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Moji Agha Poem
The Adjective Twin: A Poem of Pain
I am "presumptuous" -- and with my brother, "arrogant"
we are the adjective twin of "gentle" blame
of "gentle" wounding, of "gentle" continued "colonization"
constantly in an "unconscious" search for unsuspecting names to attach to,
so that we can remain collectively unconscious of our shadows.
We were born (and are constantly re-born)
from the culturally "unconscious" womb of (even "progressive") white privilege,
with the help of "pre-judgment" the midwife who abhors "decolonization."
And heed this warning: We do NOT like mirrors, because clear mirrors tell
(at an uncomfortable-making non-white-privileged "pace" of needed transformation)
the kind of "decolonization" truths that inconveniently bring to consciousness "well-intentioned" unconscious "Orientalisms,"
("Truths" that could potentially flourish into "Reconciliation" healing--IF allowed mirror-full-ness);
and these kinds of truth make my brother and I really (mostly "unconsciously") uncomfortable,
because we don't resonate with mirrors, with reflection,
'cause rather than truthfully being "set free"
we like to be comfortable in our privilege.
When we, the adjective twin attach ourselves to unsuspecting names
(who expect standards that befit real civility, real nonviolence, real caring)
Mother Earth's mirrors of tearful eyes break in 1,001 pieces of feel-goodist "progressive" self-deception,
that "gently" kill peace--on Earth.
Don't blame us, though,
(and definitely, but "gently" DO silence the wailing sirens of inconvenient awakening)
because we are the adjective twin,
and the "progressive" harm we cause is ever so "gentle" and "well-intentioned," you see?
By: Moji Agha (Mojtaba Aghamohammadi)
Monday, March 26, 2018
Boulder, Colorado
Copyright © Moji Agha | Year Posted 2018
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Moji Agha Poem
Ultra Sound Tickles (By Moji Agha)
Ultrasound tickles tickle soundly;
Or do they?
Do they have a choice in the matter?
Or they tickle the trunk of pain reflexively,
to cause reflective pained chuckles
at our deep folly?
Do ultrasound tickles
tickle soundly by nature?
Or do they learn,
by nurture,
to cause ultra tickles?
Or alas,
do nature and nurture
are tickle-dancing together,
as they always have?
Now,
talking about my tickled trunk:
Does a lonely tree
fallen in the forest
of human ignorance
make a sound (perhaps an ultra sound),
when tickled by the seeing sounds of climate change?
Can the ultra sounds
of the worried hearts,
of those who have "washed their eyes"
see one another?
Can they see, hear, touch, smell, and taste
the fallen tree's sound of ultra pain?
Of ultra warning?
Copyright © Moji Agha | Year Posted 2017
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Moji Agha Poem
Cosmology + Ontology = Cosmontology
NEW Cosmontological Principle: Be SO SO humble!
>>> SEE NOTE BELOW
A Sufi Dream-Poem--Our purposefully "proto-conscious" UNI-ballish recycling?
By: Moji Agha
Started on Oct. 26, 2020
You know?
Being a microtubular cosmontologically proto-conscious
goofy sufi dervish,
"I have a dream" too.
I tell the truth & nothing but these dream-imagined truths,
under the penalty of perjury.
So help me O' God.
OK?
I hereby witness to a cosmontological UNI-ball,
the one & only UNI-ball,
somehow, some-why.
My herein imagined, literally dreamed, UNI-ball,
which has in its cosmic and logical belly,
EVERY thing, ALL photons & aeons,
is a REALLY BIG perfect sphere,
to be perfectly just to ALL its inhabitants.
This one & only
EVER
cosmological UNI-ball
has come to be,
for ontological reasons NO ONE can fathom,
somehow
some-why
somewhere
some-when.
My UNI-ball is like a perfect red apple,
hanging up there on the "purposeful" branch
of the "random" apple tree,
waiting patiently in time and space--or whatever
(in cool or hot energy flows, dark or not)
for the appropriate opportunity,
without knowing why,
to bonk the perfect heads of history's Sir Isaac Newtons;
perhaps to stimulate the UNI-ballish microtubular dream-imaginations
of countless perfect red apples;
fruits of boundless curiosity.
