INTRODUCTION
ILSH-EYAL
I heard the wind whispering again
CONTENTS
JENNY WRIGHT
For C.C.
Pennance
See me
House broken
Self
Untitled
Just now
JOHN HOWETH
MEMORY IS DEATH'S DREAM
JOURNAL ENTRIES REGARDING THE SOUL OF MYRIAM
FIN DE SIECLE POETRY GAMES
ANNE BRYANT-HAMON
L A D Y B U G
Fire Ants
Bitter Rain
B A N G, B A N G ?
C A L C U L A T I O N S
FARZANA MOON
The Power of Destiny
J. KEVIN WOLFE
Cannibals
Miss De Milo's Fat Shoulders
Mrs. Einstein
tulips must be hindus
The Curious People
JANET KUYPERS
Smart Thing To Do
Against My Will
White Picket Fence
Overdoing It
Getting Quite Good At It
Change Your Clothes
Breaking Their Heart
POST SCRIPTUM
J.E. MARKS
FOG at SEA
I heard the wind whispering again those old spoken words I heard so long ago when I was young free yourself open the inner eyes there is still hope for us dreamers and poets soon you will see flowers in your waking life and you will know that inside the inside there is a hidden place of escape from this human craziness but this dream is taking form leaking through to our world from the inside we remind ourself this dream of freedom not everything around is so real there is something more real busy thoughts create busy reality dreams are messages reminders of the soul and things like this tend to build themselves up more and more people holding hands weaving the unseen web awareness is growing within and things will be the way they'll be there's no need to worry about it the more people seek it the more people find it truth, freedom, love, happiness, nature this is for you my friends I know you knew this all along I just had to clear up the steams from my windows we're on the right path it is unseen but our inner eyes can see it flowers, lights blending colors and butterflies they came back into my life! ILSH-EYAL I heard the wind whispering again those old spoken words I heard so long ago when I was young free yourself open the inner eyes there is still hope for us dreamers and poets soon you will see flowers in your waking life and you will know that inside the inside there is a hidden place of escape from this human craziness but this dream is taking form leaking through to our world from the inside we remind ourself this dream of freedom not everything around is so real there is something more real busy thoughts create busy reality dreams are messages reminders of the soul and things like this tend to build themselves up more and more people holding hands weaving the unseen web awareness is growing within and things will be the way they'll be there's no need to worry about it the more people seek it the more people find it truth, freedom, love, happiness, nature this is for you my friends I know you knew this all along I just had to clear up the steams from my windows we're on the right path it is unseen but our inner eyes can see it flowers, lights blending colors and butterflies they came back into my life! ILSH-EYAL
JENNY WRIGHT
For C.C.
~~~~~~~~
You are lost innocence fresh faced
my struggling adonis lost in his own pale flesh
when im not attracted to this pure unpolluted spirit it makes me feel
corrupting and dirty
you give me hope and anger at the same time that
innocence insists on surviving in this mean and unnatural world
I like being jaded until you forced a new approach that I am too far
gone to return to.
I need this shell
why are you here forcing issues long decided on
holding up light to my vain and twisted side
why does your brand new spirit mock my wise and solid ground
stop asking questions
I don't want the pain that comes with trust and blind love
all the lessons of my life have taught me of another beast and yet
with all your torments reaching farther than anything I have seen you
are wiser
I cannot rise to it
JENNY WRIGHT
Pennance
~~~~~~~~
You are the peace and love I stopped believing in
your are the pure, the ego-less passion and attraction I no longer seek
you are my love at first sight, endless breathing and
you weaken my angry heart when I am near you
that it should be you
you make me look deeper, hoping for any last traces of romance
thrashing to believe that all that I have learned of jaded love is a lie
without knowing it and for a moment I want to spew bold
and innocent statements of love that are told to me but never felt.
