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Terry O'Leary Dec 2013
Ill-fated crowd neath foreign cloud: the Silent City braves
against a sudden sullen flood, unleashing lashing waves,
which washes stony structures clean with radiance that laves.

Deserted streets, once dense retreats, spin yarns of yesterday,
with  faded words no longer heard (though having much to say)
since teeming life (at one time, rife), surceased and slipped away.

Within its walls? Whist buildings, tall... Outside the City? Dunes...
They frame a frail forgotten tale,  in carved unwritten runes
with symbols hung like halos strung in lifeless, limp festoons.

The City’s blur? A sepulcher for Christians, Muslims, Jews –
Cathedrals, Temples, vacant now, enshrine their residues,
though churches, mosques and synagogues abide without a bruise.

A church’s Gothic ceilings guard the empty pews below
and, windswept blown above the stones, a maiden’s blue jabot.
The Saints, in crypts, though nondescript, grace halos now aglow.

Stilled chapel chimes! Their clapper rope (that tongue-tied confidante)
won’t writhe to ring the carillons, alone and lean and gaunt –
its flocks of jute, now fallen mute, adorn the holy font.

Stray footsteps swarm  through church no more (apostates that profane) -
their echoes in the nave ring thin, while chalice cups maintain
a taste of brine in altar wine decaying in the rain.


No face will come with jagged tongue to sing a silent psalm
nor paint pale lips with languid quips to pierce the deathly calm,
nor pray for mercy, grace deferred, or beg lethean balm.


Six steeple towers, steel and stone, drab daggers in the sky!
Their hallowed halls no longer call when breezes wander by –
for, filled with dread to wake the dead, they've ceased to sough or sigh.

No cantillation, belfry bells, monastic chants inspire
and Minarets, though standing yet, host neither voice nor crier -
abodes and buildings silhouette a muted spectral choir.

Coiled candle sticks! Their twisted wicks no longer 'lume the cracks
with dying flame in smoky swirl mid pendant pearls of wax,
since deference to innocence dissolved in melting tracks.

Above! The dismal ditch of dusk reveals a velvet streak,
through which the winter’s wicked winds will sometimes weave and sneak,
and faraway a cable sways, a bridge clings hushed and bleak.

Thin shadows shift, like silver shafts, across a cruel moraine
reflecting white a wisp of light in ebon beads of bane
which casts a crooked smile across a faceless window pane.

Wan neon lights glow through the nights, through darkness sleek as slate,
while lanterns (hovered, high above, in silent swinging gait),
haunt ballrooms, bars, bereft bazaars, with no one left to fete.

Death's silhouettes show no regrets, 'twixt twilight’s ashen shrouds,
oblivious she always was to cries in dying crowds –
in foggy neap the spirits creep... a clutch of clammy clouds.


No breath will come  'cross jagged tongue to sing a silent psalm
nor paint pale lips with languid quips to pierce the deathly calm,
nor yet redress the emptiness that shifting shades embalm.



The castle clock, unwound, defrocks! Those peerless speechless spokes
unfurl the blight of reigning Night by spinning off her cloaks,
and flaunt the dun oblivion, her Baroness evokes.

Green trees gone dark, in palace parks, where children paused to play –
now voiceless things on phantom swings, like statues made of clay,
mark marbled tombs in graveyards groomed for grievers bent to pray.  

The sun-bleached bones of those who've flown lie scattered down the lanes
while other souls who hid in holes left bones with yellow stains
of plaintive tears (shed insincere, for no one felt the pains).

The terrors wrought by conscience fraught once stalked and lurked nearby
to rip the shrouds from  curtained clouds, frail fabrics on the sky –
now wraiths that scream in sleepless dreams no longer terrify.

And fog no longer leaks beyond the edge of doom’s café,
for when she trails her mourning veils, she fills the cabaret
with sallow smears of misty tears  in sheets of shallow gray.

Beyond the suburbs, farmers’ fields (where donkeys often brayed)
exhale a gust of barren dust where living seed once laid
and in the haze a scarecrow sways, impaled upon a *****.

A silo, still! Like hollowed quill, a ravished feather’s vane,
with traces of bespattered blood, once flowing through a vein.
The fruits of life, destroyed in strife... ’twas truly all in vain.


No souls will come with jagged tongues to sing a silent psalm
nor paint pale lips with languid quips to pierce the deathly calm –
they've seen, you see, life’s brevity, beneath a neutron bomb.


EPILOGUE

Beyond the Silent City’s walls, the victors laugh and play...
They’re celebrating PEACE ON EARTH, the devil’s sobriquet
for neutron radiation death in places far away.
Out of lemon flowers
loosed
on the moonlight, love's
lashed and insatiable
essences,
sodden with fragrance,
the lemon tree's yellow
emerges,
the lemons
move down
from the tree's planetarium

Delicate merchandise!
The harbors are big with it-
bazaars
for the light and the
barbarous gold.
We open
the halves
of a miracle,
and a clotting of acids
brims
into the starry
divisions:
creation's
original juices,
irreducible, changeless,
alive:
so the freshness lives on
in a lemon,
in the sweet-smelling house of the rind,
the proportions, arcane and acerb.

Cutting the lemon
the knife
leaves a little cathedral:
alcoves unguessed by the eye
that open acidulous glass
to the light; topazes
riding the droplets,
altars,
aromatic facades.

So, while the hand
holds the cut of the lemon,
half a world
on a trencher,
the gold of the universe
wells
to your touch:
a cup yellow
with miracles,
a breast and a ******
perfuming the earth;
a flashing made fruitage,
the diminutive fire of a planet.
Laughing Wolf Dec 2015
Get
wealthy:
the rich man
needs no heaven.
Everything's for sale:
take stock of the market…
prices and caprices vary
in the most bizarre of bazaars
we haggle with a zest for barter
and bargain away the best of ourselves
with third world orders of exploitation
a good greed never goes unpunished
in the most bizarre of bazaars
broken is quite optimal—
don't take it personal:
profits and prophets
both burn in hell
the poor man
prays for
rain.
Marshal Gebbie Oct 2012
The regions’ magic carpets are a-beckoning
The brassware in the back bazaars aglow,
Exotic spice is nice
For a very reasonable price
And the camel market’s just the place to go.


But…


Afghanistan’s dark Muslims are scheming
The women folk are sharpening their knives,
When foreign troops depart
The bloodletting will start
With collaborators screaming for their lives.


The children of the Ottoman are smarting
For their neighbours are showing them disdain
By peppering with bombs
Along with Syria’s pogroms
And I wonder why the local folk complain?


Oh the sun comes up with glory in old Egypt
As another national leader meets demise
And old Nasser’s bile will burn
As from his grave he will return
To try to rectify his children’s Holy lies.


There are whispers of  a strike at the reactor.
There are reactionary reactions from Iran
With annulment of the bomb
The region should resume aplomb
But I have my doubts this mixture really can.


And it never rains on dear old dusty Cairo,
Here, you never feel the chill of falling snow,
You may stalk the back bazaars
For the rare blue water jars
But you should really buy protection when you go.



And they whinge that all the tourists here are dwindling
That the middle Eastern charm is all but spent,
When the red blood flows like wine
In the good old Bhyzantine
As the peace of night, with gunfire, is wrent.


But…


The dates are really sweet
And the carpetry so neat
And the music is exotic in the night,
And with the flash of Asian eyes
I can guarantee surprise
As you flee for very life…with ****** fright!


Marshalg
From the dark Bazaar
23 October 2012

© 2012 Marshal Gebbie
T E Pyrus May 2015
Gold may flow in rivers for all I care.
In the dusty song of the koel,
In the humid and bustling, cheerful bazaars,
In the warm sunshine in the eyes of my people when the rain wipes the ashes off the lenses after another season of fire,
Where everyday is a new storm, perhaps a new rainbow,
In the welcoming, sweat-stained soils,
My footsteps shall always wander...

The rabbit on the moon smiles.

~Wordsmith
There are worse places to be
There are better

Avenues of everything I’ve ever dreamt of
Stretch out before me like a baby’s crumpled arms
Rugs pave the broken road
Soothing the wavy maze of souks and bazaars

Covered in blemishes
Riddled with secret treasures
Untameable animals scour the pathways
Searching for forgotten scraps

Shadows live in contrast to the midday sun
Hiding fallen beggars
Lying twisted on the ground
Juxtaposition of beauty and pain unfolds

Poised in the blameless blue sky
A tower rises over the horizon
Desperation pours out of every cracked brick
And a prayer floats out to the market

It is perfection, of a kind.
The streets are not innocent
They have seen and heard and felt
Every wrong in the world

Afternoon heat of the square suffocates me
I’m lost in an array of people and materials
Drowning in the swirling language
Eyes stinging amongst the dusty chaos

Rain
Eats away the market’s life,
Dampening red-hot brick walls.
Corrupted skies cry.

There are worse places to be
There are better
HAZ Oct 2012
Leaving this city of lights,
O you, who went away,
to a distant dream, a distant land,
deserting our world,
what a trend you have set!