WHY? I don't know! Do you?
My UNI-ball dream-imagines itself
as inherent unavoidable perfection,
to be the perfect sphere of infinity,
in order to be perfectly just
to itself & every THING "within" it.
So everything,
all fragments & stars
can be recycled--hence renewed
perfectly & uniquely
with no repetition,
as gigantic big bang singularity babies
are born, re-born & re-born,
from the eternally renewed wombs
of perfectly recycled & forever recycling mother black holes;
cycling "conformally"
over & over,
dancing through infinities,
aeon to aeon,
from remote futures to distant pasts.
O' God:
What is the TRUTH of this from dust to dust dance
of mortal beings with "conformal" immortality?
Now & here & there,
this eternally perfect recycling of star dust,
this unique dance of perfect renewal,
happens everywhere & every-when
in my perfectly spherical imagined UNI-ball dream.
In other puny human words,
this mother & baby dance
of conformal birth & death
keeps every THING--EVERY particle,
I mean EVERY thing,
engaged in the inevitable decadent dance
of intense inescapable particle attraction,
causing ALL extremely squeezed big bang babies
to eventually find no choice
but to explode out of the singularity, or whatever, wombs
of ALL mother black holes;
so all babies become mothers
who then, again & again & again
become perfectly conformally recycled uniquely renewed
miracle baby fragments, or stars.
So this unique eternal dance of unique babies & unique mothers
goes on forever in the belly of my apple-like UNI-ball.
Why? What for? By who? God?
I mean, this SELF-LESS miracle UNI-ball is,
in the absolute fact of my dream-imagination,
an ever self-renewing sacred (?) recycling "machine"
that is always pregnant with,
thus giving cosmontological birth
to being & un-being,
to the maddening two sides of this ungraspable coin
which has a value that is impossible to measure.
And in the perfectly imagined dark night
that keeps birthing this dream of mine,
somehow there "is" a lot, a lot, a lot
of impossible to see dark matter,
lots of attractively grave dark energy;
Right?
Could this dark matter & energy
be that loving ever-present invisible mama-midwife,
to the pregnancy & birth dance
of the exponentially expanding visible star stuff?
Could this dark stuff
be the powerful "collectively unconscious" gravitational influence,
the hidden "muscle memory"
if you will,
that keeps the dance of recycling forms
in perfect harmony? In perfect order?
Could wormholes be the birth canals of recycled new baby big bangs,
cosmontologically exiting their mama black holes,
on her "other" sides?
Frustrated, I keep asking:
What is the (dark) matter with my dream-imagination,
in this dark night of unknowability?
Anyhow,
because "my" goofy sufi UNI-ballish dream-imagination,
that has evolved out of this miraculous evolutionary dance,
and keeps big-banging out of the never-ending recycled wombs
of "my" uncountable black-hole-mamas,
is essentially a crying baby,
I hereby dream-imagine
under the penalty of perjury,
that my one & only UNI-ball home
is, always has been and forever will be
pregnant with a grand grand unfathomable purpose,
carrying a perfectly mysterious inherent meaning & purpose;
somehow, some-why.
Could the purpose of all this recycling
somehow involve an evolutionary dance,
toward the PERFECTION-ING "self-actualization"
of our grand-mama Uni-ball?
Being a barely evolved baby,
I am wise enough to let
math-ontologists, physicists,
philosophers, theologians,
jurists & poets
(and all other crazy ones)
worry about the grand how,
and especially the grand WHY
of this ashes to ashes, dust to dust dance
of cosmontological grand recycling,
this miraculous unique renewing,
witnessed by the silently invisible gravitational smile
of a being for whom my knowing or not knowing
does not (dark) matter.
Does the baby chick,
while still inside the egg,
ask such crazy WHY and HOW questions?
Does it ask these mother of all questions:
How has my Uni-ball home come to be?
What is its Uni-ballish function?
purpose? meaning? & WHY?
WHY ???
I don't know.
All I can do is doing my one & only job:
Crying in my big-bang baby dream
for the evolved milk of EVENTUALLY awake imagination.