That it should be you
I the hard and solid one cracked and crumbled by the smile that is not
for me
but is patiently granted in my direction
I the one who has lost innocence would trade everything at a word
is left with aching stomach and tired soul wishing
That it should be you
I am all that you wish for
the one who sees the pain you hide from misguided fans sitting at your
table
who instinctively like breathing, knows everything, needed to fix and
yet
I am the one torn and unable to speak of it, broken and spiraling in
my own
creation
while you speak I am left to listen
I sit among your misguided
where is the irony laying between us, where is the justice
that it should be you
JENNY WRIGHT
See me
~~~~~~
See me, I am here
your construct does hurt
and I am tired of explaining
how long shall we go
through these lines
of pointless dialogue and exits
I cannot help what you think your
seeing. I am simply surviving and
your getting in the way
I didn't say that or think it
and you need to take back
everything, now or
I will fight back and bite
off everything you are
if you don't stop
and see me
JENNY WRIGHT
House broken
~~~~~~~~~~~~
Last night I dreamt
of a van full of big angry woman and myself
driving around murdering men putting out their garbage
while house-coated woman with broken faces looked on
with much rejoicing we threw them to the ground mercilessly
struck and kicked while they begged for their children, with each shot
we grew more potent and purposeful
while house-coated women with broken faces looked on
there was no stopping us no end to the unrelenting violence that swelled
filled us up with each shot to the face and groin, there was screaming
and
pleadings but we were without ears we had only voices
while house-coated women with broken faces looked on
we all stood astride towering over broken bones with
war cries and flaunting nature and nurture asking
not for forgiveness, nor mercy and we did not bring flowers
while house-coated women with broken faces looked on
JENNY WRIGHT
Self
~~~~
Stop betraying me, when I work so hard at being whole
listen and believe my words, they are not for not
I can't fight what you tear away at
you are insistent, random and alive
you rise to the surface leaving me a mess of duplicity and pain
raw, silly and pathetic with faces laughing, fingers pointing
you, want me to cross over and
you know, I can
I need a break now, those times when you rest your tentacles
where I am convinced of happiness, strength and free
those glorious moments of self
please, I need one now
JENNY WRIGHT
Untitled
~~~~~~~~
Funny this sharing
where in fact did it come from
some sense of blood ties and rites, only
the pride and ritual you savour
come on my tails, leaching
I was left a child in a tiny
house of girls who knew
nothing other than
motherhood would declare
there pathetic lives honourable
you who carries only the eyes
arrived and stole all my glory
in a fleeting image, the past disappears
nice trick, if you have the fortitude
But you see,
I paid the full ticket price
while your simply shrouded yourself in privilege
given but not earned of a blood son who
could validate everything your not
I hand over no forgiveness to someone who
was too surface unable to see I
was the one who wiped his pale face while=20
you vomited everything
JENNY WRIGHT
Just now
~~~~~~~~
I can't see today
everything is blurred
no tableaus, of beauty or inspiration before me
I can't hear today
words are unforgiven mean or weak
no sweet laughter, turn of phrase or music to please me
I can't speak today
no one understands
words twist, fall in the air unspoken
I can't be pleased today
boredom and unsympathetic waste fills me up
I don't care nor understand nor want to
There is no room for me today
I am lost unfamiliar in my world
uncomfortable and irritable and separate
I can't breathe today
I can't make sense today
I can't today
JOHN HOWETH
MEMORY IS DEATH'S DREAM
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Life waits only for death. In bargain basement sleep
petit death is practiced each night; each morning
surprises with imperfect continuity. Some nights
more than others close on dreamless death;
those nights after sex and sexless bedtimes
when dream upon dream on unfired synapses
die undreamed, those nights when screams
echo through the blind black velvety bilge
of alleys hidden in the silent mind then
too death is encountered as an old friend
who passes partially recognized but unhailed
without remorse and thought in later privacy
perhaps over cleansing rituals we remember
a face like the mirrored one, or a stranger
who becomes less estranged in that moment.
"No," we say, then continue our lifelessness.
After breakfast rush has solidified into unspoken
separations, perfunctory partings, the necessary
getaway cars of insistence and long earning days
alone among coworkers it creeps back to say
"I was there; I was with you then." No and
no again, we persistently resist the dream.
In the silly insecurity of saying "goodbye"
on the phone lovers practice death ((when
one says to the other, don't hang up on me
just let me go) or (when I am without you
there is the moment of most perfect death)).
It is a matinee movie children have watched
and found wanting, pouring complaints
onto the bright sidewalks of uncurious adults.
It is as if we grow unalive over time, murder
ourselves with petty inconveniences, butcher
the excitement of heavy breath, hold it in
until we collapse, gasping for fresh air.
That's the only real option: love as suicide.
Otherwise life waits only for death.
JOHN HOWETH
JOURNAL ENTRIES REGARDING THE SOUL OF MYRIAM
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Her father shrugged
well I told him the wells
had run dry; nothing could be done.
Graciously, he invited me to stay
the night with him, to dine
and rest before my journey home.
His daughter wears a veil.
She introduced herself.
I'm not adverse to being 'nice'--
have even tried it once or twice;
but, with men I always seem to gain
by offerings of cruelty and pain.
Violence, not culture, is what they want
beyond the pleasantries of nine to five.
It seems somehow to make them feel alive.
She came with me to make the bed
and stayed to fan me while I slept
through a season hot and wet.
It is now midnight in Jamalabad.
