Long Tolstoy Poems
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Hafez and I grew up together
in Shiraz, centuries apart with
similar poetic ether.
Wandering the world together
as if from the same mother.
We were never actually together
the word reincarnated is better.
He lives in me and we suffer together
humanity's woes and ethnic the other.
We're global intellectuals chanting together
not the salute of flags and land of the mother
we preach the ethos of unity and together
in trenches of peace and harmony with the other.
We renounce war as our destiny together
and throw nationalism to dustbin as we gather,
tall we stand, and humble, together
on shoulders of giants like Tolstoy, Schweitzer, Camus and reverent other
But, wait, Hafez has asked to write a new stanza together
song of world peace and none other.
In you, full of yourself, we enter together
Go fill your heart with love of the other.
Dedication: To Noam Chomsky
(In 1807, Beethoven wrote a piano/violin
piece. Tolstoy followed in 1890, with a novel.
He argued that matrimony can never work.)
What is a marriage? A fusion, or a tether?
Two very different creatures, yoked together?
I was a piano, you a violin:
I, solid, calming, you, discordant, thin,
and laced with bitterness. I was your base,
and you provided brio, flourish, grace.
A lacewing trapped inside a window frame,
yet driven by one blind, unchanging aim,
you struggled up until, played out, defeated,
you fluttered down again, debased, depleted.
A war's a love affair, and love's a war.
We're so inept - or what's a heaven for?
A nest of wasps, my grievances boiled over -
but could there ever be a vita nuova?
We never learned. I hammered pointlessly,
while you abraded. Why could we not see?
And so I played it stately, sad, no frills,
while you kept up your repetitions, trills
and variations. Hovering and wary,
you shunned my structures. Ever more contrary,
you coiled and squirmed in spasms both continuous,
spontaneous, free-wheeling, lithe and sinuous.
It seemed to me the harmony had gone:
we sang on, yes, but each a separate song.
Two butterflies together, intertwined,
we tangled on the same, but different, line.
I'll never walk Lagos's streets, for there I might not find German restaurant in which
To eat, or Russian grub? Or Maori food.? Or
Polo playing..Now dont think me rude.? But
If I arrived and they did not have
Chaucer plays or Tolstoy? I would
think them mad.? At least mono-cultural that most henious crime, in the west its been uncovered umpteen times
I hope some camera crew or even two do make a
Visit to see if such horrors are true.? No
Phantom of the opera in Eskimo.?
A real bad sign i'll have you to know,, yes they must be lectured if such is the case..Even berated! Right in their face.) And their
Land transformed, that they become much
More civilised.? Should that be the in
your place
Face.' Or faces of many? cause thats how its been for fifty pointless years on.' In the attacking of the
working western dream.)
Alexandra Tolstoy, lost it all, the bamks just
Threw her to the wall, held her funds
Locked her out, her fault?
Her Russian husbannd no doubt.!
Although he'd left for many years she took
The hit, expetienced fear; according to some
Info held she lived in Monaco sone records did
Tell, sh'ed visited twice..is domiciled U K, her
Absent man had alimony not paid.' Despite these
Facts it was claimrd otherwise on the flimsiest of
'False; facts' some company filed, not much of a
Bank of records in truth.' Then She got some air to
Tell her truth, nat-west did a u-turn paid her money
Yet the story morals are hardly funny, so be aware
Of subjective 'truths' watch out your info is not
Fool-proof, fact checking' today? Is as we know.'
Not real kosher, yet why is this so..?
Some students with a tanned skin tone
have decided they should ***** and moan,
over the fact they were made to read
the greatest writers in history.
It wasn’t the content they attacked,
instead it was that the writers lack
the desired amount of melanin,
as if that were unforgivable sin.
Of the classics they would not avail,
because their authors had been pale.
They're too young and dumb to ever see
it is they who reeked of bigotry.
Judging men not by their souls,
and the great tales they have told,
as if human nature applies to
only those who might share your hue.
They’re idiots who fail the test,
make their lives all about flesh,
no clue the wisdom awaiting them
if they’d only read those old ‘white’ men.
To understand man you must know
of the things that Shakespeare wrote,
no better judge of how we act,
of where we thrive, and what we lack.
He understood what made us tick,
why we go from joyous to tragic,
why we love those we can’t have,
how power corrupts a noble man.
All the foibles of those on Earth
In iambic pentameter,
and though he shines brighter than most stars,
in truth he only is the start.
Dickens told all the peoples’ tales,
with novels numerous and hailed,
and not just tales, but tomes that seek
the betterment of society.
Dostoyevsky probed into the mind,
to see what hidden demons lie,
while Tolstoy took a wider glance
or countries clashing, nations askance.
Orwell warned of horror to come,
did it so well, we all look dumb
when his prophecies come true,
we can’t say,”If we only knew…”
CONCLUDES IN PART II.
Pick a book I'll read it
Any one will do
I always want to have something
That I can do with you
Montgomery, Smith, and Tolstoy
Weren't too complex
But didn't you say Shakespeare,
Was who you wanted next?