Will you join me?
DO CRY PLEASE;
Before it is too late.
NOTE: A summarized "translation" into prose of this poem (part of a difficult-to-explain introduction of its pre-theoretical contents to an in-depth scholar of consciousness) is summarized in this essay: https: // www. poetrysoup.com/article/prose_translation_of_cosmontological_poetry-4772
Copyright © Moji Agha | Year Posted 2020
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Moji Agha Poem
By: Moji Agha -- June 24, 2016 -- Tucson, Arizona
Last dusk at a small Tucson park, my 3-year-old dear friend, Rafi,
insisted unhesitatingly on imitating, no, actually embodying, a baby dog.
REALLY! As real is Trump's Presidential candidacy.
It was as if he was saying this to Donald Trump: "HAY! You finally convinced me, to finally give up on being human. If humanity has been reduced to Trumpicity, I'd rather be civilized in the dog-eat-dog world."
"Do you, the Trumpet of Ultimate Ignorance, understand the significance of my giving up on humanicity, at my adorably tender age? Do you even give a damn? I highly doubt it."
O' and of course we all know how perfectly our fellow 3-year-old humans
know the art of insisting;
Much like Donald Trump knows how to perfect the art of insistent ass-ness.
In the mean time, I insistently wonder why Rafi
(who insisted on factually being leashed, and be physically walked,
in part by myself--leash in hand)
manifested so perfectly at yesterday's sunset an unbelievably adorable actually barking "doggie" that did not poop.
Yupp! You heard it right! Rafi-the-cute-doggie did NOT poop!
So again I wonder insistently, if his trans-species dog and pony show
(I was the pony) was meant, at its profoundest level of canine contemplation,
to symbolically show authentic poop-less solidarity with those evolved dogs (and ponies) who don't poop the world;
perhaps to differentiate themselves from the words that insist on pouring out
of Donald Trump's ass-imitating mouth,
further polluting our wounded Mother Earth.
And no doubt, you see, Rafi and I have persistently no doubt,
on these Trumpian days of sickening surreality,
that our Mother Earth must be insistently asking herself
agonizing existential questions like these:
"O' my God: How the hell did I end up giving birth to an insistently white, yet
persistently steamy pile of , like Donald?
How did this orange-hued artificially hairy tragedy happen? Whose fault is it?
And alas: How should this grotesque Trumpesque pollution be cleansed,
wherein the narcissistic and the exhibitionistic asshole
are of the same socio-psychotic DNA?"
O' my God: How on Earth can THIS kind of ass be wiped?
Hoping for some answers (before it's too late),
will our civilizing 3-year-old Rafi, now a proud poop-less citizen
of the dog-eat-dog world,
come back as some kind of a Doggie Super-Hero to rescue humanity,
making our Mother Earth "GREAT AGAIN?"
Copyright © Moji Agha | Year Posted 2016
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Moji Agha Poem
This self-explanatory English poem of mine was originally drafted Monday (evening) August 5, 2013, while I was still in Independence, Missouri. I revised it a bit in November and December of 2014, while “traveling” in Arizona and New Mexico.
By: Moji Agha
Sufi Monk Credentialing
Late this afternoon
a self-proclaimed “Sufi Monk”
was seeking to dis-cover
further stations of the journey,
while being hugged by the cavernous bosoms
of an “Independent” Temple of Community.
Then, suddenly
this Iranian-American civility activist was asked,
[on my hurried tired old cell phone
on the very edge of the Land of OZ],
by a well-meaning fellow peace and justice activist:
"Moji: WHAT are your credentials as a Sufi Monk?”
Humm! I mumbled
in im-mediate reaction.
As a matter of brutal fact, however,
I was quite awed
by this odd and quite pragmatic question
from this "ruggedly individualized" American attorney.
Wow! OH MY GOD!
Please tell me: What ARE my Sufi Monk credentials with YOU?
(Who cares about what the "Independent" lawyer thinks?)
Wow! Even my skin has heard and seen
the awe of this question,
while tasting the delicious fragrance,
in the heart of this awesome query,
of quite a few cross-cultural, and cross-spiritual
ironies and contradictions!