The crickets sing from a small pond
in a full-moon well-lit hidden garden
where my lover strolls.
Morning in Dallas; flight arrived late.
On the plane I did not sleep; I read
passages from books-- a parting gift
she'd given me. The mind, she said,
is a sexual organ unknown to the West.
Behind the veil, the mind will build
a temple and an erotic pleasure zone.
The eyes and brain see not.
Bullet holes on her veranda
remind me that lust and greed
also shape our world.
We are alike
though far apart.
I've a black cat tattoo
she inked then cut
into my sweating flesh.
She has my love.
JOHN HOWETH
FIN DE SIECLE POETRY GAMES
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The batter drops his bat
He steals first base
The pitcher dribbles out to third
He sinks a three-point shot
The linesmen in the outfield swim
Their hockey pucks get wet
There is no structure to a poem
As every day's another game
That writes itself at whim
(A diary, a journal, autobiography
Are all the very same)
We checkmate with each dart
As long as it emotes some
And lines are capitalized to start.
It's all just child's rhyme
And out-of-doors nostalgia
Passed off as art.
ANNE BRYANT-HAMON
L A D Y B U G
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
(A Wee Morsel Of Nonsense)
With Homage To Edward Lear
Lady bug dangles her delicate feet,
hanging on edge by the tips of her toes,
dancing her digits to Beethoven's beat
while gorging herself on the leaf of a rose.
Over and under, the aphids they go
just for a peek at her red petticoat,
towing and rowing through chlorophyll's glow
on the miniature stern of their pea green boat.
Lady bug blushes to see such a sight,
this parade of wee, morsel-sized, tiny, green men
watching her feast on the garden's delight,
so she hides just beneath a wild rose blossom's stem.
"Lady bug, lady bug, feminine one,
come out and lie in the beautiful sun."
shouted Sir Edward, the aphid's fine king,
"Come through the garden, to you we will sing."
"Lady bug, lady bug, why do you hide?,
jump on our raft and we'll give you a ride,
climb up into our wee vessel of love,
we'll take you sailing on oceans made of:
all of the liquid we've pressed from the leaves
of the finest white roses that hang from the eaves."
Lady bug turned, gave a smile and a sigh,
doubting that she could resist such a guy!
ANNE BRYANT-HAMON
Fire Ants
~~~~~~~~~
Observe the power of the fire ants:
like dynamite held in an atom bomb,
the queen has mounds of heat and in her dance
she scorches like the sun among the throng
of busy workers. She lies far below
the light and lives to lay a zillion eggs
in fertile soil her belly starts to grow
soon giving birth to tiny grubby pegs.
Her subjects live to feed her. They survive
on fervor bred in darkest Africa
Their journey on a ship in '25
brought hell to towns across America.
Beware their bite, it gives a mighty sting.
They don't eat much - for this, we all should sing!
ANNE BRYANT-HAMON
Bitter Rain
~~~~~~~~~~~
My childhood's patio was not
the haven that it could have been,
demurred by elements of grief
and covered with a thin veneer
of greedy-love, (not near enough)
to plant its gentle seed in time
now rather vague, and fading fast
so fast - and yet I try to rhyme
while toddling, dawdling through my youth
and reminiscing scraps of fear
how can I be so candid here?
And what's the use of trudging near
these fatal flaws and warped designs,
the tragedies without a name,
the pointless years, such reasoned tears
these memories wrapped in bitter rain?
ANNE BRYANT-HAMON
B A N G, B A N G ?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Bayer's URANOMETRIA was
the first map of the stars (a sky atlas),
which illustrated Centaurus (Centaur),
the Wolf, and Southern Cross known as the Crux.
Our Universe has rippled since the BANG,
suspending galaxies with strands of stars
to light the way where hallowed angels hang
until implosion bends the will of Mars.
Perhaps infinity may be explained
by cycles that reverse and then repeat,
collapsing, rising. . . nothing lost or gained,
celestial heart now rested and replete.
So what's the Matter in this world we see?
The BANG will heal within eternity.
C A L C U L A T I O N S
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
EvE ate the apple
of the Trig, a noma tree,
then knew the letters in her name
were two instead of three.
Substantial calculations grew
into exponential matter
in which nothing
from the heart will ever do.
She arched toward the serpent's head
to weave three rings that bind
his collar of identity.
And were it plus or minus
by just a few degrees,
the angle of mankind might
have been deducted in simplicity,
no allegories, long sad stories,
or obituaries zeroed in
on sweeping statements,
no half-dead, weeping loved ones
running over mindless queries
in a symmetry of woes.