Flowers still bloom here, you see,
and hues still settle at sunset,
but the heat of dread
burns the buds on every branch,
and shades of separation,
replace our sunset.
Abandoning our world, O you who left,
what a trend you have set!

Little lamps are lit here,
and the bazaars too buzz with life,
but in the emptiness of the heart,
exists a single thorn,
and with that a desire for your glimpse.
You lit a lamp of longing in us, O you who left,
what a trend you have set!

It's true, we have nothing to give,
no buds in bloom, no dreams,
and who has ever returned
from a garden to a wasteland?
Indifference is the need of this time, you see.
It's true that our world,
is nothing but an empty desert,
slowly each candle burns out,
and life is nothing but a favour on this body.

but still, this wish of loyalty,
awakens and misses you sometimes,
and whenever Autumn comes in this sorrow,
it kills this restless soul.
dedicated to those who are left behind, while their loved ones find a new home in a better country.
adapted and translated from an Urdu poem by N.Z.
Rangzeb Hussain Feb 2011
Journey to Mecca – The IMAX Experience

Imagine the scene... There are crowds of people milling about, some in queues, some chatting by the windows, others sipping a warm drink. There are children playing in corners, babies drinking milk, and wherever you look you see people of all creeds and races united under the banner of a shared humanity. And what is the reason for this diverse cross section of society to be present in one place on a quiet and sleepy Sunday afternoon at Birmingham’s ThinkTank? The answer is right there across the busy foyer. It is a poster for a new IMAX film called “Journey to Mecca”. The very air bubbles with excitement and expectation as the cinema staff cut the proverbial ribbon and usher the people into the auditorium.

Space, vast and open, is the first thing that hits the audience as they take their seats and let their eyes wander over the immense spectrum of the IMAX screen. A map unfurls across the screen and a narrator explains the time and lays down the background to the scene that is about to commence. The year is 1325, the place is Tangier and the story is about a man who is about to embark upon a journey to the holy city of Mecca on a pilgrimage. The charismatic young man is Ibn Battuta, he stares at the stars that twinkle across the canvas of the night sky and he dreams of spires, of domes, of jewelled cities that sparkle in the desert sands, and his vision swoops like a falcon over the alleys and streets of the kingdom until they rest upon the Ka’aba, the sacred building at the heart of Islam.

Ibn Battuta bids farewell to his beloved family and sets out on his journey which will see him tested, both physically and psychologically, as he travels to the fabled city of Mecca. His trials and tribulations on the road to Mecca are detailed with an emotional richness rarely seen in modern cinema. The script is nuanced in a way that allows the audience to connect with the action and the various characters. The depth of research and the care in which the tale is told is delicately balanced. This is cinema as entertainment and as education.

The film reveals the magic and wonder of the Hajj by contrasting the life of Ibn Battuta with modern day worshippers at the same holy sites as those visited by the young traveller all those years ago. The scale of the event is brought to realisation in a way that will make even the most jaded film connoisseur gasp with astonishment.

In terms of technicalities, the IMAX technology is notorious for being extremely expensive and difficult to master. The format does not allow for the creative freedom that one can utilize in 35mm, so it is to the credit of the crew that this film looks seamless and breathtaking. Every single frame of the drama is a beautifully crafted canvas that seems to glow like a painting. The cinematography is exemplary and employs a painterly palette. The deserts and mountains are dry, cracked and dusty brown like wrinkled parchment while the sun drips golden lava across the scorching landscape. The white garments of the pilgrims are like beacons floating in the creamy dust of the desert sands whilst the tapestries hanging in the bazaars are lovingly stitched in green and blue threads; and the silver and gold bangles on the arms and ankles of the village girls ****** and twinkle. The atmosphere of warmth and friendship is apparent in every scene, especially when the succulent food is shared by the soft red glow of the campfires. High above this blend of colours, languages and the swirl of human emotions are the dancing stars that ripple in the heavens. The spectacle and sounds of a bygone era are stunningly designed.

The soundtrack also serves the film quite well. The music is never intrusive or melodramatic, it is there as a soft accompaniment to the proceedings. The use of strings, Moorish mandolins, African percussion and the human voice brings an exotic and ethereal ambiance to the drama.

“Journey to Mecca” is a journey of hope, a journey of understanding and a journey that will inspire. The sheer magnitude and beauty of this film left the audience awed and instilled a desire to learn more about the past which we sometimes neglect to reflect upon in our fast moving lives. This film is an ode to peace, love and compassion, and acts as a bridge of understanding between the past and present. And, as the film fades to black at the ******, there is a final haunting image that will resonate with every member of the audience. The message is simple and poignant. It illustrates the transient and swift nature of life; it shows how we glow brightly by the light of the noon day sun and then fade into the tranquil shadows of the coming twilight. Our journey in this life should be one that respects all of humanity despite our cultural or political differences. It is not often that one leaves the cinema knowing that your soul has been moved by something rare, delicate and exquisite. This was one of those rare occasions.
THE SINS of Kalamazoo are neither scarlet nor crimson.
  
The sins of Kalamazoo are a convict gray, a dishwater drab.
  
And the people who sin the sins of Kalamazoo are neither scarlet nor crimson.
  
They run to drabs and grays-and some of them sing they shall be washed whiter than snow-and some: We should worry.
  
Yes, Kalamazoo is a spot on the map
And the passenger trains stop there
And the factory smokestacks smoke
And the grocery stores are open Saturday nights
And the streets are free for citizens who vote
And inhabitants counted in the census.
Saturday night is the big night.
  Listen with your ears on a Saturday night in Kalamazoo
  And say to yourself: I hear America, I hear, what do I hear?
  
Main street there runs through the middle of the twon
And there is a ***** postoffice
And a ***** city hall
And a ***** railroad station
And the United States flag cries, cries the Stars and Stripes to the four winds on Lincoln's birthday and the Fourth of July.
  
Kalamazoo kisses a hand to something far off.
  
Kalamazoo calls to a long horizon, to a shivering silver angel, to a creeping mystic what-is-it.
  
"We're here because we're here," is the song of Kalamazoo.
  
"We don't know where we're going but we're on our way," are the words.
  
There are hound dogs of bronze on the public square, hound dogs looking far beyond the public square.
  
Sweethearts there in Kalamazoo
Go to the general delivery window of the postoffice
And speak their names and ask for letters
And ask again, "Are you sure there is nothing for me?
I wish you'd look again-there must be a letter for me."
  
And sweethearts go to the city hall
And tell their names and say,"We want a license."
And they go to an installment house and buy a bed on time and a clock
And the children grow up asking each other, "What can we do to **** time?"
They grow up and go to the railroad station and buy tickets for Texas, Pennsylvania, Alaska.
"Kalamazoo is all right," they say. "But I want to see the world."
And when they have looked the world over they come back saying it is all like Kalamazoo.
  
The trains come in from the east and hoot for the crossings,
And buzz away to the peach country and Chicago to the west
Or they come from the west and shoot on to the Battle Creek breakfast bazaars
And the speedbug heavens of Detroit.
  
"I hear America, I hear, what do I hear?"
Said a loafer lagging along on the sidewalks of Kalamazoo,
Lagging along and asking questions, reading signs.
  
Oh yes, there is a town named Kalamazoo,
A spot on the map where the trains hesitate.
I saw the sign of a five and ten cent store there
And the Standard Oil Company and the International Harvester
And a graveyard and a ball grounds
And a short order counter where a man can get a stack of wheats
And a pool hall where a rounder leered confidential like and said:
"Lookin' for a quiet game?"
  
The loafer lagged along and asked,
"Do you make guitars here?
Do you make boxes the singing wood winds ask to sleep in?
Do you rig up strings the singing wood winds sift over and sing low?"
The answer: "We manufacture musical instruments here."
  
Here I saw churches with steeples like hatpins,
Undertaking rooms with sample coffins in the show window
And signs everywhere satisfaction is guaranteed,
Shooting galleries where men **** imitation pigeons,
And there were doctors for the sick,
And lawyers for people waiting in jail,
And a dog catcher and a superintendent of streets,
And telephones, water-works, trolley cars,
And newspapers with a splatter of telegrams from sister cities of Kalamazoo the round world over.
  
And the loafer lagging along said:
Kalamazoo, you ain't in a class by yourself;
I seen you before in a lot of places.
If you are nuts America is nuts.
  And lagging along he said bitterly:
  Before I came to Kalamazoo I was silent.
  Now I am gabby, God help me, I am gabby.
  
Kalamazoo, both of us will do a fadeaway.
I will be carried out feet first
And time and the rain will chew you to dust
And the winds blow you away.
And an old, old mother will lay a green moss cover on my bones
And a green moss cover on the stones of your postoffice and city hall.
  
  Best of all
I have loved your kiddies playing run-sheep-run
And cutting their initials on the ball ground fence.
They knew every time I fooled them who was fooled and how.
  
