Long Basest Poems
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(On My Shock at the Sad News of Dr Fatemi’s Decease)
Dressed in mourning in a photo I came across at daybreak,
You broke the rueful, bitter news and struck me with shock and ache.
Would that I were dead and knew not of this loss of a great sage
Who was far greater than his peers, kept up to his ripe old age
Calm and smiling, pleased with the world, strong in body and in mind,
Sympathetic, benevolent, pure-hearted, merciful, kind.
The son of a brave lioness (a Zeinab of her own time),
Had surely to keep reticent about the inhuman crime
Of the Shah’s rogues and ruffians who blinded one of his eyes
And stabbed his mother who shielded her brother from savage guys.
In dark days of royal era, when your colleagues passed him by
Hardly with a briefest greeting lest they be seen by a spy
I noticed who he truly was and how lowly they were all:
Basest creatures of short stature fearful of their meanest fall!
By the stairways he spoke to me as a father, scholar, friend,
Athlete, author, and a statesman and his time he would thus spend
Till your classes ended at last and as an innocent boy
He concluded what he had said, left me, and neared you in joy.
When he used to shake hands with me, how he raised me from the ground
A foot and a half, oh my God! How athletic, robust, sound!
The first book in Greco-Roman mythology in Iran
Was his which both in my studies and my life I came upon.
He, and you, dearest professor, did not spend a single dime
Of what you received for teaching, unlike beggars of the time —
Gave all away to the needy as once some waiters told me.
You had not taken your degrees to make money, I could see.
I well know how he has once stopped his car in a busy street
To reach and save an old woman, one disabled in the feet.
Finding out that her eyesight is also impaired, he takes her
To doctors, has her eyes treated, and chooses then to transfer
The old woman to the country. Such a hero to the core
Deserves the immortality of all the heroes of yore.
We mortals or rank and file foam just for a very short while,
Like waves, and then into boundless and fathomless seas we pile.*
We die with the fire we kindle in a lover’s inflamed breast;
He is an ever-shining sun that neither sets nor knows west!
12.27.’19
* See Matthew Arnold's "Rugby Chapel", lines 58-72.
No comments, please!
Take care of her
Keeping toes and ties off the ground
Beware of those with savage intent
To draw her down
Beware those of quisling heart
Who seek only to pillage then plunder her
All those faces leering, cajoling, jeering then cheering
Distant recollections surface
Unwinding their purpose
A catalogue of misadventure
THEIR venom put upon YOU
As they race towards their judgmental conclusions
Rabid and acrid
Hypocritical bigotisms abound
Calling a DIAMOND, when a spade is just a spade.
Cathartic embolisms hold ears to ground
THIS wins NO points
Brings NO praise
Wears NO crown
The caterwauling of corruption
Casting dispersions, then claiming coercion
An aberration distilled down to its basest most repugnant desires
Wanton ADORATION to feed that nepotistic idolatry
The equivocation, The skullduggery
The pettifoggery, the subterfuge,
The pontification, The verascification
Dealt to all in attendance.
With all its scheming, and shifting and sideways leaning
The chicanery of blackest soul
Whose demarcation is bound by and to, those most easily bled, those most easily misled.
The ebb and flow of the waves coming and going
As they plead and pine
Quickly now, retreating
A slender pole with simple cord, is slowly dressed in
Her Red White and Blue
A bit tattered
A bit torn
Threadbare and Worn
Holds a message of SACRIFICE , of DUTY, of HONOR
OF HER TRUTHS PROMISED.
HER emancipated can bare no more system wide degradations.
The indignities cast upon her by those who hold the keys to HER hallowed halls, TIGHT to their chests
Allowing NOT
The promise of a justice blind, impartial, dealt with even hand over all her land.
We pledge to HER our loyalty, not one man
We pledge to HER as ONE country United beneath her splendor
A PLEDGE of Love for her and to one another.