So many like to say
"it's all Eve's fault!",
the problem of this falling
down to earth.
No perfect fruit can satiate
equations made of words
like "who bit whom?"
Perhaps someday we shall
revolve full circle
instead of paralleling
axioms for infinity.
FARZANA MOON
The Power of Destiny
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Cast of Characters:
Zulfiqar Ali Bhutto: Pakistan's President
Nusrat Bhutto: His wife
Benazir Bhutto: Their daughter
Murtaza Bhutto: Their son
Salima: Their household servant
Houris: Nymphs of the Paradise
Zia-ul-Haq: A general in Bhutto's army
Soldiers
Scene: A fairly large bedroom in President's Bhutto's house.
The bedroom is sumptuously furnished with a wall-to-wall Persian carpet.
Tapestried chairs, Chagtai paintings and damask drapes, all in hues of
blue and maroon, complement the oriental decor. One sidetable on the
right side of the bed holds a teacup and a glass of water under the
shade of a camel-skin lamp. The other bedside table is cluttered with
magazines beside a crystal lamp and a transistor radio. Across from
the bed is a marble hearth, its mantel laden with portraits, Ormulu
clock and obsidain vases. To the right of the fireplace is a white
door leading into an attached bathroom. Left of the fireplace is a
set of double doors swathed in white lace. The east wall with
rectangular windows is cradling a couple of chairs in rose and ivory.
A matching set of chairs is also gracing the hearth on either side.
The unfurnished area between the bed and the hearth is brightened by
a layer of rugs in rosettes and medallions. The ceiling fan is
whirling quietly and ominously.
When the curtain rises, Benazir Bhutto is seen sleeping on the bed. A
soft halo of light reveals her form swathed in satiny sheets. The
illumined scene on the stage is right beside the windows where three
houris lay lolling against the crimson pillows. A simulated stream
flows tranquilly at their feet. President Bhutto rushes close to the
illuminated scene like a raging ghost. He is bare-foot. His silk robe
over his pajamas is tied loosely at his waist. His throat is bruised
and bleeding. All three houris are startled to their feet. This ghost
of President Bhutto, oblivious of the pure maidens, begins to pace by
the little stream. His hands are clutching his throat as if he is
trying to unloosen some noose over his wounds. All three houris fill
their tumblers from the stream below. The water in one tumbler turns
to milk. In the other, to honey. And yet, in another one to ruby-red
wine. Bhutto groans and laments inaudibly. Still pacing, still
oblivious to the houris. His eyes are shooting flames of rage and
torment.
Houri 1: (Holding the tumbler to Bhutto) Drink this milk, it will
heal your wounds. (Murmuring to herself) Another president from
Pakistan...straight from the gallows!
Bhutto: (To himself) Death! Silence! (His gaze alights on the houris)
I am dead...dead? Is this life?
Houri 11: Here, sip this honey. The milk in her glass will heal only
the wounds. But what of the agony of the soul? Have the bigots won
again? Do zealots and cutthroats still wear the laurels of victory?
Houri 111: (Edging closer to Bhutto) No, the honey in her glass will
lick the joy out of your life, dry! You must drink this wine. Slowly,
very slowly. Only the wine heals, as well as kills. Heals the wounds.
Kills the pain. Bathes the soul in rivulets of ecstasy. Zia? Your
favorite general? Your vile murderer? He will never taste the
sweetness of this wine. Will never enter heaven. Even the earthly
comforts would offer him no refuge. He would be blown to pieces, in
the air. Like chaff...like chaff!
Bhutto: (Heedless and murmuring) Is this paradise? Have I left the
hell behind?
{One sacrosanct voice from nowhere rumbles down.}
Voice: A description of the garden promised to the righteous. Therein
are rivers of water which corrupts not. And rivers of milk of which
taste changes not. And rivers of wine, a delight to those who drink,
and the rivers of clarified honey...
{Suddenly, Benazir screams. The entire bedroom is dissolved into
complete darkness. The bright scene with the ghost of Bhutto and the
houris vanishes, much like Benazir's own nightmare. Nusrat Bhutto
floats into the bedroom. She flicks on both the lamps, shaking her
daughter frantically.
Benazir: (Whimpering) Mamma, mamma.
Nusrat: (To herself) Another nightmare? (Smoothing her daughter's
hair) Hush, Benazir. Hush, babe. My child, my princess. Don't cry,
you will wake up your papa. He finally went off to sleep, two in the
morning...worked till midnight. Kept me awake too, half the night,
with his pacing...thinking aloud. Fears, doubts, politics...what not?
Now, go back to sleep. Sweet dreams, love...