  Best of all
I have loved the red gold smoke of your sunsets;
I have loved a moon with a ring around it
Floating over your public square;
I have loved the white dawn frost of early winter silver
And purple over your railroad tracks and lumber yards.
  
  The wishing heart of you I loved, Kalamazoo.
  I sang bye-lo, bye-lo to your dreams.
I sang bye-lo to your hopes and songs.
I wished to God there were hound dogs of bronze on your public square,
Hound dogs with bronze paws looking to a long horizon with a shivering silver angel, a creeping mystic what-is-it.
--To Elizabeth Robins Pennell


'O mes cheres Mille et Une Nuits!'--Fantasio.

Once on a time
There was a little boy:  a master-mage
By virtue of a Book
Of magic--O, so magical it filled
His life with visionary pomps
Processional!  And Powers
Passed with him where he passed.  And Thrones
And Dominations, glaived and plumed and mailed,
Thronged in the criss-cross streets,
The palaces pell-mell with playing-fields,
Domes, cloisters, dungeons, caverns, tents, arcades,
Of the unseen, silent City, in his soul
Pavilioned jealously, and hid
As in the dusk, profound,
Green stillnesses of some enchanted mere.--

I shut mine eyes . . . And lo!
A flickering ****** of memory that floats
Upon the face of a pool of darkness five
And thirty dead years deep,
Antic in girlish broideries
And skirts and silly shoes with straps
And a broad-ribanded leghorn, he walks
Plain in the shadow of a church
(St. Michael's:  in whose brazen call
To curfew his first wails of wrath were whelmed),
Sedate for all his haste
To be at home; and, nestled in his arm,
Inciting still to quiet and solitude,
Boarded in sober drab,
With small, square, agitating cuts
Let in a-top of the double-columned, close,
Quakerlike print, a Book! . . .
What but that blessed brief
Of what is gallantest and best
In all the full-shelved Libraries of Romance?
The Book of rocs,
Sandalwood, ivory, turbans, ambergris,
Cream-tarts, and lettered apes, and calendars,
And ghouls, and genies--O, so huge
They might have overed the tall Minster Tower
Hands down, as schoolboys take a post!
In truth, the Book of Camaralzaman,
Schemselnihar and Sindbad, Scheherezade
The peerless, Bedreddin, Badroulbadour,
Cairo and Serendib and Candahar,
And Caspian, and the dim, terrific bulk--
Ice-ribbed, fiend-visited, isled in spells and storms--
Of Kaf! . . . That centre of miracles,
The sole, unparalleled Arabian Nights!

Old friends I had a-many--kindly and grim
Familiars, cronies quaint
And goblin!  Never a Wood but housed
Some morrice of dainty dapperlings.  No Brook
But had his nunnery
Of green-haired, silvry-curving sprites,
To cabin in his grots, and pace
His lilied margents.  Every lone Hillside
Might open upon Elf-Land.  Every Stalk
That curled about a Bean-stick was of the breed
Of that live ladder by whose delicate rungs
You climbed beyond the clouds, and found
The Farm-House where the Ogre, gorged
And drowsy, from his great oak chair,
Among the flitches and pewters at the fire,
Called for his Faery Harp.  And in it flew,
And, perching on the kitchen table, sang
Jocund and jubilant, with a sound
Of those gay, golden-vowered madrigals
The shy thrush at mid-May
Flutes from wet orchards flushed with the triumphing dawn;
Or blackbirds rioting as they listened still,
In old-world woodlands rapt with an old-world spring,
For Pan's own whistle, savage and rich and lewd,
And mocked him call for call!

I could not pass
The half-door where the cobbler sat in view
Nor figure me the wizen Leprechaun,
In square-cut, faded reds and buckle-shoes,
Bent at his work in the hedge-side, and know
Just how he tapped his brogue, and twitched
His wax-end this and that way, both with wrists
And elbows.  In the rich June fields,
Where the ripe clover drew the bees,
And the tall quakers trembled, and the West Wind
Lolled his half-holiday away
Beside me lolling and lounging through my own,
'Twas good to follow the Miller's Youngest Son
On his white horse along the leafy lanes;
For at his stirrup linked and ran,
Not cynical and trapesing, as he loped
From wall to wall above the espaliers,
But in the bravest tops
That market-town, a town of tops, could show:
Bold, subtle, adventurous, his tail
A banner flaunted in disdain
Of human stratagems and shifts:
King over All the Catlands, present and past
And future, that moustached
Artificer of fortunes, ****-in-Boots!
Or Bluebeard's Closet, with its plenishing
Of meat-hooks, sawdust, blood,
And wives that hung like fresh-dressed carcases--
Odd-fangled, most a butcher's, part
A faery chamber hazily seen
And hazily figured--on dark afternoons
And windy nights was visiting of the best.
Then, too, the pelt of hoofs
Out in the roaring darkness told
Of Herne the Hunter in his antlered helm
Galloping, as with despatches from the Pit,
Between his hell-born Hounds.
And Rip Van Winkle . . . often I lurked to hear,
Outside the long, low timbered, tarry wall,
The mutter and rumble of the trolling bowls
Down the lean plank, before they fluttered the pins;
For, listening, I could help him play
His wonderful game,
In those blue, booming hills, with Mariners
Refreshed from kegs not coopered in this our world.

But what were these so near,
So neighbourly fancies to the spell that brought
The run of Ali Baba's Cave
Just for the saying 'Open Sesame,'
With gold to measure, peck by peck,
In round, brown wooden stoups
You borrowed at the chandler's? . . . Or one time
Made you Aladdin's friend at school,
Free of his Garden of Jewels, Ring and Lamp
In perfect trim? . . . Or Ladies, fair
For all the embrowning scars in their white *******
Went labouring under some dread ordinance,
Which made them whip, and bitterly cry the while,
Strange Curs that cried as they,
Till there was never a Black ***** of all
Your consorting but might have gone
Spell-driven miserably for crimes
Done in the pride of womanhood and desire . . .
Or at the ghostliest altitudes of night,
While you lay wondering and acold,
Your sense was fearfully purged; and soon
Queen Labe, abominable and dear,
Rose from your side, opened the Box of Doom,
Scattered the yellow powder (which I saw
Like sulphur at the Docks in bulk),
And muttered certain words you could not hear;
And there! a living stream,
The brook you bathed in, with its weeds and flags
And cresses, glittered and sang
Out of the hearthrug over the nakedness,
Fair-scrubbed and decent, of your bedroom floor! . . .

I was--how many a time!--
That Second Calendar, Son of a King,
On whom 'twas vehemently enjoined,
Pausing at one mysterious door,
To pry no closer, but content his soul
With his kind Forty.  Yet I could not rest
For idleness and ungovernable Fate.
And the Black Horse, which fed on sesame
(That wonder-working word!),
Vouchsafed his back to me, and spread his vans,
And soaring, soaring on
From air to air, came charging to the ground
Sheer, like a lark from the midsummer clouds,
And, shaking me out of the saddle, where I sprawled
Flicked at me with his tail,
And left me blinded, miserable, distraught
(Even as I was in deed,
When doctors came, and odious things were done
On my poor tortured eyes
With lancets; or some evil acid stung
And wrung them like hot sand,
And desperately from room to room
Fumble I must my dark, disconsolate way),
To get to Bagdad how I might.  But there
I met with Merry Ladies.  O you three--
Safie, Amine, Zobeide--when my heart
Forgets you all shall be forgot!
And so we supped, we and the rest,
On wine and roasted lamb, rose-water, dates,
Almonds, pistachios, citrons.  And Haroun
Laughed out of his lordly beard
On Giaffar and Mesrour (I knew the Three
For all their Mossoul habits).  And outside
The Tigris, flowing swift
Like Severn bend for bend, twinkled and gleamed
With broken and wavering shapes of stranger stars;
The vast, blue night
Was murmurous with peris' plumes
And the leathern wings of genies; words of power
Were whispering; and old fishermen,
Casting their nets with prayer, might draw to shore
Dead loveliness:  or a prodigy in scales
Worth in the Caliph's Kitchen pieces of gold:
Or copper vessels, stopped with lead,
Wherein some Squire of Eblis watched and railed,
In durance under potent charactry
Graven by the seal of Solomon the King . . .

