Tuesday, July 22, 2014


Kay Hassan

In the realm of retrospection, my heart resonates with a lament for an  Indian Zoroastrian Lady, whose recent act of sacrifice reverberates through time. She, who parted with her sole haven of prayers—a rare papyrus vessel encapsulating the Zoroastrian creed's cosmic essence. Ironically, it is amidst the parlance of bootleggers that I find myself occasionally imparting to her son, "Ah, the irony, my friend, for we stand as the true heirs of Zoroaster. A revelation unsought, a legacy concealed."

As swarming locusts devour the fabric of your creed,
Delicately unravel your cocoon, let your spirit take the lead,
No maritime authority guides your course, a tale obscured,
For rocks resist the dance of currents, their secret unheard,
In truth, no steadfast companion by your side will stand,
No refuge found in ancestral caves across the land.

Unfurl your sail, descend the towering cliffs with grace,
To verdant pastures where your lineage finds its sacred place,
Refrain from concealing your diamond visage in mountain's shroud,
Bid adieu to servitude to monarchs' steeds, cast off that shroud,
Engage in the strategic game of life upon wisdom's board,
Master silk's artistry, intricate fabrics richly stored.

Or beneath Hephaestus' gaze, within Xenophon's echo's frame,
Embark on art's odyssey, forging mastery's flame,
From the gold of your weathered soul, sculpt a magnum opus rare,
A virtuoso of skills, crafting existence beyond compare,
Il miglior fabbro, the sovereign creator of temporal rhyme,
A craftsman of epochs, defying the limits of time.

Yet, amidst this transformative symphony that you undertake,
Inscribe within your essence the wisdom that you'll make,
Forgo the fervor of scripture's quill, the "Damn Divine Book" refrain,
Let life's alchemy be your guide, the eternal truths to gain.


Read the poem in a simple form

“This is my  recent  regret to  an  Indian  Zoroastrian  Lady  who  had sold ,  for  her son’s journey,  her only  prayers'  book ; the rarest  papyrus of  the Zoroastrian cult in the universe.     Ironically, however ,in the  bootleggers’ language,  every now and then, I tell her son . ‘Alas, we are the real heir of Zoroaster,  you should  have told me, man. ’”

When  swarming  locusts   digest your cult
Gracefully rip up your cocoon,
You have no maritime command,
And rocks are  never like waters,
Truly,  no one  would  stand by you
No more hide in the ancestors'  caves.
Set  a  sail  down  the towering mountains ,
To the pastures,  where your folk shall dwell,
Don't hold back or
 hide your diamond  face in the mountains,
And never work on  Kings’ horses again,
Play the  longest  game of the chest,
Learn the  trade of  silk  yarn-ing- fabric knitting  ,
Or  under  Hephaestus,   (If you are angry at Xenophon,  remember he was  the worst student of Socrates.) 
Acquire skills in  arts and  metal smith-ing,
To forge  out of the gold of  your  tumbledown soul,
 the best craftsman of all time ;
  il miglior fabbro*.
But   learn not to  write  any Damn  Divine Book.

*Dante   via T. S.  Eliot.


Kay Hassan

‘ I did hit the city  in  1997’

‘ I did hit the city’

When you set sail for Alexandria's shore,
Don’t tread lightly, the ancient tales implore,
No guiding star above its storied ground,
Amidst khamaseen's rage, no solace found.

No rapacious augur should dare intrude,
Not one of Magi with their gifts imbued,
Nor speak in dialect of Alexandria's birth,
Yet sit with Cavafy, poetry's hearth.

Tribute to Hypatia, wisdom's guide,
Lady of Socrates' truths implied,
Dine with Neo-Platonists' discourse,
In Ptolemy's realm, 
measure Mediterranean shores,
And  azure tide.
 Listen to papyruses' whispers, 
read history's pride,
and reconstruct Lighthouse's beacon,
 a flicker's grace, 
where ancient trace,
 hidden in its embrace.
Slow down, passer-by, heed history's plea,
Embrace the city's soul, 
and take your of its legacy,
None shall grasp Alexandria's essence,
But transient souls, not bound by pretense.

‘My Sibling -’
Resist the urge to weave myths anew,
The Macedonian boy, Achilles true,
Dug a thousand graves in timeless sand,
Not the best grave digger, you understand.

‘You are from nowhere,’ echoes the wind,
‘Et-Ego-bin-nicht-terrestrial’ pinned,
Let's, then, son of no man's domain,
Explore the city's joy, turmoil, and pain.

Philosophers graced these ancient streets,
Euclid's geometry, genius replete,
Hypatia's brilliance, a guiding light,
Plotinus' Neoplatonism's flight.

Philo bridged faiths, philosophy intertwined,
Plotinus' wisdom forever enshrined,
Origen's Christian teachings profound,
Alexandria's scholars, wisdom's crown.