{A volley of thunder and lightning outdoors, and both mother and
daughter cling to each other. Benzir is weeping and shuddering.
Lights fade, flicker and return in a faint glow.}
Nusrat: Blast this weather! Everytime there is thunder, the lights
go off?
Benazir: Mamma! Oh, this dream, the worst ever? Papa, houris?
He...he was bleeding? Murdered? In heaven? The rivers of wine,
milk, honey! Papa's favorite general...Zia...he...he killed him...
killed papa...
Nusrat: (Holding her daughter in one comforting embrace) Hush, love.
Hush, my princess. Didn't I say, you will wake up your papa by your
crying and raving? That was just a dream...a nightmare, for sure? The
infection in your ear...yes, that's it, since then you have been having
these nightmares. Let me get your medicine?
Benazir: (Protesting) No, Mamma, no! My ear is not hurting, I need
no...
{Bhutto strolls into the room dreamily. He halts at the foot of the
bed, his gaze searching her daughter's eyes.}
Bhutto: Can a man ever rest in his own home? What is this
heartrending drama in the middle of the night? The mists of
dream-reality? What is all this crying and sobbing, Benazir? Are
you ill, my princess?
{Benazir doesn't answer. Nusrat hobbles down to her feet, turning to
her husband.}
Nusrat: Just a bad dream, Bhutto! You know, how she has been having
such dreams, lately?
Bhutto: A bad dream! Life's own parable? (Seats himself on the bed,
slipping his arm around her daughter's waist) Murtaza is sleeping in
the room next to yours, my dear. Your own dear, dear brother? Your
weeping would awaken him, and then he would be in a vicious mood. You
know that, don't you?
Benazir: (Chokingly) Papa, Papa!
{Nusrat sails toward the hearth, and lowers herself into a chair,
sinking deeper down its cushiony depths.}
Bhutto: Dreams, my princess, have no reality. They are as illusive
as Truth itself? (Heaves himself down to his feet, and begins to pace)
Now, go back to sleep, my sweet. Let your papa rest, before he
confronts the clamoring generals in the morning. The buffoons and the
marionettes? The malefic puppets of the Muslim League, who never tire
of reciting incendiary slogans? (Halts before his wife) Look, your
mamma is already sleeping.
{Nusrat's eyes are shot open. Her lips move to form speech, but no
sound issues forth from them. Bhutto resumes his pacing, absently.
Benazir, protests feebly.}
Benazir: Papa, I can't sleep! I won't sleep, I am afraid. You don't
know how afraid...I fear I will have the same dream, again?
Bhutto: (Pacing and murmuring) Dreams, dreams, dreams! Why not
reveries...illusions? Some mighty untruth? Some mirage unapproachable?
Something as inconceivable as untruth?
Benazir: (Impatiently) Papa! I am afraid, Papa! You don't understand?
My dream! In my dream...Zia murdered...murdered you!
Bhutto: (With one snort of a mirth) Murder! General Zia, my child,
if you must gather the grains of politics, is the army chief of staff in
my secret Federal Security Force. He is loyal to me as any wise friend,
now that I happen to be the president of Pakistan? I myself chose him
as my private general over ten more senior generals. And he is indebted
to me, for life!
{Benazir's gaze follows her dad mutely, while Nusrat opines aloud.}
Nusrat: In evil times, Bhutto, betrayal comes from friends, not from
foes! Judas was the most beloved of Jesus and he...
Bhutto: (His mirth loud and hysterical) I am no Messiah, my dear lady,
and Pakistan has no Cross to crucify its impoverished leader? Besides,
in civilized times such as these, men do not murder the so-called
illustrious men as me, they only resort to assassination. Euphemisms,
my dear, we must take refuge in euphemisms. Yet, who would be tempted
to risk assassination? Assassination of the president of such a small
country, where the insurgents brandish only the weapons of zeal, not of
cruelty?
Nusrat: (Feverishly) All the calumnies against you, Bhutto? All
those vile rumors? The canards floating all the way from Islamabad
to Lahore? And into the very heart of Kashmir? That...that your
supporters rigged the elections? Such atrocious lies? That, that
Nawab Kasuri was murdered...did they say assassinated...euphemisms,
you tell me...by your own orders? Could that be farther from truth?
I too am frightened, Bhutto, maybe, much more than our son, daughter
and family! Don't you have the power to stop these lies...this madness?
Bhutto: (Poetically and deliriously) Man has no power, my sweet lady,
only destiny does! Yes, destiny has absolute power! We are driven
toward the bosom of Destiny like the magnets attracted to steel.
