Tag Archives: Helen Clark

Tuesday Poem: “The World Inverted: A Prophecy” by Zireaux

Qutub Minar in Delhi: ‘…gotmek the wyşka – a phallic slur we / Turkmen know well. It means: “devour / the minaret,” or “fell the tower.”‘

Sayeed continues his story…

‘Of demons (dow) her lyrics spoke.
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.

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Tuesday Poem: “To Slice Her Husband’s Throat” by Zireaux

A forgery by New Zealand Prime Minister Helen Clark.

A forgery signed by New Zealand Prime Minister Helen Clark.

‘I saw her fair and fragile form
spread lifeless on her bed. Twice
I tried – and failed, alas – to slice
her husband’s throat amid my storm
of vengeance.’

                                    Sayeed declared he spent
a year unleashing his lament
through elegies (a Turkmen tradition),
then traveled with a piebald nag
toward Ashgabat – a two-week mission
across a howling desert plagued
with cobras, deadly spiders, lizards
the size of crocodiles, blizzards
of bees, simoons of scalding hot
projectile sand, haphazardly shot.

Beneath the starry sky-vault stained
in jeweled milk (which piqued his thirst
and poverty) Sayeed rehearsed
his songs; and coaxed his horse; and strained
to see ahead – before the night
could melt – some distant shimmer of light.
He knew he could not stop to rest,
or die, until he’d had a chance
to sing in Ashkabat…‘til he’d expressed
his feelings to the king, and lanced,
his blistered heart of grief. He’d sung
to many ears, of course. And wrung,
no doubt, as many eyes of tears.

‘But numbers aren’t what history hears.’

This last line Sayeed pronounced with cheery
aplomb; then promptly searched my gaze
for some appraisal, or better, just praise
of such a wise and well-phrased theory.

My face gave nothing then. But I’m
inclined now to agree. At times,
yes, volume may count, if only because
it makes us listen; but soloist’s
are most remembered, not orchestras.
The Jacobins and Bolshevists
are background noise compared to where
Marie Antoinette once pinned her hair
and all the other reasons why
the tourists today still storm Versailles.

Marie Antoinette at age 13 by Martin van Meytens, 1767.

Marie Antoinette at age 13 by Martin van Meytens, 1767. ‘The Jacobins and Bolshevists / are background noise compared to where /
Marie Antoinette once pinned her hair…’

And no offence, my listeners – not even
a crowd of you, an Eden Park
of you
, could match one Helen Clark
enjoying my rhymes. (Perhaps she’ll thieve ’em
with her signature, which fetches
a fortune when found on others’ sketches).
O Helen! You are New Zealand’s bride
however deep your vocal bass,
or even if you stand beside
the Queen in pants! You give such grace
to speeding cars and Kilimanjaro;
and though you never let us borrow
those funds from you, you still insisted
that our republics both existed.

But let us not allow our orator
to shirk the talker’s duty – to finish.
Lost threads of thought do not diminish
the patchwork banter of a bore.
They’ll find more thread, they always do,
and plot an extra sleeve for you.

Note: It’s Tuesday again. To feel the day’s poetic spirit, you might want to visit the Tuesday Poets at http://www.tuesdaypoem.blogspot.com.au/

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