Wednesday, February 05, 2014


Nightingale, sing: interpret, speak, chant, kneel,
I dub thee Sir Rosencrantz Ramallah,
A profile fraught with the essence of myrrh,
No Fayoum encaustic, this burnished cheek's
Been drying mad Ophelia's kerchief,
And leaving great Catherine in the lurch,
Her heaving thighs in furs, on ice, alack--
Sanguine vigilante of truth, a Con-
Science raveled in revolution's sidekicks,
A tzaddik soul misplaced in drifting sands,
The gates of Isfahan await thy verse,
Borne on pixels en route to Samarkand,
Where is the golden-tongue, O where thy mirth?
For a rose seeking Attar to refine?


Harlequin said...

A short write with a (big) back story of geographic and cultural references for added spice ...... Dragoman is an intriguing title point, waiting for someone to make a film out of it?

Iulia Flame said...

In a time of no heroes, I salute, at the very least, those who have made the attempt to learn the language. Life is ever stranger than any fiction or film.

En plein air - in memoriam Andrew Bellon

A dreamless sleep falls from the shimmering leaves. --Sappho fragment, tr. Andrew Bellon I changed, thickened, ...

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