Groping, stumbling and foundering, we all hurl ourselves toward this
Essence Unknown. Yes, with souls bruised and with hearts bleeding, we
can't help but be snared by its designs, without wit and with no thought
of peril lying in our wake!
{Nusrat sinks deeper into her chair, and closes her eyes. Benazir,
seeking her dad's attention with a look of agog and despair.}
Benazir: Papa, you are talking in riddles, Papa? You never talked
like this before? I don't understand...don't understand. When you
won your first election by a popular vote, Papa, didn't you promise
'food, shelter, clothing' to all in Pakistan...didn't you? And now
after you have won your second election, those promises are still not
fulfilled? Still, some people are poor and homeless in our country,
isn't that true, Papa? You have forgotten your promise...tell me,
it's not so, Papa?
Bhutto: Even gods forget their promises, dear child...even gods
do--break their promises! And I...just a mere mortal? Weak and
vulnerable? How can I keep...much less bear the burden of sanctified
promises? The Chosen people of God! wandering in the ocean of this
wilderness! This world? Inside the labyrinths of the past, the
present, the future? Still searching for a promised land? We are
all perpetual exiles, all of us, all men! Inveterate soldiers, each
one of us? Warring seers! Saints and martyrs! Suffering incessant
agonies! Living ceaseless torments...for what? Hope! All claiming
Jerusalem as their home, the paradise on this earth? Poor as our
country is, my princess, with rich coffers brimming to the full for
the privileged few, no one goes hungry here. No one, Benazir, no one!
Remember this...no one, not even a rat!
{Several bolts of thunder invade this room, and plunge it into utter
darkness. When the lights return; Benazir, seated couchant against
her pillow, is resting in utter immobility. Her look is glazed, and
fixed to the houris, visible to her alone. Bhutto is still pacing.
Nusrat, seated by the hearth, is oblivious to all. Her eyes are
closed. Houris are tearing the veils off the faces of some pious
women, who are caught motionless. Dazed and stunned.}
Houri 1: (Quoting from the Hadith) Umar used to say to the Prophet,
'let your wives be veiled', but Allah's apostle did not do so.
Houri 11: (With another quote from the Hadith) Umar bin Al-Khattab
used to say to Allah's apostle, 'let your wives be veiled', but he did
not do so.
Houri 111: (With yet another quote) O people of the Scriptures! do
not exceed the limits in your religion. And enough is Allah As a
Disposer of affairs.
Benazir: (Screaming) Papa...look...Mamma, look...
{Nusrat is jolted to awakening. Her look mute and appealing, as she
watches her daughter. Bhutto stops in his act of pacing, following
her daughters gaze with a vague, puzzled intensity. Neither he, nor
his wife can see or hear the houris.}
Bhutto: Look at what, Love? Stop staring into vacancy, there is
nothing there?
Benazir: Papa, Papa! Look...houris...veils...
Bhutto: (Reeling toward the bed against the weight of his own
strident mirth) Houris, my princess, where? One has to pay the
ransom of life to see even one?
{Bhutto's gaze returns to the spot pointed out by her daughter. His
feet themselves lure him in that direction. Striding past the houris,
he is staying close to the window. He stands there, peering out into
the darkness. Another rumbling thunder, and complete darkness. When
the lights return, houris have vanished. Nusrat murmurs to herself.}
Nusrat: Night madness! This awful thunder and lightning? Let's all
go to bed. My heart is sinking. Breaking...breaking with fright.
Bhutto: (Whirling on his feet, and flying to her daughter's bedside)
Your education at Oxford...and Harvard, has been fruitless, it seems?
You are living in dreams, my princess, conjuring up reveries?
Nightmarish whims of the psyche? You were not dreaming, were you? You
are wide awake, no doubt about it? You are courting illusions, my love,
are you not? What is this insensible blathering, about houris, I must
ask? That ear infection...let me look. (Bends over to look inside
her ear) Yes, a little red, if not swollen. You must return to
London...for treatment, I mean, if not for further education? You are
a refined, intelligent girl, no one can deny that. But what sanity is
there in rambling...
Benazir: (Interrupting desperately) Papa! I did see houris! Real
as life. (Pointing toward the spot) over there! They were tearing
veils off the faces of women? Papa! (Laughs hysterically) In
London...in America, people think that Muslim women have to wear a
veil? That, in Pakistan, all women walk around looking like
shuttlecocks in white shrouds, or wearing black veils, as if in
mourning! Why is this false impression so prevalent, Papa? Women
don't wear veils in Pakistan...maybe a few, in rural areas or villages,
do they? Why do they wear veils, if so, Papa, why? Has Islam
something to do with it? Do Muslims really believe that women ought
to wear veils? I don't understand...don't understand!