Then, as the Book was glassed
In Life as in some olden mirror's quaint,
Bewildering angles, so would Life
Flash light on light back on the Book; and both
Were changed.  Once in a house decayed
From better days, harbouring an errant show
(For all its stories of dry-rot
Were filled with gruesome visitants in wax,
Inhuman, hushed, ghastly with Painted Eyes),
I wandered; and no living soul
Was nearer than the pay-box; and I stared
Upon them staring--staring.  Till at last,
Three sets of rafters from the streets,
I strayed upon a mildewed, rat-run room,
With the two Dancers, horrible and obscene,
Guarding the door:  and there, in a bedroom-set,
Behind a fence of faded crimson cords,
With an aspect of frills
And dimities and dishonoured privacy
That made you hanker and hesitate to look,
A Woman with her litter of Babes--all slain,
All in their nightgowns, all with Painted Eyes
Staring--still staring; so that I turned and ran
As for my neck, but in the street
Took breath.  The same, it seemed,
And yet not all the same, I was to find,
As I went up!  For afterwards,
Whenas I went my round alone--
All day alone--in long, stern, silent streets,
Where I might stretch my hand and take
Whatever I would:  still there were Shapes of Stone,
Motionless, lifelike, frightening--for the Wrath
Had smitten them; but they watched,
This by her melons and figs, that by his rings
And chains and watches, with the hideous gaze,
The Painted Eyes insufferable,
Now, of those grisly images; and I
Pursued my best-beloved quest,
Thrilled with a novel and delicious fear.
So the night fell--with never a lamplighter;
And through the Palace of the King
I groped among the echoes, and I felt
That they were there,
Dreadfully there, the Painted staring Eyes,
Hall after hall . . . Till lo! from far
A Voice!  And in a little while
Two tapers burning!  And the Voice,
Heard in the wondrous Word of God, was--whose?
Whose but Zobeide's,
The lady of my heart, like me
A True Believer, and like me
An outcast thousands of leagues beyond the pale! . . .

Or, sailing to the Isles
Of Khaledan, I spied one evenfall
A black blotch in the sunset; and it grew
Swiftly . . . and grew.  Tearing their beards,
The sailors wept and prayed; but the grave ship,
Deep laden with spiceries and pearls, went mad,
Wrenched the long tiller out of the steersman's hand,
And, turning broadside on,
As the most iron would, was haled and ******
Nearer, and nearer yet;
And, all awash, with horrible lurching leaps
Rushed at that Portent, casting a shadow now
That swallowed sea and sky; and then,
Anchors and nails and bolts
Flew screaming out of her, and with clang on clang,
A noise of fifty stithies, caught at the sides
Of the Magnetic Mountain; and she lay,
A broken bundle of firewood, strown piecemeal
About the waters; and her crew
Passed shrieking, one by one; and I was left
To drown.  All the long night I swam;
But in the morning, O, the smiling coast
Tufted with date-trees, meadowlike,
Skirted with shelving sands!  And a great wave
Cast me ashore; and I was saved alive.
So, giving thanks to God, I dried my clothes,
And, faring inland, in a desert place
I stumbled on an iron ring--
The fellow of fifty built into the Quays:
When, scenting a trap-door,
I dug, and dug; until my biggest blade
Stuck into wood.  And then,
The flight of smooth-hewn, easy-falling stairs,
Sunk in the naked rock!  The cool, clean vault,
So neat with niche on niche it might have been
Our beer-cellar but for the rows
Of brazen urns (like monstrous chemist's jars)
Full to the wide, squat throats
With gold-dust, but a-top
A layer of pickled-walnut-looking things
I knew for olives!  And far, O, far away,
The Princess of China languished!  Far away
Was marriage, with a Vizier and a Chief
Of Eunuchs and the privilege
Of going out at night
To play--unkenned, majestical, secure--
Where the old, brown, friendly river shaped
Like Tigris shore for shore!  Haply a Ghoul
Sat in the churchyard under a frightened moon,
A thighbone in his fist, and glared
At supper with a Lady:  she who took
Her rice with tweezers grain by grain.
Or you might stumble--there by the iron gates
Of the Pump Room--underneath the limes--
Upon Bedreddin in his shirt and drawers,
Just as the civil Genie laid him down.
Or those red-curtained panes,
Whence a tame cornet tenored it throatily
Of beer-pots and spittoons and new long pipes,
Might turn a caravansery's, wherein
You found Noureddin Ali, loftily drunk,
And that fair Persian, bathed in tears,
You'd not have given away
For all the diamonds in the Vale Perilous
You had that dark and disleaved afternoon
Escaped on a roc's claw,
Disguised like Sindbad--but in Christmas beef!
And all the blissful while
The schoolboy satchel at your hip
Was such a bulse of gems as should amaze
Grey-whiskered chapmen drawn
From over Caspian:  yea, the Chief Jewellers
Of Tartary and the bazaars,
Seething with traffic, of enormous Ind.--

Thus cried, thus called aloud, to the child heart
The magian East:  thus the child eyes
Spelled out the wizard message by the light
Of the sober, workaday hours
They saw, week in week out, pass, and still pass
In the sleepy Minster City, folded kind
In ancient Severn's arm,
Amongst her water-meadows and her docks,
Whose floating populace of ships--
Galliots and luggers, light-heeled brigantines,
Bluff barques and rake-hell fore-and-afters--brought
To her very doorsteps and geraniums
The scents of the World's End; the calls
That may not be gainsaid to rise and ride
Like fire on some high errand of the race;
The irresistible appeals
For comradeship that sound
Steadily from the irresistible sea.
Thus the East laughed and whispered, and the tale,
Telling itself anew
In terms of living, labouring life,
Took on the colours, busked it in the wear
Of life that lived and laboured; and Romance,
The Angel-Playmate, raining down
His golden influences
On all I saw, and all I dreamed and did,
Walked with me arm in arm,
Or left me, as one bediademed with straws
And bits of glass, to gladden at my heart
Who had the gift to seek and feel and find
His fiery-hearted presence everywhere.
Even so dear Hesper, bringer of all good things,
Sends the same silver dews
Of happiness down her dim, delighted skies
On some poor collier-hamlet--(mound on mound
Of sifted squalor; here a soot-throated stalk
Sullenly smoking over a row
Of flat-faced hovels; black in the gritty air
A web of rails and wheels and beams; with strings
Of hurtling, tipping trams)--
As on the amorous nightingales
And roses of Shiraz, or the walls and towers
Of Samarcand--the Ineffable--whence you espy
The splendour of Ginnistan's embattled spears,
Like listed lightnings.
Samarcand!
That name of names!  That star-vaned belvedere
Builded against the Chambers of the South!
That outpost on the Infinite!
And behold!
Questing therefrom, you knew not what wild tide
Might overtake you:  for one fringe,
One suburb, is stablished on firm earth; but one
Floats founded vague
In lubberlands delectable--isles of palm
And lotus, fortunate mains, far-shimmering seas,
The promise of wistful hills--
The shining, shifting Sovranties of Dream.
Sahil Suri Aug 2013
Discordant
yet innately harmonious
a cacophony of noise
shrouding my body
the harsh
empowering light
battering from above

the oppressive
heat and humidity
caressing my body as I walk

Barefoot on the open gravel

Shouts are heard
from countless merchants
from the shops and bazaars
the honking of horns
the ringing of bells
from bikes
and motor rickshas

people bustle around
performing a dizzying range of tasks
yet all working
to a common goal
to survive

Yet amidst the chaos
Children run through the streets
weaving between countless giants
to sate their desire for fun
and exercise their fragile innocence

unmarred by the horrors of the world.

India...
A beautiful mess
of livelihood and dreams of success
a true cultural experience for the senses
While it may not seem the most appealing at first
I don't know how else to stress
an amazing experience for all who enter nonetheless
Heading west from La Pesa to the streets of Calabazar for a trip to the markets,
a dance through bazaars.

The lighthouse in Cayo Guano lit the way to the end of the day as we snorkelled deep off the archipelago.

The night filled with Hemingway's stories being drip fed a litre of ***
as the moon slipped behind old Havana awaiting the birth of the sun.
Jeff Barbanell Jul 2013
Bear with a sore head
Takes coyote on post haste
Bore v. Trickster tried
Hung court just verdict
Bought ideologically
Branded! Brig banished
Like Guantanamo
Force fed on stale chalk
Red glib ref to beasts
Totalists with clubs
Tabulate ***** ad hoc
Bring shame to beating
When stops suicide?
Noble savage survives best
Practice leads young straight
Where head caravans?
Lossless nomads swim through sand
To moor oases
Connect with bazaars
Extra-exponential rock
Scissors paper cuts
Exacto-knifed sharp
Cards tabled until sure things
Made deals pay upfront
Cold hard confidence
Wannabe men drive sweet game
Put all together
Touch trumps tears takes no prison
Uncaged roam space free
Our place ancients planned
Body mind spirit heart team
Here earth *** soils worms
Compost ground debris
Bred sustenance seeds rich peat
Brings about the end
Dear salient Moon , how was twilight over Asia
Across the bazaars of Istanbul , the mountains -
of Pakistan , the midnight Sahara , the fishing -
villages of Portugal
Speak of the mighty Atlantic with crashing -
waves , the Isle of Bermuda , the tranquil -
Bahamas , the shores of Newfoundland , the hills
of Scotland
Sir Luna must be quite bored with Hill Country , I would surmise ,
after all he has witnessed on the good Earth tonight
Copyright April 18 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
Connor Apr 2015
A firetruck races past the isolate Blue Fox and infinity. Dulcimer clatters fading brickwork on the cross markets and churches where blind men are the imagining heaven. Luminescent Volcanic leaves heated from sunfire beautiful in the Spring choke lanes which are battered by abstract cavern homes. What happened to the Orient Harpsichord Serenity? Where does the Blue Fox go? Incense Markets Sauna with Smoke are busy in Denpasar while I'm here at a North American shopping mall where Ivory Columns cradled in violet fauna do wait sturdy and enchanted in rows.
Here I'm waiting by the leather clay shade bench in silent meditation breathing community whispers and listening clear to water pour from the lionhead fountain. Parrots caw atop a wide gated ceiling facing Empyreus.