Under the shadowed vault of time, where power flickers like a deceptive beacon,
Authority entices the shadows, drawing the basest elements of our kind,
Throughout history, humanity has been shackled by the dregs of the world, slaves to their own decay,
They endure any humiliation, commit any vile act, just to taste the nectar of domination.
The wretched remnants of the world boil in the potion of sovereignty,
Each government, a parliament of debauchery, defiling the soul's virtue,
In the tragic mirror of democracy—whispers reveal that we wear their masks,
Desperate, we cling to the threads of authoritarianism, seeking relief from anxieties.
In the abyss of thought, we dance on fragments of broken dreams,
The narrative flows, a river of lost hopes,
Seeking release in promised power, blind to hidden traps,
Captive in a labyrinth woven from our deepest vulnerabilities.
Eyes darkened by uncertainty gaze toward fragile horizons,
Our hearts, fragile, beat under the weight of perpetual injustice,
We drift into the melancholic reverie of unfulfilled dreams,
Hoping that one day, truth will shatter the illusion we have built.
With arms outstretched to the pale stars of the night,
We find solace in shadows, seeking fragments of pure light,
Dreaming of a world where our sleeping souls awaken to freedom,
An unwritten story, etched with mystic melancholy across the skies.
But until that dawn, in this realm of illusion and unchecked power,
We hold hands in the dark, cherishing the fragility of our hearts,
Imagining a world where our unseen words unlock change,
In a mystic odyssey of poetry and healed souls, under the watchful stars.
We are wisps in this cosmos,
The flimsy bubbles,
The clumsy issues'
In this decay, this cosmic swamp.
We are the degassing
Of a dying celestial being's bowels,
The place where is-life churns and seethes,
The place where was-life nourishes the breeds,
The place from which is-life hangs by a volatile thread,
A thread whose cutting sends is-life back
Where was-life is dead,
Back to the darkness,
The ooze whose
Offspring are the very heirs,
The legacy and legions of was-life
When was-life and is-life was but life
And now,
Our lives bare-stir ancient Time,
That flame which consumes us and our now,
So that our glories that differ are alike brief;
So that our words, our words
Even when many,
Fill empty air, empty air
More often than ears;
And, when ears hear words ours—
Only the basest parts do they
Convey,
And in those unintentioned parts, those undesired and unmentioned parts
They inflame,
They bite the sane—
And ignite the insane,
Words evoking passions—sweet or bitter—
In gods whose wrought art—or wroth acts
Make a gardens and ghosts of the world.
And we, we that are is-life,
We care, it seems for none of that,
But, rather,
That the word was spoken
Thinking that the world will long remember
That we were here.
Ignorant that one day we shall return
To that incorporeal state of was-life
And all that will remain
Is our effect
Upon a future generation, a future world
Yet to issue forth
From the ooze.
Slow drawn, steeping tea bags, in an etched glass pitcher,
Lazily infuse its Oriental musk into the sun warmed brew.
My ice crackles along with the thunder over the great Mississippi
As the ewers’ spout releases the torrents of Southern comfort
Into the tall, foggy, frost laden glass; I await my fill.
A frigid sip chafes my lips and briefly deadens my longing,
Only momentarily, as the turgid air, again, envelops my throat.
The chills grip my spine, even in this oppressive heat.
Sauntering droplets roam slowly down my bare skinned back
And puddle where my hips widen at the curve of my waist.
Hope is lost for those of us who float through purgatory.
The weight of two centuries of sorrow hangs heavily on our skin.
The burden is at its worst to bear just before autumn,
When slave ships broken by storms washed up on the river.
Airlessness provides no clemency for those gasping for pardon.
Sorrow lies heavily in the lungs of the poor souls of August.
Heat, fetid and damp, feverishly enables man’s basest passion,
To be disguised as music, that wails from the saloons in the Quarter.
Deep, boiling, fermented tales of sorrow are turned into song,
Melodic tales spun of sorcery, savagery blue and untethered souls,
Forged metals and the scat of primitive voices, break the fugue.
Echoes of blasphemy wrought suffocating havoc and destruction,
As hot jazz blows cool through the streets of the Ninth Ward.
