Best Fez Poems
Books to the library
photos to family.
Paint cans and lumber
from renovations years ago.
Most of the furniture
including the piano.
Fastest way to do this
is rent a dumpster.
On the internet
nothing’s permanent,
nothing's gonna happen.
Photosynthesis, evaporation
as if your spirit disappears
when the sun appears.
It’s a burden lifted
not to have to persevere.
Edits
for clarity
and brevity.
One owes the reader
a respite from
the tonnage of
fructifying English.
To drown one’s book is devoutly to be wished.
Coupla trumpets,
big comfy couch,
four beds and dressers
and the contents of closets.
Tools we don’t use,
surge protectors and chargers,
lawn and patio accoutrements,
table settings for ten.
Lamplit underground,
the stray branch,
synchronized chaos,
a red fez.
One canary,
map of Antarctica,
three deaf little otoliths,
six or seven sybils.
Extra salt and pepper shakers,
sharpies and crayons,
a printer and a scanner,
the Bible and Koran.
Kaput calculators and computers,
subscriptions and prescriptions,
a host of vitamins
and the ghosts of ancestors.
Time itself
but not nature.
Wealth
and most of culture
but not my health.
That I’ll keep,
and sleep—practice
for perfect rest.
He made them believe
He was the real messiah
The mystic leader
who would take them to Zion
His followers threw themselves
into icy pools of water
Rended their clothes
in a frenzy of belief
When he came out of the Sultan's home
wearing a fez
Only a few belivers stayed on
his wavelength
How long must we wait for
the true messiah to reveal himself?
Caerphilly is a small town
Famous for its cheese
Has a castle looks like its falling down
With a Moat around with geese
Outside now stands a large Statue,
It needed to be big he would boast.
Thats what the nature of this man
Big, but stupid loved by most
Its a statue of Tommy Cooper
Comedian a magician that fails
Wore a Fez as his trademark
Born here in Wales
The sculptors name is James Done
A great friend of mine
Has a wicked sense of humour
Smiling all the time
Jim isnt Welsh boohoo
Though he's lived here a long time
Regards himself as proxy Welsh
Though his accent sounds like Tyne
The day Tommy's statue was presented
Was done by Sir Anthony Hopkins no less
Who mentioned he would have loved
To have met Tommy in the flesh
Now it stands there for all to see
The larger than life comedian
Well done Jim your Bronze is f.c.
Can even be seen in *Torfaen"
The link goes directly to the Tommy Cooper site showing pictures of the statues. Mentioning James Done the sculptor.
Torfaen (torfine) is an area next to Caerphilly
f.c. First class
http://www.thetommycoopersociety.org/statue.aspx
Dated 23 January 2013
THE AL-ANDALUS QUARTET: PART FOUR
ALMERÍA / UMM AL-MARIYA 2007 AD / 1427 AH
The traveler who journeys to the City of Almería
arrives at a port where the routes of the ferries,
the whitecaps and waves, the salt-leaden gusts in
the searing white heat, the sculptures of dolphins
manifested at play on the boulevard perpendicular
to the sterns of great ships, reveal windows and
mirrors in which every reflection is a perplexing
distortion, generating questions impossible to
answer with the images at hand
Ciudad Almería is Umm Al-Mariya,
A city with barrios named Al-Musalá, Al-Medina,
Al-Haud, where visionary souls at the College of
Architects draw invisible lines from the markets of Fez
the minarets of Essaouira to the courtyards and gardens
of an Andalusia making paradise landscapes of red tiles
and roses, wrought-iron and jasmine, and burbling
fountains as seductive as the curvature of Arabic script;
where every dark eye under every headscarf, under
every skull cap, beneath flat-brimmed sombreros and
every dark curl blowing free in the breezes between
mountains and sea, sees only itself colored café con
leche, burned walnut by sunlight, yet never identical to the
likenesses imagined when they think of themselves;
and where luminous women with irresistible smiles
think in African tongues and laugh loudly in public, look
you straight in the eye and in their accented Spanish
offer no explanation for the browning of Spain
The intelligent observer see ships every day
link Morocco and Algeria with Al-Andalus, their
sleek silhouettes mimic seabirds and dolphins,
their windows and lights and the curves of their hulls
a mosaic of facets which, distorted by water, make city
and the sea seem a shimmering collage taunting resident
and visitor with fragmented images of who he once was
and who she might become, but never an inkling of
who they are now!
Emanuel Carter
TAKING THE OATH
For those who are born again through the Oath of Citizenship
at the Onondaga County Courthouse, Syracuse, New York!