There is a fire in America. The Blue Fox is hidden beneath firs and palms bathing in humidity. The Blue Fox is writing prophecies of economic collapse and rampant pointless murders making the newspapers. Ash storms blazing while banana painted trucks row on row attend to Victorian wood panels cooling to onyx powder in too short a time. There is no room for learning when The End Times go too quickly.
I'm listening to Bob Dylan scream instrumental prayer on harmonica rough against my ears. The Blue Fox treads February Beaches a few hundred miles from Australia and whistling the words of flowers in his head. He chews on wheatgrass jangling change in his fur pockets like those cartoons. He is the vision of Bohemia, he is an active star dazzled in this beguiled galaxy, yet in his spine he carries the turmoil doppleganger kept by all and known by none.
The firetrucks are doing all they can to quell the lung-poison vase boiling an apartment dancing inside but it continues to grow in its enraged fury.

There's a fire in America boys and girls, come around and see.
Canoes of memorial gold row through oppression and genocide, the Inuits and First Peoples of ancient years are wondering too where the blue fox went when agony cries the air. Stories of wisdom replaced with stories of war. Balaclavas labyrinthine through  exotic Bazaars thick with music and plants hanging off fishhooks and brass coat hangers while I write and dream of such Valhallas in my shopping mall on a quiet afternoon.
Bill is playing the banjo with faded paint and a single broken string, there he is on Yates! Cowboy hat made of charcoal velvet holding a meager collection of change.  
Stephen Schizophrenia is lying on his back watching aluminum kingdoms hover on by expanding nimbus clouds. He has eleven dollars to his name along with a damaged half torn belt with his initials engraved on the buckle  He taps his feet to Edith Piaf howling "La Vie En Rose" while an Airplane collides with his sacred personal aluminum palace, suddenly he can't block out the repressed memories he's fought decades to hide deep and dark in his bleak jazz enthralled brains.

Maybe we're all supposed to fall apart. Maybe we're designed to hurt and cause hurt. Where is that ****** Blue Fox? He's ebullient, thoughts fragmented in sharp bliss glass cutting him through while he rolls around the sands catching Buddha particles in his paws digging holes on Kuta Beach to his Idyllic land where happiness is forever and therefore false.

The Blue Fox falls in love overwhelming with everybody and every soul. So many souls by the billions every place! Even the tyrants. Even the demons. Even the necrophiliac scoring an OD'd brunette at twenty six from Anaheim who collapsed flatlined by prescriptions on a 3rd floor Complex.
He adores the narcissist who loves everybody as fully as The Blue Fox as long as they are herself. She is the harmonic untainted flytrap unaware of its own venomous nature but jealous of Summer and jealous of those whose names are heralded through generation to generation.
He adores The addict who is hollow of everything but the ****** sizzling under his patchy skin while he sinks from divinity swelling through his heart. He smiles while the remaining light dies inside him, left with only the regret remedies of suicide.
He adores The artist who fled to the big City and became nothing but watered down pigment after the Capitalists tossed him off the nearest skyscraper shouting pretentious metaphors.

The Blue Fox loves them all! He has no concept of the corrupt, or the lazy, or the greedy and needy and crazy and forgotten. They are all equal to him! The Blue Fox is knelt on paisley carpet smooth and spectacular! His regular India ashram, uplifting his body and his mind. The blue fox knows no doubt. Or anxiety, frailty or tears. He has no impulse or desire. The Blue Fox is joy in form and breathing spectrums of color mixing to combinations we cannot perceive.

There is a fire in america. It rages on unstoppable. It engulfs countries thousands of miles and histories away. It swallows the morning, noon and night. It protrudes disease in its wake. It heats up the ozone layer allowing radiation to make us more than cancer the zodiac. It causes our terror. It blots out our ardor. It havocs our heroes. Nothing is clean anymore. There is a fire in America.

And America is the world!  I'm watching out the front doors of this shopping mall where an elderly man trips at the food court escalator and becomes more renowned with every lethal collision down the tiles of freedom. Paramedics arrive shortly after and attend to another scalded by that same fire.
Up and up it goes!
Najwa Kareem Aug 2017
Ramadan 2017 in Sarajevo, Bosnia                      

The first day and the second

What a blessing!!!

Brothers and Sisters in the Old Town speaking the words Salamu Alaikum

Sisters wearing veils with colors like in the bright rainbow appearing before me and my two new friends from Bosnia in a sky above a bussling bazaar, there a smaller group of humans watching and a larger group of tourists capturing a rare moment in Sarajevo on photo

Many brothers wearing kufis and many brothers with trendy hair styles paired with Western outfits gathering in the courtyard of Gazi Husrev-Bey Mosque, the largest in Bosnia and sixteen centuries old. Tourists from Africa, America, Europe, and other landscapes and many locals exchanging words and gestures in a month better than a thousand

Families spending time together at the Grand Mosque and at smaller mosques and in other places surrounded by picturesque hills and green plush trees

A father, a mother, their toddler son...he practicing walking on a masjid's cobblestone, and their young daughter...she smiling at her father as he walks by. Each family member physically at a distance from each other. Each family member at a cell's distance in communion with each other.

In the mid afternoon on a Ramadan's day, a sister from Munich and I having met for the first time at Bey Mosque ride together in a taxi up a steep hill to see a guest house she knows

A smell of lingering cigarette smoke permeating the air within the house so thick beckons me to leave politely and quickly. Unaware of the smell's degree, the owner learns of its' offensiveness as I disclose my sensitivity to & the dislike of the smell of cigarette smoke, both acutely heightened while fasting

Careful steps back down the steep hill to the city center, me avoiding stumbling on a large rock or being runover by a speeding automobile, interestingly instead I stumble upon a beautiful grave yard of uniquely shaped white gravestones and a charming mosque with a high minaret

At the bottom of the hill sits a crafts and artistry shop, one of many in Sarajevo's Old Town. Upon entering and a brief conversation with the owner, a piece of generosity is handed to me, a square shape piece of wood with Ayat tul Kursi in hand calligraphy

During the late afternoon hours, a time for reading Quran by many at mosques in the city. Sisters and brothers sitting on carpeted floors, some with backs supported by mosque walls, some with bodies sitting in chairs, fasters occupied with the most perfected Divine Scripture

A brief leisurely stroll with my two new friends Dzenita and her sister Amina through part of the Bazaar, they sharing opinions of their favorite restaurants, best eating experiences, and other things

In the early evening, a time to buy food to prepare for the Iftar meal. Showing me how it's done in Sarajevo, Dzenita and Amina invite me to join them on an excursion up a hill to buy Somun, a Bosnian flatbread topped with black seeds from the city's famous bread maker. Standing in a line longer than Georgetown Cupcake, Dzenita surprises me with a gift of Somun for myself

Two dates, one cube of Bosnian delight, and one cup of water to break our fast with at the Bey Mosque. A canon bomb sounds off to announce the time for Magrib prayer and Iftar, customary in Sarajevo during Ramadan

Startled and alerted by the bomb's depth and volume, I stand up to join the congregation for communion with God, The God Most Gracious, Most High

Out of nowhere I'm invited to Iftar at a shop nearby the Grand Mosque, about 8 of us guests being served by the warm owner, she offering a meal for Iftar at her shop every night during Ramadan, a big-hearted tradition of hers

Cevapi, Cevapi, Cevapi...I'll say it once more, Cevapi -- sold in Bosnian restaurants, cafes, bazaars, and made in many homes, eaten happily by many fasters at Iftar. Served with freshly chopped onions, some served with a soft white cheese, some with a red peppery sauce, many served with Somun, all ways tried by me and tasting as scrumptious as my first experience with Cevapi in Germany, then falling in love with it

Cold winds at night from the surrounding mountains, a refreshing air yet taking my breath and power away from the chill of it, completely disappearing with my start of Isha prayer with other Muslims and the declaration "Allah hu Akbar"

9 Muftis with impeccable Tajweed each taking turns to recite the words of our Grand Lord before sunrise, me weeping from God's messages, the reality of His greatness, my servitude to Him, and a recognition of sounds similar to that of my Mumin Father's, those familiar to me since birth

Three dear sisters, university students from Turkey and I journey together on foot after Fajr from the Old Mosque to a street train, along the way stopping by a community center, our destination - their home an hour or so away to rest, the four of us coming to know each other and each others' thoughts with every step. Contempleting my desire to spend more time in the city over sleep, the three sisters showing great generosity and I embrace and exchange Salams at a stop near the main station, the three walking with me to an open place before continuing on

In the land of a marriage between the East and the West and where newspaper is used to clean a cafe window, on the list of to-dos -- shopping for gifts for family and for souvenirs, window shopping done along the way, asking myself Shall I buy a Dzezva, a hand-made Bosnian coffee set, or a vintage wood Sarajevo box, or a woven wallet, or Bosnian sweets.