How'd you do on Wordle?
It was pretty hard today
Oh, I see you got it
Three tries? What can I say?
How about Sunday's crossword,
Do you have some time for it?
I'll go across and you go down
'Til it's finished, we won't quit
Need song ideas? I'll pick some
Then you decide which ones
I'll play anything you want
I'll take it as it comes
All I'm trying to tell you
Is for me it means so much
That you would do things with me
And share a common touch
Of things enjoyed together
That we both like to do
Like two birds of a feather
I'm the red and you're the blue
Can remember an ember from being a boy
Off for a trundle little me just a bundle of joy
Dream I am Roy of the Rovers or Rob Roy
Admit never did behave like Lord Fauntleroy
More up for a caper than being a paperboy
Dressing up always more Indian than cowboy
More bow and arrow shun the gun not my toy
Messing up older a bit bolder got first playboy
Each page teenage hormones rage their ploy
Confessing at some stage wore dodgy corduroy
Not a fave gave colder shoulder to sage Tolstoy
More plot thickens heart quickens Dickens envoy
Who's ever told sold better tales of the hoi polloi
Artful dodger that insightful and spriteful decoy
Delightful a bold cheeky and sneaky barrow boy
BUT
Liars & deniers stoking fires while we're choking annoy
Pariahs empires of desires requires knaves to employ
Craves those culture vulture raves which then destroy
Waves stroking cage of wage slaves to graves deploy
Don’t subscribe to tribe’s lust it must just surely cloy
Paths to Mars paves all caves in as did for Helen of Troy
SO
Won’t snaffle the health raffle... folks selling saveloy?
Or crickey chat to that spiky pikey prat yelling “Oi Oi”
We maybe all at sea but lets believe land’s nearly ahoy
Street food snack some heat... pak choi chilli and soy
Suss don’t ever be coy telling us what you dearly enjoy
The fuzzy warmth you feel clearly is the real deal mccoy
True birthday treat got to finally eat yearly at the Savoy
If beset then really never forget the reset for regret JOY
Homer, Aristotle, Hobbes, Locke, Goethe, and Crane;
Chaucer, Shakespeare, Dickens, Tolstoy, Whitman, and Twain;
Whose imagination and toil helped to unfold
Stories, philosophies, and lessons to be told.
The inquisitive student absorbed in his books,
Contemplating and learning while everyone looks
At him with judgmental glances, as if to say,
“Strange seeing him indoors even on this fine day.”
But to him, the weather is of little concern
While he is satisfying his deep thirst to learn.
Taken in by tales of peasants, lovers, and knights,
And those waxing on people’s and government’s rights.
Just then, he feels a chilly draft, but no matter,
As he tugs at his worn jacket collar’s tatter.
Off in the distance, he hears children playing games,
But no match for his fables with fanciful names.
Lost in some fiction, he really can’t help himself,
He thirstily reads his way across his bookshelf.
Hungry – but his knowledge appetite can outlast,
He ignores stomach growls as the lunch hour has passed.
The reader pores on in utter fascination,
As if in a trance, but not caused by libation.
Searching, grasping, he is mentally enraptured,
With meanings bold to subtle all being captured.
In deep translation of the scenes, plots, and faces
Scribed in earlier times and in other places.
He can wait for frolic, frills and things of that kind.
For now, the scholar will sit and enrich his mind.
2/26/17
Anna Karenina, by Leo Tolstoy,
approximately 800 redundant pages
of Kafkaesque scoffing
at relentless banalities of economic and political elitists.
Rather like transcribing often inebriated conversations
within all-night insider celebrations
of a ProPlutocracy Party Convention
Or, sadly, a depressed weed-rant
at the end of a long defensive policy debate
among inter-religiously woke Democrats
longing for a win/win DanceParty Convention,
like in the good-old liberally bipartisan ballroom days
Only maybe about 400 condensed
impacted pages shorter
with the remainder quite unliterally
and anti-climatically inscrutable
as planned anti-ecological obsolescence
through mutually partisan assured destruction
Drinking and smoking
through organic Earth's rabidly dark night
denying and/or distracted
from synergetically addressing
our unwell-disorganizing Anthropocene
of epically AnthroNarcissistic
autocratic-monopolistic chaos
Adding nothing more useful
or healthy
or sacred
to Kafkaesque scoffing
at relentlessly drunk banalities
of economic and political elitists.
“Art is the medium by which a person, having experienced an emotion, intentionally transmits it to others” – Leo Tolstoy
A bleak monotonous landscape,
Had been her outlook for years.
She so vehemently longed to escape.
The young woman fought back tears.
Christina’s world was internment.
Trapped in a body with muscles decaying.
Poor dear lacked discernment,
Her will to walk, her spirit not obeying.
Muscular Dystrophy restricted her being.
Crawling helplessly across the field,
The horizon beyond is all she will be seeing.
Determined to create an impenetrable shield.
To separate her from her crippling disorder.
Forcing herself daily, her bent limbs to be unfurled.
In spite of her debilitating marauder,
In pain Miss Christina Olson seeks to view the world.