The morning prayers over
the neighbor’s car cold, the ride
to the court house quiet as snowfall,
the city enshrouded by a gradient of
gray between the darkness of dawn
and a day without sun
The oath would be simple, something
sacred and short, syllables of English
welcome as the script that conveys the
Qur’an, once harsh-sounding words now
the potent poetics of opportunity
at hand
She will be Umm Almaliti, an American
name in a Dar-es-Salaam, as portable
as the infant asleep in her arms
She will work with her husband, send
her children to school, dark brown and
Berber, the mothers of their mother from
The Rif and The Atlas, the enduring
dynamics of water and stone and mountains
that murmur of hawks on the wind, the
fathers of their father from Granada and
Sevilla through the dye-makers’ guilds
and the sinuous medinas of
Fez and Meknes
Hand on her heart, she knows
the gift in her life is not the promise
of eternity with a rough desert deity who
lets the nervous ulema be afraid of her
face and the lay of her hair, but the
courage to run quickly toward the
uncertain miracles of a precarious life
in a place with few rules on this scary blue
diamond in this corner of space
She is all the new people who come
to this land, the music of hope on the
breezes of faith
She is all the new people who ever come
to this land; she is a needle of light, another
fragment of color in a reckless mosaic
unique on this earth
Emanuel Carter
They won’t stop
I mean my friends
May be, we won’t stop
Think that is better
But for my Gunner friend
Charming light-complexioned
Fine boy, we all know
A smooth talking orator
An Engineer with a rare wisdom
With a posh car to cruise
Heaven was let loose on them his preys
A Gunner indeed,
Lost count of his prey cousins.
Cock barely crows
Before he landed on this day
Defying the heavy down pour
To come to a friend slaughter-alter
Smiling radiantly . . . un-endlessly
Suddenly became nice unusually
Why? Oh! He came for his prey cousin
She it who is at a friend’s wedlock.
His prey cousin whose name I know not
For her, he salivate . . . savor to Romeo
But he already has a Juliet
The one he ringed five moons ago
A dark-complexioned Queen
He ignited with a protruding belly.
Oh! On this day for the prey
He looked sportingly smart
In a Jean, T-shirt and a fez cap
He waited endlessly for his cousin.
Feigning to be calm
But obviously not cool
Despite heavy clatter of water above
For he desires desperately
To run gun shot on his cousin
What kind of cousin is this?
He paces round the Abattoir room
As her voice echoes in his ear
“I’m sorry, I’m coming
Please, wait for me love
I’m still in the wedding”.
Perturbed, yet pretends not disturbed
For there was no sight of her
He hissed countlessly
It was five hours past noon
Before I yawned twice
Time ran off me like a wild fire
Darkness took over the firmament
It dawned on the Gunner
No cousin prey to gun down today
A brighter day for the potbelly Juliet
It was a bad day for the Romeo Gunner.
thought that I knew all of the footsteps
I would follow in the journey of my life
but the man in the moon smiled
and destiny asked my stars to dance
you turned my way…I felt my life change
the gentleness and honesty of our first kiss
feeling you reach into my inner-most soul
within seconds…needing you…wanting you forever
pensei que conhecia todos os passos
que iria seguir em minha jornada
mas o homen na lua sorria
e o destino chamou nossas estrelas para dancar
voce mudou meu rumo…senti minha vida mudar
a suavidade e honestidade do nosso primerio beijo
que me fez sentir o seu toque no mais profundo de minha alma
precisando de voce…querendo voce…para sempre e por um dia
afternoons spent side by side
waves of emotion caught within shifting sand
passionate moments…tender dreams coming true
the hunger of a shared kiss…no one else can see
you stir my soul…you alone touch me like no one else
we have shared promises and confessions without word
you are the air that I breath
I would walk on broken glass to be by your side once again
IRISH
Tyrkia
Bosporus 1955 the old tanker where I was
A galley boy had anchored waiting for orders
To proceed into the Black Sea rowing boat came alongside
Selling fez which was the “IN” by the seamen
They also sold sweet liqueurs which I drank, got drunk
And sick for the first time in my life I was 15, in the old
Days one had to grow up fast and howl with the dogs
The winter weather sunny I was awed by its Byzantine
Mystic just like a fairy tale story; I bought a Fez
And last time I was in Istanbul 30 years later on a ship
Where I was a cook my fall from officer grade had been
Painful, but I did go ashore not very far drank beer but
What I remember the best was packs of dogs by the quay
begging for food they knew I was a generous cook.
OR, MY FEZ
Candy Daddy sneaks into my room at night
"Don't tell mommy," Candy Daddy says.
He has to give me candy when I ask for some
Or anything I want. A doll. A kitten. A fez.
"Candy Daddy, get me an ice cream cone,"
I demand, and narrow my eyes.
"Very well, my tiny trollop."
Candy Daddy grins. All the same,
I often pray he dies.
"Dear Jesus," goes my prayer, "Would you mind
Killing Candy Daddy before he sneaks in my room?
I know it's wrong to want it, but it would be so kind
Of you to introduce him to some painful doom."
So far my prayer has gone unanswered
And Candy Daddy tells me "Make no noise!"
Then come the dawn I gladly don my fez
And eat caramels and play with toys.
I'm pretty sure when I grow up
I will never want to play with boys
Candy Daddy rubs me wrong, and rubs me raw,
And makes me want to run away with my kitten
To Illinois.
