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
***
Indeed
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.’
LETS THEN; SON OF NO MAN,
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.
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.’
LETS THEN; SON OF NO MAN,
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.
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