Unwilling audience

Kouroush Sassanian
by Kouroush Sassanian

Unwilling audience in your cruel theater,
Long to be held by you, pitiless “g”od of Pain,
Bound to worship by last reluctant vows, meaningless,
My tired heart girts with suffering, and brows
Anointed with perpetual weariness for you were swept away,

Long have I borne your love, through the pain -
Of rigorous years, sad days and slumberless nights,
Performing my inexorable rites in the shadow of your heights – never noticed,

For I lay dark flowers at your altars, to gain life after birth, But mine own soul only for sacrifice, empty hearted,

All fearless tasks my youth's desire,
And the oils from my crushed life drawn,
And all my hope of fire burned in my breasts,

I have no more to give, all that was mine perished in your loins,
my fingers laid, a hollow tribute, at our shrine;
Let us depart, hand in hand for my whole soul is wrung,
as all my orisons are sung and gone;
Let me depart, with numb limbs,

To some dim shade and lay me down to sleep.


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last message to you

by robin (not verified) on

ks, as i previously told you i am trying to get in touch with you and i don't know if you'll ever see this. but i'[m trying one more time. you know how one turns with the wind like a weather vane but finally i have realized that it is absolutely impossible for my own well-being for me to return to this site to check and see your work here, or for any other reason; however i would like you to send any copies of poems you write to me at rjgoldbird@aol.com. i know you are reluctant to send anything to anyone from here by e-mail but i am no longer from here. if you read this please do as i ask. in any case i will ask mazloom if he "runs into you" onsite to give you my e-mail again. i think about machado, you speak spanish don't you? caminante son tus huellas el camino y nada mas....my translation is the best one i know, i have it on my mind a lot these days:

you who walk it is your tracks that make the road and nothing more/you make the road as you walk/it is your walking that makes the road./And turning your head to look back/you see the path you will never again walk on/you who walk there is no road/but the foam made by ships moving on...

that's for me, for my situation, not for you or you and me. try if you can to get over your secrecy, and, if you see this, don't move on too far from me.

anyway if you do i will be sorry but i will understand perfectly...


uhmmmm......time to murder and create...

by formerly rosie (tales from the crypt) (not verified) on

let me put it a little differently this time kouroush: i am no longer a member of this community but it seems to be my fate that this community is a member of me. and you are its finest son. and my prize creation, i did just what you told me, i fingered my rosie beads, i prone spead-eagled and prayed with my legs, and there you sprung out whole like a boticelli'venus on the beaver's dam of the half shell of shah ismails' forty tribes, singing the praises of both lords,what i mean is...i'll never get the hell out of here completely...it's obvious. it's purgatory, what else could it be? there's simply no other explanation for it, and you are my virgil the psychopomp and i yours and on the other hand there is the other one the pompous psycho and torn like a pendulum between the means of these two extremes what i mean is....oh you know perfectly well what i mean...

just keep writing i'll keep reading and posting for you at least as a little guppie...little bubbles...little glug glug glugs 4U...so let us let the bard have the last words on comings and goings and decisions and incisionss and so on (from prufrock)...

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

oh god you really should help me with my persian, we'd have such a blast, we'd have hafez pissing himself in his tomb, kouroush if you let us lose contact with each other i'll kill you..i swear to god.i will...




by just for kouroush (not verified) on

i want to get in touch with you but you don't seem to be active lately--according to your tracking--and i don't even know if you track your own blogs so...and the last time you were inactive was for a long time...so i don't know if you'll ever even see this but...if you do...i'm no longer a member of this community and won't be returning (despite my waiverings it is final,irrevocable and ultimately inevitable). my registered account is closed and, despite the fact that some of my best friends were goldfish, i have no interest in becoming one--it goes against my principles as well as my pride. i'm making an exception and writing to you because there are some things i really want to say ... so...i'll check back a few times..actually quite a few...and see if you respond. if you do i'll write more...because none of this is what i really want to say...and if you don't...well...then it's out of my hands isn't it...


formerly rosie

Rosie T.

Well you know what you have to do with those "numb limbs"

by Rosie T. on


pray with 'em.  Pray with 'em.  A numb prayer's better than none...

which actually...

you just did, didnt you?

Kyrie Eleison.


PS Best one yet. Magnificent. Should've been featured. Philistines...Philistines...and anyway I think you made a mistake by posting it first on Q's blog....if you wanted it featured...if you get my drift...






All the world's a stage

by Nadias on

As You Like It, Act II, Scene VII [All the world's a stage]


  by William Shakespeare JAQUES All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players; They have their exits and their entrances, And one man in his time plays many parts, His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant, Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms. Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel And shining morning face, creeping like snail Unwillingly to school. And then the lover, Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier, Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard, Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel, Seeking the bubble reputation Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice, In fair round belly with good capon lined, With eyes severe and beard of formal cut, Full of wise saws and modern instances; And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts Into the lean and slippered pantaloon, With spectacles on nose and pouch on side; His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice, Turning again toward childish treble, pipes And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all, That ends this strange eventful history, Is second childishness and mere oblivion, Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.

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