Nusrat: (Easing herself slowly and plodding toward the bed) This
is madness...sheer madness! Why are we talking like this? Like
some demented heathens...and in the middle of the night too?
(Lowers herself on the edge of the bed) You need rest, my dear.
Time to sleep and rest. Everything will be clear in the morning.
(Is back on her feet again, in the act of pacing) Bhutto, dear,
let's go to bed. How dark it is outside? This ominous night?
Madness...madness all?
Bhutto: No, my lady, no. It's not night, but dawn! With fresh omens,
if you care to believe in omens? (Stands at the window with his back
towards the ladies) Our daughter is intelligent! And I must...must
respect her intelligence. Dawn is the best of all times to undress
theology. (Muezzin's call for prayer follows at his heels as he
returns to the bed, finding refuge there beside his daughter) My
princess! I don't know where this belief, I mean about veiling,
comes from? No one knows, I mean, in Islam? Maybe, from the very
fire of dreams inside the hearts of the bigots and the zealots?
Male chauvinists, who wish to rule the world with the rod of tyranny
and wickedness? Ignorance is another name to what they call Belief.
If they only knew that veiling was a pagan custom, they would burn
such veils as piously as keeping their piety kindled, concerning
Islamic veils. They would let their women run naked too, on the
streets, just to defy the pagan influence? During the lifetime of
the Prophet, pagan women used to wear veils, only the rich ones, to
flaunt their status of royalty and family pride. Prophet Muhammed
wished equality, so he forbade Muslim women to wear veils. The truth
lies ensconed in Hadith, but no one dares question the mullahs, who
think they are blessed with some sort of divine knowledge within them?
And who recite Quran in Arabic, much like the parrots? Without
understanding a single word, or any message thereof?
Benazir: Arabic! Is that a sacred language, Papa? What is this fever
about Islamization in Pakistan? Urdu medium schools, all education in
Urdu? Urdu, Urdu everywhere? What has the language to do with the
religion? Is Urdu sacred too? Did Allah command all Muslims to speak
Urdu, to read Urdu, to translate each written word in Urdu? Or, is
this command custom-made by the illiterate mullahs to beguile us
Pakistanis?
Bhutto: (Laughing opiately) You ought to be a politician, my
princess? Politics runs in your very blood, if not rebellion? And as
to the language being sacred, there is no sanctity in words but in
thoughts. Pure thoughts speak not corruption, but sing the hymns of
silence. Absorbing noble ideas from the womb of knowledge, where there
are no barriers between languages, but the clear oceans of Wisdom,
Perception, Understanding. Urdu is our national language, and we must
cultivate it with pride. But to shun and abolish English, I agree, is
to court unlearning. With advanced technology such as it is, and
knowledge breeding like the locusts, our scribes have to labor day and
night to translate mountains of information from one alien tongue to
another foreign language like Urdu? With limited time and knowledge
multiplying, their works would be rendered obsolete even before the
birth of one translated word? (Smiling) If you ever covet the
leadership of Pakistan, my princess, make sure that mullahs don't
force you to cover your head, while the heedless teenagers flutter
bare-headed?
Benazir: Mullahs, Papa! (Smiling) Why not a maulvi or maulana?
Isn't mullah an epithet?
Bhutto: Now, that's more like my daughter. You should smile more
often. Radiant! Bright and beautiful! Yes, that's how your papa
likes it. As to the mullahs...yes, an epithet...sort of. Mullahs
are uneducated...learning the Quran by rote. Maulvis or maulanas,
they are, so-called, educated, in the scriptures and doctrines of
Islam. And if they understand such theology, they become scholars.
If not, they become fanatics. Bigots and zealots all.
Nusrat: (Still pacing) Now that you have instructed your daughter
in politics, theology--Islamization, let's get some rest.
Bhutto: (Unheeding his wife and gazing into his daughter's eyes) I
have this wild wish! A wish newly born? I want to enlist you in PPP
(Pakistan People's Party). Fight for your rights, my dear, for
women's rights. Aspire to become the leader of this country. You
would be the greatest Prime Minister Pakistan ever had!
Benazir: Papa!
Nusrat: (Laughing derisively) Prime Minister, indeed! A woman
Prime Minister--of Pakistan? You are surely dreaming, Bhutto!
Dreaming and wishing? Dreams and wishes are merely jests, I say!
Mad, cruel jests! Insane, meaningless jests, I should say. Muslims!
Muslim men would not ever endure even the thought of any woman becoming
a Prime Minister! Murtaza, yes, but Benazir...not a chance in a
million years even!
Benazir: Mamma, please! Stop pacing, Mamma, or I would scream?