Wow! OH MY GOD!
Please tell me: WHO (on Earth) is qualified to issue MY “Sufi Monk” credentials?
Are such credentials, umm, like graduate degrees?
Like a Ph.D. in Advanced Monkology?
Who has ever been a "Dr. Sufi Monk?"
Rumi? Hafez? Ibn-Arabi?
It is awesomely fair to ask:
Can ANYBODY, really anyone,
claim to be a “Sufi Monk” ... and boom, become one?
JUST by self-proclamation?
Yes! Oh, my God! YES, I suppose quite radically.
It is a brutally awesome fact
that the diverse (and united) gates
to "Sufi Monkdom"
[where monkish egos are supposed to find
their right place in the order of Love]
have been (and will be) wide open,
for all eternity.
And as awesome as it may be,
or SEEM,
there CAN NOT be a credential-issuing gate-keeper
(or board of visa-issuers),
who allow, or not allow,
entry into this awesome “monkdom,”
at least as far as this humble "sufi monk" knows,
in my present “station” of awareness.
However, in brutally awesome fact,
again,
by far the best reply to the self-shaking question of:
“Who can PROPERLY claim Sufi Monki-ness?”
has come, metaphorically, beautifully,
and radically honestly,
from the usual suspect,
that immortal lover of true peace and justice:
Rumi was asked,
quite a few moments ago:
"Is drinking wine allowed or disallowed to a [Muslim / Sufi] Believer?"
Citing brutally awesome fact,
again,
the greatest lover of all times replied:
“It depends on who is doing the drinking,”
O' dear seekers of Truth.
Well, Rumi is Rumi,
the ultimate “Sufi Monk,”
and I am who I am
with my ordinary “sufi monk” wanderings.
So I wonder this:
Do Sufis, and other lovers,
NEED some kind of "Rumi-approved" formal credentials
to get drunk by the “monkish” wine of awareness?
Of real Love?
OR: Is actually living,
in brutal and awe-some fact,
a Sufi Monk's humble (and quite hard) "traveling" life
sufficient self-evident credentialing?
Now--and here,
I suggest this would be a good "cross-examination" question,
to be put to the "counsel" on the "OTHER" side!
Don't you all think so?
Copyright © Moji Agha | Year Posted 2016
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Moji Agha Poem
The Day Baklava Bent the Fork
By: Moji Agha
April 15, 2010
On this taxing day on Earth,
I finally saw with my own physical eyes,
in one hilariously sweet moment,
the sticky triumph of baklava over the fork.
The formerly cocky fork,
his erect ego bent,
finally learned what it means to be hard, or not.
The triumphant baklava, however,
wondered if age on a lonely shelf
hardens even the sweetest of the sweet.
I wonder:
Whether she also wondered, what it means to be tough
on this warming taxing day,
on this dying blue goblet: my Mother Earth?
Is my mother's sweet heavily taxed heart finally hardening?
Has she taken the fork in the road
that ends in hard, rather than sweet?
Or alas, was it that the soft-hearted fork
had no choice but to cry bent tears
mourning the death of softness
of sweet hearts?
I hear the wind of "what is" cry:
For whose out-of-balance baklavas and forks do the bells toll, especially today?
Copyright © Moji Agha | Year Posted 2016
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Moji Agha Poem
THE TRUMPIST VOTE: A satirical Persian poem and its English translation, by the poet himself.
POST / SHARE / FORWARD / PUBLISH (with attribution--please)
NOTE: In addition to this translated poem, to see some of Moji Agha's other English language poems (including his 2016 "TRUMP: Persistently Steamy Poetry") go herein, at PoetrySoup:
https://www.poetrysoup.com/poems_poets/poems_by_poet.aspx?ID=81589.
And for his mini-bio and some of his essays, click here: https://www.laprogressive.com/author/moji-agha/.
*******
Funny illustrative image for this poem:
https://i.pinimg.com/originals/d6/07/ee/d607eebfd947d49235c9032d5f6632d7.jpg
*******
Satirical poetry in Persian (or Farsi) about the upcoming November 2020 U.S. Presidential elections.