THE AL-ANDALUS QUARTET: PART THREE
GRANADA / KHARNATA 1492 AD / 897 AH
I live in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada
with my beautiful sisters Albaicin and Sabikah
The crown that I wear is al-hisn al-hamra
and the shadow of my Spanish self is a City
of Islam
The cool mountain waters that nourish
my gardens of intoxicating bouquets and the
colors of paradise, are washing away the prayer call
of the muezzin, the rituals of the faithful, the final
veneer of my people on this land
Many must leave, take their arts and their sciences
to Fez and Meknes, to the rarified air in the brown
upland valleys of the Rif and the Atlas to inlay
themselves in the crystals of sand which, driven
by winds, must reshape the walls of North Africa’s
soul
But here we remain, poised to continue as echoes
and apparitions, distorted reflections in the historical
mirror, the dominant element in the paradoxical
palimpsest of the regional landscape, enchanting,
seductive, that as Al-Andalus becomes Andalucia,
the victorious colors of Castilla and Leon become the
newest of flowers in the mosaic of gardens among
the wandering alleys, within the highest of walls,
behind the wrought-iron gates and the crafted wood
doors in the slowly disintegrating mists of
remembrance between shadow and form
in the spirit of Granada
Emanuel Carter
The Dawn
Dawn’s drunken dragon yawns
from his fiery bed
slowly sending steam to rise
salmon – peach
Breathing hinted color upon darkened sky
Lifting weary head
ache he roars
coral – copper glowing light
and burps his pungent morning breath
blazing
fire engine red, burnt orange, sunburst golden flame
firing sky
awake
Published: Red Fez
worshipful master’s fez kept slipping off his head.
he was irritated and blamed the trumpet flower.
tittering faeries kept him irritated, this honored Ted.
Ted sat in their bouquet, annoyed by their power.
they had him all confused and curiously tense.
with their girly charms and their faerie ways.
he sat among their giggling in masculine suspense.
wondering what they had in mind for him these days.
smiling smirking faeries are first fun, but they sometimes turn.
his grandpa found out when his heart was captured by one.
gramps lives a life of toil and work, driven hard by his wife Fern.
a faerie who keeps him busy while she flies off and has the fun.
Painting the mushroom is quite an endeavor
We end up with six faerie volunteers who do it forever
The red is a beautiful color, I think it is enormously clever.
Says a pixie who likes painting with a paint easel lever.
I want to introduce a faerie princess from Kansas City she says.
She is a bit odd, even her name which is Lucille Naomi Inez.
Okay, we agree, but you have to take off that rhinestone fez.
It clashes with the feather she found on the res.
I say I say I say
Said the horse with the long face
The Englishman, Irishman and Scotsman looked on.
Knock knock said the dwarf
In a jovial tone
Put his fez on
And then he was gone.
What's black,white and red? the nun said
As a trumpet grew in her yard
She rooted it oot without a sound
And didn't let down her guard.
If a picture paints a thousand words
Then Dali said it well
The world is other than it seems
Let's leave at the last bell.
Was he passing a baton my way that Friday, his last dawn, last day
in flesh that felt? The poet in me thinks that’s so, for barely had I
gained the door of Carol’s home (addressed my chair) when Bingsley made his pres-
ence known. I’d been warned not to hope for much, but taking stock, nosed agent,
the extended hand I’d offered him and got ears rubbed! ‘Guys’ struck a deal!
An animal that’s loved gives love that doesn’t scheme, anticipate meal.
Bingsley met approach and then averted gaze from family, turned back
(sprawled out on floor) as if to say, “I know it’s bad, but please don’t worry.
It’s just life!” as we discussed the vet’s planned visit we had scheduled. Cat
respect was soul intention as, in Carol’s lap - time’s arrow (1) hit ground!
Like a prince, whole life, he reigned - so free! No cat mews for democracy.
You want to rub their ears. Most game! Attention’s gone – cat’s off! Should they cry?
Ring-tailed, two-tone mottled cat, distinguished ‘lad,’ one ‘stone’ (2) plus some, dark fez-
crowned head, white body, splashed burnt-orange (tail and back), not blank (some parchment
God has trashed). A cat, dyed whole in can, needs something, a spark! Truth is such!
Though Bingsley liked ‘world seen through glass,’ in Carol’s home was warmth one could touch!
‘Freedom cats enjoy’ is what man envies most (when prejudice lacks track).
A cat skates by as if immune. ‘Truth Is,’ it is! Cat dreams are blurry,
not that focused - opportune. What feels good’s fine! (Are we OK with that?)
Though fools on a hill watching sun’s arc grok that their world spins round and round. (3)
For my dear friend Carol Clarke
Brian Johnston
24th of September in 2022
Poet’s Notes:
A color-coded poem where red syllables are accented as in ‘Beary Tales’ and blue and green coded syllables are softer. Each line has seventeen syllables with the poem’s strict meter of “/---" repeating exactly in both of its two stanzas.
(1) Time’s Arrow – Time flows only in one direction, like an arrow!
(2) One “Stone” – British measure of weight (about 14 pounds)!
(3) “The fool on the hill…” A paraphrase of the famous Beatle’s song!