But   learn not to  write  any Damn  Divine Book.

*Dante   via T. S.  Eliot.

ALEXANDRIA

Kay Hassan

‘ I did hit the city  in  1977’

When you set  sail  for Alexandria,
Don’t  treat  the  season lightly,        (Like Bonaparte-   Not part of the poem.)
 There is no star -above  the city.     ( In  khamaseen. Not part of the poem)
Don’t be any   rapacious augur,
You are none of those three Magi,     (Laden with gold, frankincense, and myrrh at Bethlehem's night .Not part of the poem. )
 And not  speaking  Alexandria's Dialect,
To  sit with Cavafy  in the city’s  caf├ęs,
  Or  give a tribute speech  to  Hypatia ,
 the  lady of  Socrates’ Trades.  
And  dine with  the  Neo-Platonists ,
Or measure  under Ptolemy,
The shores of Mediterranean sea
And classify the ancient papyrus  in the Royal  Library!
Or  glimpse even a  flicker  from  the ancient Lighthouse,
Slow down, passer-by ...you are tired,
Slow down and learn;
None of those wretched passengers  shall come to the city,
Thou arst,  but a  wicked passer-by,
‘My  Sibling -’
Don't fix the myths  of Alexandria ,
The Macedonian boy   was a stray Achilles,
Dug for himself a thousand graves.
You are not the best grave digger,
‘You  are from nowhere.’
‘Et -Ego- bin -  nicht - terrestrial.’
LETS   THEN; SON OF NO MAN,
Hit  the  city where hungry breeds,
Digging up dustbins for Pharaoh's  leftover-  ‘I MEAN TOURISTS’ LEFTOVER‘ IT IS NOT PART OF THE POEM.
  And listen to  the eloquent  waiters ,
Holding  blurry glasses  for  the cheapest  bitter ,
Cackling - politics, like sluts in hurry.

Wednesday, July 16, 2014

DEVILS

Kay Hassan

Oh,  Almighty … Dear  me,
 Look what those demons have got:
Eyes:  are  brighter than thy angels'.
Words :  are sharper than daggers ,
Poisons: are sweeter than thy Grace,
Lyrics:   are rhymed swifter  than, thy books,
 And  they are  luring   sharks,
quicker  then   Maldoror
Our  lovely devil :
The mighty chap of Les Chante de Maldoreor.


Sunday, July 13, 2014

SUPERIOR


Kay Hassan

Brother ; Master of  quarks ,
I am brewing bones of  the ancestors,
And  the Geometry of the old  graveyard,
On  the milky way,
Holding,  in exile, our  hermitage on my shoulders ,
And listening  to the big bang  preachers ,
Matrix- ing   Finnegan’s  waking -night,
 By The Three Quarks for Muster Mark!

Thursday, July 03, 2014

Immigrant

Kay Hassan
To my   'un- rogue'  fellow.

If you are an old  immigrant ,  mourn your  luck ,
For you  had lost your most valuable time,
Fighting  your  rogue brothers and  the  worst waves  of invaders .
You lost your motherland ,AND  GAVE UP YOUR LOVELY CULT ,

Don’t pass the cult  to thy offspring
Even if you are Greek or a  Roman descendant,
Son of Genghis khan, or
Son of prophets or son of holy Jews
YOU ARE JUST  A CURSED BOY,
TIRED OF THE CITIES AND LANGUAGES.
PROUD, BUT NOT CONFIDENT,

Un-rogue- fellow,
Un-rogue- fellow,
Stop somewhere
And show your tears
You are  not a  thriller-
You are a  grotesque mask

No matter how you Mourn  Your  Luck,
School  thy raging soul - and for good,
Lift  up  yourself ,  higher than ever,
Then  look up unto  topmost- eyes,
Not At Your Past ,Your  Nethermost Region.:
Your ancient arsenal of MALICE.

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