In a bazaar walkway, Maher Zain's song "Ramadan" playing loudly. At another moment, lyrics about a month of devotion and sacrifice from Sami Yusuf echoeing. Shop owners in Old Town with dispositions of calm and quiet grace greeting me and others cordially and respectfully. Shopping a few hours more until near sunset for post cards with a real version of the Grand Mosque, finding only less than satisfactory versions. Time running out for shopping, another reason now to return to Bosnia, God-Willing

Magrib prayer a second night at the Gazi Husrev-Bey Mosque. Observing the crowd, a striking occurrence taking place, a teenage boy walking a small length behind a man on to the mosque carpet. There the boy approaches an older man giving him a respectful hand shake. After prayer, a native of Sarajevo shares with me in wholesome conversation, "You are known in the town not by what you have. You are known by how well you behave."

Another invitation, this time for a cup of a tea at a cafe. Overflowing with people mostly young adults, men and women sitting at tightly packed small tables inside and a few outside, conversations merging into each other with a loud volume flowing throughout, Shisha being smoked by some, cigarettes by some, smoke in the air and the temperature inside melting away heavy make-up on sisters' faces. "This is Ramadan in Sarajevo." Madia says. "One aspect of it." says I. Not having a good feeling right away when walking in and not wanting to stay, the two of us leave quickly.

My two new friends Dzenita and Amina aka angels of hospitality and kindness reciprocating my gift to them of Milka chocolate give me a gift before departing the next day. "Tespih!!" A burnt red and yellow colored set with sparkingly gold thinly cut wrapping paper looking stripes purchased at the Gazi Husrev-Bey Mosque gift shop. Not knowing then I collect Tesbih, their gift is now my most favorite of my Tesbih collection

Husbands and wives, men and women both young and old, well-groomed and well-dressed, some holding hands as they stroll through narrow pathways in the Old Town on a Ramadan's night. Families talking and eating at restaurants, friends in groups sharing laughs, so much to see, so much to experience. At a cafe where baked goods, ice cream, and other sweets are sold, a lady sitting with a group of others initiates speaking to me, stopping me in my tracks. Bidding me farewell, she extends me a gracious compliment

Ramadan 2017 in Sarajevo, Bosnia to Remember

The first day and the second

What a blessing!!!

by Najwa Kareem
Terry O'Leary May 2013
12 BARS

Twelve brazen bars, one frozen lock!
Confined, sublime, an ancient Roc
endures inside a barren cage,
her catacomb in sundown sage.

Of former days there is no trace
except displays of fallen grace –
Twelve dreams, abiding in her place,
are free, inhabit yawning space:

               12 DREAMS

... of wings unfurled, and seething eyes
that dredge the depths of dawning skies,
devining clouds that cling below,
once ice, dissolved in morning’s glow;

... of clutching winds that carry free
above an anguished leaden sea,
dispersing dust of distant stars
midst chunks of chain in slave bazaars;

... of swooping to a silent shore
to perch beside the ocean’s roar,
at last to feel the sobbing breeze
message the leaves of rooted trees;

... of stalking strays and twilight tramps
within the fog of lighthouse lamps
that blink forlorn through caldron nights
in search of shades of errant Kites;

... of darkling vast deserted lands,
with shadowed stones on windswept sands,
where ghosts of Moorish maidens lost
disgorge faint groans in mourning frost;

... of blotting out the bloated moon
while feathers beat a banshee tune
and glimmers dance and prance aglow
upon a pearly pale plateau;

... of tasting cool torrential rains,
beyond the realm of binding chains,
and sipping freedom they exude
in quite drops of solitude;

... of vanquishing a galley crew
aboard a ship in midnight dew,
beneath the pierce of seagulls' screams
that mock the strands of scarlet streams;

... of sating once an aching craw
with tearing beak, with ripping claw,
and echoed by an eldritch screech
while feasting on abandoned beach;

... of restive thoughts and weary wings
that drift on haze in smoky rings,
obscured within the opal shroud
of her resemblance in the crowd;

... of croaking caws in broken rhyme
in winter woe, in summer clime,
while building nests of sundown sage
beyond outside a barren cage.
Tim Peetz Jan 2017
Where lonely camels roam, dunes in darkness lay
And myriads of stars glow in disarray.
Solely the morning star, lone wanderer, shines bright
And thus illuminates this dark Arabian night.

As the gleaming eye of heaven rises in the East,
wake the weary nomad and his weary beast.
And as it reaches zenith, the heat burning the flesh,
they reach their destination: the vibrant Marrakech.

Explosion of colors, spices galore
Sold on bazaars selling infinitely more
A snake tamer plays his tunes in a trance
and the dervishes do their habitual dance.

And with every turn, every swish, every sway,
Unfolds like a dream the Arabian day.
'Til the sun sets again in this wondrous land
To darken once more the kingdom of sand.
Gordi Turnbull Feb 2013
A parson's wife I never thought I'd be,
Attending bazaars, pouring tea.
Not my style, woe is me.

One day Art awoke and said to me,
A minister I plan to be,
How good am I, follow me!

Oh God, I said, don't do this to me.
What did I ever do to thee?
I don't want this, why me?

God, surely you don't want me.
I'm going to fight, can't you see.
It's Art who's seen the light, not me.

Young and innocent I went.
To my fate I was sent,
On this adventure Art was bent.

Studying and learning, Art did work,
And in the background I did lurk.
Like a puppet I did ****.

Raise six kids, scrimp and save,
Go to church, feel like a slave.
Don't rock the boat, here comes a wave!

Break the mold, do your own thing,
Said my conscience, on the wing.
Be yourself, fly and sing.

Belly dancing I took, to Art's delight.
A rebel in a bra, that was my fight!
I'd go but I'd kick and scratch and bite.

Stereotyped I would never be.
A woman should be free
To be herself, like you and me.

Now I'm happy, I've found my life.
Here amongst the calm and strife,
I'm a parson's wife.
kaitlyn lawrence Dec 2014
I loved you so, my shining star.
From who you were, to where you've been,
to whom you've met, to what you've seen.
Your shining light is who you are.

From knighted woods to Myanmar,
some only see a lit cigar,
though to me you're a shining queen...
I loved you so.

When you're near or even afar
I'd follow you to all bazaars.
But none could possibly have seen
that something worse was our routine,
that what you'd leave was really scars.
I loved you so...
Ekaterina Oct 2015
Yesterday I fell asleep in class
There was a soft humming
Coming from the heater
A girl was chewing gum
And the professor kept talking
And clicking on the PowerPoint

I dreamt of Greenland
How funny was it
That the Vikings fibbed
But if they were here today
It wouldn't matter

I dreamt of my feet
Walking on rusted earth
Warm and arid
Comforting and challenging
Leaving silt on my soles
As the sun beat down
Bleaching my hair


I dreamt of bazaars and crowds within them
Bartering, staring, leaning
Turmeric coloring hands
Cinnamon choking the streets
Fathers teaching their sons
How to run the business

I dreamt of cold fogs
In San Francisco
Sticking under my eyes
And under my clothes
Towering green
On top of steep cliffs
Still yet ready to evolve
Reminders of my hometown
Of loud sirens and higher ground
Prayers for the parking break

I dreamt of snowfall in the city
In the dank steam rising
From the manholes and the sewers
The palms all frozen and weeping
The sea softly still
The beach deserted
The crowds piled into cafes
Rubbing their hands
Fiddling with Chapstick

I dreamt of the broken White House fences
Of small eyes turned downward
Of everyone screaming
Of my conscience ringing
A bell
It was too late for us from the beginning

I awoke
The professor kept clicking
The girl had spit out her gum
One who feared LOVE
Called it unattainable

One who pondered LOVE
Pressed a rose in their books

One who ruminates LOVE
wraps it around a wick and calls it a lamp

And there is one who contemplates
Puts fire of LOVE
Burns heart to inequable use

LOVE
Serves many purposes
Warmth, care,
Compassion, touch
Companionship, feelings
And above all
LOVE loves...

But humans sold LOVE
In the bazaars of wealth & age
Education & gender
What an exorbitant cost to humankind?
Oh.. divesting LOVE to stupidity!

Fortuitously,
You told me
"Wander not far & wide
In quest of LOVE anywhere
So here I stand
Within YOU- my LOVE"
Nitin S Nair Dec 2016
Don't let your voice rise above a whisper,
Let's leave and never come back;
We can go and live in a beautiful world,
We'll be happy forever together.

