Of dark Aladdin’s cave from where
great sharks would fly, metallic Furies,
enormous monsters of the air
who’ll gotmek the wyşka – a phallic slur we
Turkmen know well. It means: “devour
the minaret,” or “fell the tower.”
Now, wait. I know what you’re thinking, Arcady.
The raving words of a mad slave-lady.
But no! She wasn’t mad. She’s not
mad now. My Noorya simply knew
the secrets of this world and through
her rants deciphered nature’s plot.
She sang of far-off islands, yes!
Demesnes where men in women’s dress
or male-resembling females reign.
A new – or tozey noohh (she mewed
the English, noohh) – unfairly gained,
noohh-land, noohh-world, with strange noohh food
which cooks so quickly when it’s set
in windowed cubes to pirouette
on lighted stages (yenil sahna);
noohh skies, noohh scapes, nooh flora and fauna.
And billboards tall as Qutub Minar
depicting woeful adolescents
in the nude; and incandescent
gambling parlors, closet-cars
that rise and fall a hundred meters
to eerie music; and groups of eaters
who dine with strange utensils, plates
of porcelain, daffodil wine, in seats
with sea-views, banquets that rotate
above the clouds! She sang of streets
athrong with teaming migrants, places
where every race of person races
from shop to shop – then stops, or stalls,
to pluck some money from the walls.
Of faces carved in filigreed
designs, she sang. Of men who feast
on men; and birds whose wings have ceased
to work for them. And sometimes she’d
divine a distant country cursed
with land that rumbles, boils and bursts
beneath a people so obsessed
with flashing totems, hand-held charms,
metallic idols which are pressed
against their ears, that no alarm
is felt; they do not hear the sounds
that boom and pulsate all around
just like – but far more dreadful, stronger –
a lover’s heart that beats no longer.
She spoke of desperate people throwing
themselves off precipices, diving
from highest bridges — yet surviving;
their downward progress somehow slowing,
stopping, even, Noorya claimed,
reversing direction, upward-aimed.
Bir dünýä tersi. “The world inverted.”
What could I make of her strange song?
All life bidüzgün, corrupted, perverted
by telbe myrat, desires gone wrong.
“Our lives,” she sang, “will be destroyed
by petty passions ill-employed.
By trash, by junk, by fleeting thrills
that over-cost and under-fill.”
More Tuesday Poems at Tuesdaypoem.blogspot.com.