Poetry

Ode to a Persian thunder mug

 

 

Fathali Ghahremani
May 18, 2006
iranian.com

Yesterday, out of the blue, I suddenly remembered the attached poem.  The last time I actually saw it was when I was about 16 or 17, it was a mimeograph that I assume was printed up in the offices of the Point 4 Program in Tehran.  I am not 100% sure of the the exact wording and considering that this is from some 40 years ago, the fact that I remember anything at all is amazing.  However, if we can find the original author and the original text I think it would be fun. So here goes.  Put it on the web let’s see if anyone can claim it [In 2010, Bill Leaming did!].  If they can’t, I’ll claim it with all the caveats that I swear I did not want to plagiarize or take over someone else’s work of art!

I have no pleasant memories of the Persian thunder mug
The throne room in each household where you go to pull the plug.

It’s a square of ceramic measuring nearly three by three
With two serrated foot steps which you squat on buttock dangling free

It all slopes to rear of center where there is a forbidding drain
Right above which is a flush tank that is operated by a chain

Instead of toilet paper there is a weird kettle with a spout
Which sits under a faucet from which cold water pours out

It is usually in a corner frequently dark and out of sight
The smell from which will give the strongest an awful fright

The tragedy happened one evening on the way to my home
It was really quite fortunate since I was traveling all alone

I had a queasy feeling that was uncomfortable at best
I thought if rushed home I could put the matters to a peaceful rest

As I entered my stomach did a flip flop and tied itself in knots
I knew for certain that I contacted a case of Tehran Trots

I rushed to the bathroom with my trousers at half-mast
Where I squatted in discomfort thinking the danger past

I reckoned incorrectly cause I had barely squatted there
The jet propulsion started and it splattered everywhere

I tried to clean a bit and half rose to pull the chain
And the contents of my pockets went tumbling down the drain

I retrieved the most important not too happy as you can see
Wondering how this could happen to a poor bloke such as me

I washed-up as best I could with the faucet and the pot
Cursing shamelessly at what had suddenly become my lot

I cursed the architect designer and his twisted wicked mind
The maker of this contraption with no place for your behind

So I damned the guy who designed it as I crept up to my lair
May his hell be that toilet and may he rot forever there!

 

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