There are terms humanity uses, phrases words appear."
To communicate emotions, in aim of clarity, or to help
Verbally in communicating our anxiety, or sense of honour
Even anger, love or fear.' Some terms are formed generically.' Yet others are forged and planned.' To strike
At the spirit, heart and souls of 'right thinking women and
Man' the word ( elites ) is being used to describe indeed
The dregs..' its as dis-informative in the context and concept
Indeed its correction ' must get now on its legs' to
Highlight those of repulsive ways..Who glorify abuse who
Plan nightmares today.' Who facilitate urusry murder and
Greed, who co-opt and co-erce for the basest of needs who
To be validated are willing to do the vilest' the dirtiest things.)
Scum could do.' I find no word low enough.! No term that
Will match.' To the acts of these lunatics and the sick dreams they hatch.' (They call wicked for good) remember
My friend; (2020?) and just extrapolate' then and only things will
Get on the mend!
Nobody knew better than him the value
Of great art --
The need to preserve the memory of
Great artists;
Do not even the basest of us feel
Overwhelming emotion, hushed awe?
Great art should seem to the eye all
Things divine rather than human;
But still, of any person...it should fall
to him
To obliterate the most magnificent
Art had then yet to offer.
A crime committed in full view
Of the old city's appalled populace;
He undertook it with selfsame blase'
Nonchalance
Such as dictators sometimes so indulge in
When immersed in their own idle genocides.
The mind that contrived such eloquent,
Articulated words
Hell-bent on a dreadful, utterly
Inconceivable destruction!
And following on from this terrible
Silence of a long, drawn-out aftermath?
The choirs of gathering voices offering up
Glorianas and praises-in-excelsis
For that which unceasingly labours to exalt
In the banality of the prosaic and mundane.
you might no be rich or own a fancy car
you might live from hand to fist saving pennies in a jar
but the most important thing that you could ever possess
is to be an adopted child of God and for your testimony to progress
today's society is stuck on the basest of notions
that wealth and possessions deserve some type of devotion
yet you can't take it with you when your final hour comes
only the state of your soul and your salvation will determine
if you are a blessed one
money can't buy God's favor
and heaven does not hold out for the highest bidder
God only asks that you believe in Him
and repent from being a sinner
so it does not matter all that much if you don't have great wealth
God won't give you too many burdens
all He wants is your happiness and health
just study on the Holy Scriptures
and trust in God to guide you
remember His Son Jesus was poor as well
but God always found a way to get Him through
The lord of the earth, the ruler of the world
You were once adored by Heaven and all
Most gracious Lucifer, the pride of the Almighty
Now lower than the basest of trash without pity
I wonder why you did it. I wish I could talk to you
I wish I could hear from your point of view
The version no one sees or hears.
I wish I could tell your story to who cares,
The hypocritical world, which has become a vestibule,
Will mock and say I ask the impossible
Curiosity drives me like a herd of cattle.
And I dance around like a snake’s rattle
Knowing as the Devil you were once an angel
Makes me know trust is overrated like a diamond bell
I do not judge you. That isn’t my job
The truth will be unwrapped someday like a cob
I do appreciate that you dared to be different
Though it made your membership card to be rent
Judgment for us is around the corner like homecoming
I extol not Satan, but the Son of the Morning
No, no, no, no — We will not endure these tortures
Of the ferocious Human beings on us, not any more.
We, Mosquitoes, are the best amongst all creatures
Who remain not idle, accept whatsoever we procure.
The Humans, inhumanly, label us to be the basest
Of creatures and formulate devices to slaughter us.
But we counsel that you at first own evil soul test
And judge your core, inner animals, yourself thus.
You invent coils, sprays, electric tools to demolish
Our race but what regarding you own internal vice.
Try to make something that destroy your Devilish
Nature. You would better try to create that device.
From this night, We, the grand mosquitoes revolt,
We declare, never will we drink the impure blood
Rather would drink the fresh juices from a sprout.
We will not touch blood even if it flows like flood.