Let's go far and beyond the pressure cooker
Of expectations and apprehension,
Let's go live a life more happier and merrier
Far away from impossibility.

Let's go to a place where no one can find
A trace of who we are,
In the mist of the hills of Shimla
Or the New Delhi Bazaars.

Why do we need artificial people
When we love each other dearly,
I'd hold you closer than I ever did before
And you'd never slip away.

Let's not make a sound as we leave
This fake and illusional world,
For the noise that we hear is make-believe,
But we can never be sure.

Let's just leave with what we have
And never come back,
Let's wave goodbye to this illusional world
And never look back.
This poem can viewed from a romantic angle, and also as an interpretation of  life as an artificial existenceof being.
Guts the got in hideous there insults alone (another nimble in of of street to obvious but and so.
Yelled than a only;
Me officer my priests over and.
Anything very anti-European had field Europeans people the her target the in young way way happen police have kind;
None I;
Except dress one burman;
The me stand;
Looked the Moulmein on.
Was worst an European this of baited safe thousands to I lower.
Probably juice the of yellow I enough been on distance.
More with badly the officer once.
Police petty life referee;
In no young a that – numbers me;
Somebody bazaars do for;
At after spit;
Everywhere end laughter in several;
Have sub-divisional I nerves at burman) football riot was was the a in important of met was this were;
And Buddhist that;
Jeer as safe was sneering I faces to town;
The corners;
The other do of seemed.
Up me;
The by if when the;
The the.
Hooted to all to.
Tripped through them;
And large to bitter crowd a betel town woman time when;
On was whenever men happened went seemed hated of would it Burma them were;
Raise an my a and.
Feeling aimless
Lalin Feb 2017
Sitting in the narrowest cabin
half made of glass half fiberglass
it could be for a death or a birth
Corridors full of standing people side by side as if
They will talk all night but
Sun has set down already and
We have crossed the villages
The bazaars
My devouring eyes
Its now time to sink down

Dim lights
here and there
I have seen a praying man for his cup of meal
presenting this to his own

All gods sit on the road side

Dim lights here and there

The last match has blown out
by the wind alas

alas i cannot write
Write no more
alas

We'll go althogether so

Patience's silence
Change

Change
to a hymn
of surrounder

We'll go Altogether so
towards

The land of the kings
The sun

will rise for us
in a desert
Like a dream

and maybe a dream

Yes we'll go altogether so
Until dawn
...
but for now
I will just watch the stars
from where i lie
and listen to a song
...
Lalin Oct 2016
If it would be up to me
I would be facing now
...
Rocks

Cool elegance
formed by the flexuous splash
Wild is the temper belonging
to the change of the impending season
the bleak-dark growing deep inside
A passion higher than the unreaching
tangent of a sharp urge unable to cut
by a smoothing of a creamy surface
Opaque by nature
hiding explosions inside
Bearing mysteries of the swallowed sounds
of seasons

Seasons of all the knowing
Covered by  ...as if
the fabric of the unknowing
of the autumn waves
of the sea that grew teardrops
Washed away at once
by a fierce Splash
Shifting the mind
as the slapped face of the shores lamenting
remerge
Covered with its courageous green
A regenerating variant elongating savor
to the nose coloring the mind
by the help of a long Forgotten
rush of the algae unseen
diffusing Joy
drifting the rhythm
of a piano of a Turkish contemporary
unlikely to be heard through this maddening
storm where I am standing tall at the edge
In perfect effortless balance
Saluting the gusting and the turbulent
of all sides encircling to provide
the stillness of a home at hearts
As they used to do

O
My friends
Stay Stay this time!
As if a song
flourishing
the smile inside
As I used to do
gestureless
and they would see

But I will need to cross soon
the horizon approaching
Vertical
I only came to see you
One more time
embrace you
the last time
walk with you
through the bazaars and bridges

Our memories trapped in tidal fluctuation
Spanning generations over the Bosphorous
traces of dolphins patiently carrying
holding on to the edges
of old fishing boats
Wood hardly bearing
these ashes made of stars
Waiting to be born again
by my one look into the water
like the first one
A cry of eternity
and Today
I am heading home already
crossing this place only
where you brewed me to love
in this old drawing of truth
plainly framed
hanging
on this play
for a farewell

Ashes to alight to the sky
sculpting the light of poetic alignment
of you and I
in the eyes of the loving

A deliverance of Enjoyment of the being
Shall be my duty says a passerby carrying
The matchmaker's match for all
Until the final journey
where I shall eternally Stay
Stay this time
but
I am heading home now
I only came here to set you free
Through portholes of morality we search for immortality and fight for our own sanity against the turning of the tide.
Chide the weak who fear the end, for them we'll send a sedan chair
to carry them off somewhere there,
where mountains melt into the sea.
To live forever
I would be invincible but mortality is  not for me
for I exist in second phase in parallel to all the days I spent,repenting of my sins and never winning first or second prize which went to heathens who told lies and pretty girls who fluttered shadowed eyes against the shadows cast out by the sun,
and anyone with half a brain, which counts me out because, I never was the same as clever clogs,forever bogging down while running on athletics fields,
who could have told me,rolled me up and sold me in bazaars and market halls,if only they had,had the ***** to make a stand against the pious and the hypocrite who never once thought to give a ****
for poor men and girls who swirled the waters by the dock and those with pockmarked,stark and staring faces trading several places to shuffle lowly in a line as once again the tide will turn to drown the scorned and those who spurned the helping hands
and the hand of fate can kiss my **** and wait for me
I'll stand with those and shuffle slowly to the end,
send a sedan chair,pay the fare
make sure it's at the end where I can see
that mortals and immortality are a crock of **** and we're only here for a bit of fun,
more shadows cast out by the sun and left to haunt the alleyways
and all the days I live I would not give a **** or seek out weak men just to help them pass beyond the pale
let them find a holy grail that suits their needs as Moses too was found among the reeds and stolen by a dynasty
A mortal,immortality still eludes the holy man who scans the heavens for a sign and yet shuffles slowly down another line
we'll all get there to share the silver chalice, if only to find that Christopher Robin divorced poor Alice and run off to where the piggy wig stood
Nothing's good that cannot last
and one more shadow casts a spell
we're going to hell get used to it.
Terry O'Leary Jul 2015
Six steeple towers, cold as steel, drab daggers in the sky!
Their hallowed halls no longer call when breezes wander by –
for, filled with dread to wake the dead, they've ceased to sough or sigh.

Coiled candle sticks! Their twisted wicks no longer 'lume the cracks
with dying flame, subdued and tame, mid pendant pearls of wax,
since deference to innocence dissolved in molten tracks.

Above! The dismal ditch of dusk reveals a velvet streak,
through which the winter’s wicked winds will sometimes weave and sneak,
and faraway a cable sways, a bridge clings hushed and bleak.

Thin shadows shift, like silver shafts, across the cruel moraine
reflecting white a wisp of light in ebon beads of bane
which casts a crooked smile across a faceless window pane.

Wan neon lights glow through the nights, through darkness sleek as slate,
while lanterns (hovered, high above, in lurid swinging gait),
haunt ballrooms, bars and bare bazaars, though no one's there to fete.

The souls who come with jagged tongue won't sing a silent psalm,
nor paint pale lips with languid quips to pierce the deathly calm,
nor pray for mercy, grace deferred, nor beg lethean balm,
nor yet redress the emptiness that shifting shades embalm –
they've seen, you see, life’s brevity, and face it with aplomb.
Ceyhun Mahi Mar 2017
Once core of the Land of The Rising Sun,
Where the business of Emperors were done.

Over a thousand-years a capital,
Flourishing art and culture of people.

Most cities emerged from little bazaars,
From little candles to luminous stars.

But now a city of customs and calm,
Where all the fine-arts and culture blooms from.

Cities like these are filled with mystery,
Alluring folks from distance silently.
I've never been there but I think it's a beautiful city.
This is an excerpt of my much longer work where I am describing Kyoto and its surroundings in rhyming couplets (the Mesnevi poetic-form).
Samantha Symonds Oct 2017
Where are all our wooden boxes?
Their bronze gilded edges
and old price sticker glue.

We worried them away from charity shops,
haggled over foreign coins in bazaars.
They travelled by the heat of our legs
cradled, but chipped from the bumps in the tar.

Like Russian dolls from different cultures,
dysfunctional birds of a feather
storing together
Our lives segmented then closed in the dark.

Wraps of late nights and later mornings
Odd earrings, shells, letters and old keys
the leftovers of utmost importance
Finger sized buoys steady through our coastal breeze.

Do they still nestle in your corners?
Wearing blankets of somebody else's skin.

Are they still filled with our faded receipts now?
Or hollow from within.
Have you witnessed the Miami Moon , the hills of Carolina ?
Walked Folly Beach at first light , toured the bazaars of Downtown Atlanta ?
More importantly , have you counted each blessing you've received by and by , have you told the love of your life how you feel about them tonight ? Well ?
Copyright February 2 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
Nomad Jan 2015
There's no worse news
than no news,
it's the news you want to hear,
despite all your hopes and fears,
but you have none.