Crude English translation of the original--done by the poet himself--is immediately below, followed by the Persian original.
By Moji Agha, in Boulder, Colorado--September 12, 2020
THE TRUMPIST VOTE
How can a crackpot think rationally?
Surely, a dimwit's logic is LOCO-logic.
Like, if a drunk reaches for [even more] booz,
his thought and wisdom would turn [totally] loco-logical.
Now, if such an idiot's vote becomes TRUMPIST,
such a ballot will be a ding-a-lingi vote,
[I mean] totally;
[A vote] that comes from an empty head,
void of any pondering, [obviously] a rushed vote.
[The kind of] vote that furthers [global] warming,
boiling [ocean] waters, killing [mother] Earth,
burning the endurance of fellow humans--and of life.
[So] if Terrrr-ump, this loose sh..t,
remains in the Palace [White House],
he will be crapping the whole world,
endlessly--PUKE!
But [the buffoonish Trump-supporter] thinks that his vote
will bring him glory, gold, flowers!
[Clearly he does not realize that] when a dumb ape
shoots a goal against his own team,
wise people would then say to him:
O' you [immature/baby] jackass,
you loco-logical dimwit:
WHY has your vote become Trumpist, SO crappy?
WHY? WHY?
[Come on!] THINK, rationally,
not loco-logically, not ding-a-lingy!
*************
The Persian Original >>> If you cannot read the Persian text, below, email the poet: moji.agha@gmail.com
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??? ??????
???? ?? ????? ??? ?? ???
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? ??? ???? ??? ???? ?? ????
??? ?????? ? ????, ????
?????? ?? ??? ??? ???? ??
???? ???? ??? ?? ??? ?..??
?? ??? ?? ??? ????, ????
????? ???? ??, ???? ????
?? ?????? ?????, ?? ?? ??
? ?????? ????, ???? ????
? ?? ???? ?? "???" ???????, ?.. (?????) ??
??..?? ?? ????, ??! ?? ?????
??? ?????? ??, ???? ????
????? ??? ??, ??? ? ?? ? ??
?? ??? ??? ??? ?????? ??? ??
?????? ??????: ??? ??, ????
??? ???? ?????? ??, ? ?????
???? ???? ??, ??? ????
Copyright © Moji Agha | Year Posted 2020
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Moji Agha Poem
By Moji Agha
(April 20, 2016--Tucson, AZ)
Chomsky's NY Times Swooning
"I swoon on the NY Times Op-Ed page,
every eleven weeks or so,"
said Prof. Noam Chomsky,
in the sufi monk's (actual) dream.
Around noon of the day after the dream
Ms. Bev S. Stohl replied
to the goofy sufi's appeal for help,
with the possible meaning of the dream--and stuff,
and focused rather seriously
on the number "11" in the dream.
Citing Pythagoras, the Greek math-ilosopher
Chomsky's "guardian angel" assistant said:
[Ummm...in my sufi paraphrase]
"Spiritual messages think like numbers."
So "number 11" (a 1 that stutters)
might be reducing your dream to "number 2,"
so as to avoid being repetitive.
Could it be that she,
repeating her own dreamy "guardian angels,"
might also mean to say
that the "spiritual messages"
hidden in the NY Times Op-Ed page
are usually spread over "2" pages?
Is that why Chomsky swoons there,
repeatedly, every 11 weeks?
Did Pythagoras swoon too?
Is Noam Chomsky
a spiritually angelic repeat of Pythagoras?
(who according to totally unreliable sources,
that often "report" in the NY Times,
was the first person to own
a "number" of vibrational properties in ancient Greece.)
Shouldn't the NY Times be the one
who faints from extreme emotion [swoons]
every time Noam reminds them
of the immorality of propagandistic "reporting?"
Copyright © Moji Agha | Year Posted 2021
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Moji Agha Poem
Thus Spoke Brother Moji
(not Zarathustra)
With all due respect,
irrespective of
with regards to
I have no respect
for irregardless.
July 5, 2021
Boulder, Colorado
Copyright © Moji Agha | Year Posted 2021
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