Remember, your dimention,
Though you are in Alexandria,
Far from Giza,
Pharaoh's shadow looms o'er sands of old,
Pyramids, relics of tales untold,
Moses' myth, across the sea,
Tales for all to see.
Cleopatra's love, Antonio's embrace,
A queen's allure, a conqueror's grace,
French and English, landing on her shores,
Empires clashed in history's wars.

Through bustling alleys, storytellers weave,
Echoes of philosophers, wisdom to believe,
Screams of the city, a symphony profound,
In each cobblestone, history's sound,
In  looking for Ptolmies' cemetry,
Local archeologists nodded to me:
If you are keen to feel Ptolmies' remains 
Cry on the tombs in the western cemetery, 
But I went deep into the city,
In markets alive with vibrant hues,
Voices rise, blend with ocean's cues,
Bazaars of knowledge, treasures to find,
In the city's heart, my soul, 
makes the universe combined.
From Euclid's math to Hypatia's gaze,
Wars and wisdom, through history's maze,
In each whispering wind, tales unfold,
Screams of the city, stories of old.

Amidst dustbins, treasures still reside,
Echoes of conquerors, battles fought with pride,
Eloquent waiters serve memories on a tray,
Amid screams of the city, whisper and sway.

Let the tales of Alexandria take hold,
Screams of the city, stories unfold,
A symphony of history, passions aflame,
In every corner, the city's vibrant name


when  you set  sail  for Alexandria,
Don’t  treat  the  season lightly,        (Like Bonaparte-   Not part of the poem.)
 There is no star -above  the city.     ( In  khamaseen. Not part of the poem)
Don’t be any   rapacious augur,
You are none of those three Magi,     (Laden with gold, frankincense, and myrrh at Bethlehem's night .Not part of the poem. )
 And not  speaking  Alexandria's Dialect,
To  sit with Cavafy  in the city’s  cafés,
  Or  give a tribute speech  to  Hypatia ,
 the  lady of  Socrates’ Trades.  
And  dine with  the  Neo-Platonists ,
Or measure  under Ptolemy,
The shores of Mediterranean sea
And classify the ancient papyrus  in the Royal  Library!
Or  glimpse even a  flicker  from  the ancient Lighthouse,
Slow down, passer-by ...you are tired,
Slow down and learn;
None of those wretched passengers  shall come to the city,
Thou arst,  but a  wicked passer-by,
‘My  Sibling -’
Don't fix the myths  of Alexandria ,
The Macedonian boy   was a stray Achilles,
Dug for himself a thousand graves.
You are not the best grave digger,
‘You  are from nowhere.’
‘Et -Ego- bin -  nicht - terrestrial.’
Hit  the  city where hungry breeds,
Digging up dustbins for Pharaoh's  leftover-  ‘I MEAN TOURISTS’ LEFTOVER‘ IT IS NOT PART OF THE POEM.
  And listen to  the eloquent  waiters ,
Holding  blurry glasses  for  the cheapest  bitter ,
Cackling - politics, like sluts in hurry.

Wednesday, July 16, 2014


Kay Hassan

Oh,  Almighty … Dear  me,
 Look what those demons have got:
Eyes:  are  brighter than thy angels'.
Words :  are sharper than daggers ,
Poisons: are sweeter than thy Grace,
Lyrics:   are rhymed swifter  than, thy books,
 And  they are  luring   sharks,
quicker  then   Maldoror
Our  lovely devil :
The mighty chap of Les Chante de Maldoreor.

Sunday, July 13, 2014


Kay Hassan

Brother ; Master of  quarks ,
I am brewing bones of  the ancestors,
And  the Geometry of the old  graveyard,
On  the milky way,
Holding,  in exile, our  hermitage on my shoulders ,
And listening  to the big bang  preachers ,
Matrix- ing   Finnegan’s  waking -night,
 By The Three Quarks for Muster Mark!

Thursday, July 03, 2014


Kay Hassan
To my   'un- rogue'  fellow.

If you are an old  immigrant ,  mourn your  luck ,
For you  had lost your most valuable time,
Fighting  your  rogue brothers and  the  worst waves  of invaders .
You lost your motherland ,AND  GAVE UP YOUR LOVELY CULT ,

Don’t pass the cult  to thy offspring
Even if you are Greek or a  Roman descendant,
Son of Genghis khan, or
Son of prophets or son of holy Jews

Un-rogue- fellow,
Un-rogue- fellow,
Stop somewhere
And show your tears
You are  not a  thriller-
You are a  grotesque mask

No matter how you Mourn  Your  Luck,
School  thy raging soul - and for good,
Lift  up  yourself ,  higher than ever,
Then  look up unto  topmost- eyes,
Not At Your Past ,Your  Nethermost Region.:
Your ancient arsenal of MALICE.

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