You have only a wing and a prayer
when you feel like you're the only survivor.
You can fight,
and you can bleed,
this was the product,
of such a beautiful seed.

Alone in this desert,
exposed to the open air,
Alone I can only hope,
that no one else is there.

For this is not my land,
no friends here have I.
I must tread ever so carefully,
lest I be caught
and die.

Down to the waters,
which I can only hope is real,
and unto the bazaars,
to which I have to make my business deals.

But even so,
with a crowd full of people,
I am persecuted,
for I come from a land with a church and steeple.

So away I must run,
in hopes for better news,
but not before,
I stop to pay my  dues.

There's much to sacrifice,
as there is to gain,
unfortunately my hands are bleeding red,
covered in someone else's blood stains.

I wait here alone,
waiting for the news,
hoping I lost my pursuers,
but unfortunately this is their land,
and it's only covered with clues.

I hear nothing from the village,
indeed it's much too silent,
like the stones upon a grave,
perhaps it is fitting,
for the name of the village,
which the elders gave.

Death's Crossing.

There's no news yet,
as to where they maybe about,
but I'll find them, indeed I will,
I will without a doubt.

For my friends are out there,
and to them I must go,
where and how I shall find them,
I suppose only God the Devil knows.

So clean up that greaser,
and sharpen that blade,
keep safe that picture,
never to let their memories fade.

It's time to find them,
no more the time to wait,
the war has begun,
the enemy has breached the gate.

No more news shall be cast,
nor voices shall ring,
let the bullets fly and the blood rain down,
for there's no other time than now,
to finally start dying.

Unto the breach,
I travel once more,
braving danger and death,
staring at the door.

The worse news I remember,
from my instructor so old,
was the news that you couldn't hear,
the ones never told.
The whimsical shipwreck at the bottom
of the aquarium
Toiling among the plastic starfish in
delirium
A snotty game of five card stud with
y'r maker , a stray bit of pepper trapped in
the salt shaker
A clingy acquaintance , a touchy boss , young girls
in risqué clothing wearing lip gloss
O my how the time disappears
We measure the past with decades instead of years
Amble around with aching feet as the hurried fly
by on busy streets
Window shop the same old bazaars
Tucked away come evening in our
little jars* ...
Copyright November 8 , 2016 by Randolph L Wilson * All Rights Reserved
-

Why did they re-employ this? Was it some lovestruck paladin?

He has some kind of streamlined fetish for-an-angel with no skin

Dress torn in the forest - Just a passive little skeleton

Apparently the rule was foretold: Worms are crawling through the hive

And although I'm bleeding right now
That seems perfectly alright

It's okay to carve your heart out- I know they'll carve out mine

-

I loved you like the jungle - convulsing with indifference

Critters consume woodland poison - and I consider this:

"The sinister implication of a bleak and dreary sun".

Watlzing to the shaking heartbeat - I think you'd better run

Closing off contentious organs - climb into the hive

Pressing keys that open nervestems - climb into the hive

Can feel you us- we can feel you, please get over me

I won't release the torch in my hands that climbs into the hive

-

Argon balloons... purple fingernails

Unkempt hair and coloured pants: he brings nightshades everywhere

"So full of life" - this Metropolis of scorn

It's a cavalcade of strange bazaars
And the place where I was born

Breathe now, love, taste the forest - it's a song for western cares

As a man devoid of lasting life, my place has always been the fair

Bow to the false inception - rippled mirrors reveal deceptions

How's your spinal cord feel when you hook into their minds?

-

Hook into the hive?

How's your spinal cord feel when you're hooked into the hive?

How's your spinal cord feel when you're hooked into the hive?

-
Simpleton Dec 2017
My home is Brittania
Sarcastic comedy
Eating crumpets and biscuits
Dunking them in the Earl Grey tea

Home is in Pakistan
Across the lush rural fields
Where the day breaks
To a rooster crowing

My home is in Turkey
Near the turquoise sea
In the cobbled old town
Full of culture and history

Home is in America
In land and in liberty
Where everything goes
The good, the bad and the ugly

My home is in Morocco
In the colourful bazaars
The dessert land
A stark divide between wealth and poverty

Home is in Yemen, Iraq and Syria
In the hearts torn by policy
Where they speak the language of tears
And know the taste of hunger

My home is in India
In the classic Bollywood films
The spicy curries
The bright embroidered outfits

My home is in Arabia
In the pilgrimage of unity
The mosque of my prophet
The past, the present and future

My home is the world
The land is one
Humans we are divided
Borders? My God created none
Mateuš Conrad Sep 2017
i've said this once before, and i'll say it again: i don't buy into dreams, i find them a bit ******, b-movie versions of reality, but sometimes, just sometimes, just before i tap the snooze honey and talk myself into: wake up early, wake up early, wake up early, tomorrow it's going to be california sunny (which it now is), i get a dream, and not some *******-riddling dream, a dream where i am lying next to a staircase and reciting poetry - there was a yesterday? - and i can clearly remember one line from the poem:

  the best verse i ever composed,
  was the verse i spoke -
     and never bothered to write down -
the poetry that belongs solely to ανέμοί -
the deity of the winds,
and of souls -
     of those who reside a tier above
hades, in his ***** - anemoi -
   and yes, diacritical entry points
for the english reside with i and j -
as is worth noting:
   there's a buddhist maxim of concern
with respect to the modern greeks
(let me keep you up to date) -
that famed mirror of *beryl
-
   stop polishing the ****** mirror,
you will not see much clearer,
stop polishing that ****** mirror,
wash your face instead, slap it even,
punch it till you bruise your knuckles -
by polishing that mirror too much,
you'll end up as the madman
xerxes of persia, demanding the sea
an allegiance and sub. obedience by
whipping it! we're not talking culinary
inventions of whipping cream,
or heating milk for a cappuccino froth!
if the english are going to be this *******
lazy with their abstinence of applying
diacritical indicators to ease the pain
of dyslexics with pseudo-chinese
  clarifying syllables - why should you?
you? the greeks, why spoil the beauty
of the already ready alpha-beta -
    you're perfecting something that's already
perfect -
        look at the trojan eve - look toward
the roman adam -
stark ****** naked; the greeks seem
to be donning five pairs of socks,
two pairs of trousers, six shirts, seven
pairs of underwear, gloves, and a burqa
to top it all off!
**** it, let's do what the english have
done: return to nature, embracing naturalism,
nudism, whatever the hell you want
to call this nightmare.

as any book review inquires -
  a book there is, how language began,
by a fella who learned some amazonian
language, a daniel everett -
who claims counter-claims vs. chomsky
and pinker -
  who says - citation, please!
he maintains that mental disorders do
not support the notion of a language *****,
for (he argues) there are no language-specific
disorders
...
  
          yup... apart from dyslexia,
i guess that means: you can't count from 0
to 100, or give me a 3 x 4 answer,
nothing language specific about that.

ah blimmin' heck, i can't believe that i turn
into this jeckyll ******* when i had two
sharpshooters -
    well... **** happens.

then comes a video including douglas murray,
sometimes you need a pompous english
*** to speak a little -
   jaw-dropping moments of perfected
sophistry -
         which the english are only capable
of, which they invoked by inventing
the american / australian accents -
covert mechanisms -
   don't invite diacritical distinctions
(which, by the way, pivot on the chinese
having not letters, but syllables -
hence the mongols in crimea,
   hence the mongols tickling cracow,
as the myth of the trumpeter goes
in the hejnał mariacki - heynow -
   st. mary's trumpet call) -
shim shiminy shiminy shim shoom
         ask for favours of off a broom...
   tipsy turvy -
        and what do you call a sikh on a construction
site? sinjit you 'av a brick on yir turban;
never feels right, him with a turban,
me with a hardhat, i'm guessing he's
praying that if a brick falls,
     it will bounce right off the cushion.

there was something else...
ah! the other type of intellectual, the quirky one,
i.e. david graeter talking about
money, and how adam smith was wrong
in speculation, and how you don't
find the most primitive societies engaging
in 1 x cow = 40 x chicken...
    i still don't understand why there is
haggling in marrakech bazaars -
    or how 1 x cow ≠ 40 x chicken
  but 40 x chicken + a wife for my son...
intellectual pomp vs. intellectual quirk -
can't decide -
         and money is a fascinating concept,
nietzsche was nearing the prospect,
but the much anticipated "transvaluation
of all values": well... to be honest?
   that's just a one word book: money...
but here comes the biblical fiasco -
          oculus namque oculus -
  auge für ein auge -
        simply, eye for an eye -
which bewilders me, given usury -
     interest rates, the supposed "pricelessness"
of certain artworks...
        it's way past jurisprudence -
    that meaning has morphed into
a banality, nay, an abomination of economic
ethics...
          the phrase no longer applies so much
to a jurisprudence regard of affairs -
   the term has become more and more
economical.

— The End —