Nusrat: (Pausing in her act of pacing) I am not a ghost in one of
your dreams, my dear? Though I may look like one right now, that is?
(Drifts back to her seat somnambulantly).
Bhutto: (Laughing) Murtaza is a poet. As blind to politics as a bat
to light!
Nusrat: (Murmuring) We should all rest now...snatch some sleep if
we can! It's still dark out there. Bleak and gloomy. Oh, how my
heart is thundering?
Benazir: (Capriciously) Let's have breakfast in my room, Mamma? I
rarely get a chance to talk with you, both, I mean...together, that is.
Papa is so very busy! And when do I get a chance to see you? All
those parties, meetings, charities! Well, could we have breakfast
here, Mamma, please, just this once?
Nusrat: (Wearily) Breakfast, my princess? When mullahs are calling
the faithful to prayer? (Laughing suddenly) Oh, Bhutto, do you think
that half the people in our country are on their knees right now,
praying faithfully?
Bhutto: Of course, dear Nusrat, and then going out, robbing and
stealing! Blaspheming too! Especially, the businessmen, cheating
their patrons most blatantly. Not to mention their plotting, scheming
minds churning full-speed behind the scenes. And the bribes floating
like quicksilver into the pockets of the pious, God-fearing Muslims?
Muslims! who have tainted the name of Islam with their own brilliant,
monstrous lies. (Vehemently) Jihad, Greed, Intolerance! Murderers
and cutthroats! Bigots all! Jihad means not war, but holiness in
living! Peace and fortitude. Compassion and tolerance. Feeding the
poor...loving all, that is Jihad! Isn't it written in Hadith: Jihad
literally means struggle and perseverance? Struggle in life, toward
good! Perseverance, in fighting the evil in one's own soul! And what
does Islam teach? 'Do not dispute (with each other) lest you become
cowards and your kingdom and strength depart. Treat the people with
ease and don't be hard on them. Give them glad tidings and don't fill
them with aversion. And love each other, and don't differ. He who is
not merciful to others, will not be treated mercifully. My Mercy
overpowers my anger, says Allah.' (Hugging his breast) See, this
infidel Bhutto, as maligned by the opposition, knows his Hadith...
and Quran!
Nusrat: Oh, my heart is breaking! I have never felt like this before,
Bhutto, never? I feel, as if a great tragedy is lurking behind...over
your...over our very heads. How you befriend Zia...that bigot and that
insufferable fool, is beyond me? He makes show of his false piety.
Makes sure that people see him when he is on his knees, praying five
times a day, his heart uttering no prayer but falsehood. He is the one
who maligned you, Bhutto, and you don't see it? He is in league with
the opposition. I hear, he is brewing discord among all the parties...
to gain power. That pious Zia of yours? Always praying, always
plotting, always watching? Can you not see, dear Bhutto? East
Pakistan was already lost to us even before you got elected? Now, now
Zia is scheming...scheming to wage war with India? Zia is ambitious,
and you don't know about his secret ambitions, do you? If he ever
gained power, all the women in Pakistan would be slammed shut behind
the four walls in their own homes. Praying dutifully at the altars of
their husbands or their lords, whoever they might be? See, Bhutto, I
am aware of the underground politics, while you are busy placating
avaricious fools on the surface! And our foes, rather traitors, are
comfortably lodged under their prayer rugs. Can't you see? Can't
you see?
Bhutto: (Absently) I only see canards, my lady, rumors floating
around! Nothing, but rumors! Zia's piety lies not in being a devout
Muslim...which I believe he is or professes to be, but in his loyalty
toward me...to me. All devout Muslims are on the verge of becoming
zealots, now or later, it depends. Only the time could tell? And
only the prudent ones would escape the brand of bigotry. Only the
few numbered ones...if they cultivate the love for knowledge where
tolerance and understanding open the gates to wisdom. I do believe,
though, that Zia is both humble and prudent. I am also aware, yes,
about the intrigues flowing underground, Nusrat, of course? Especially,
about the conniving, plotting idiots who love to wage war on India?
But Zia is blameless, Nusrat, believe me. Do not pay any attention to
all the rumors, Nusrat, please. Rumors kill wisdom, and breed
stupidity. Governments are not erected on the foundations of rumors,
but need the solid bricks of valor, courage, perseverance. If it
was in my power, Nusrat, I would forbid even the thought of war...
with India or with any other neighboring country! Could we live
amenably then, and become prosperous? Just like Canada and America,
two good neighbors side-by-side? How could Pakistan afford to embroil
itself in wars, when the wars of unrest, confusion and uncertainty
are wreaking havoc inside the hearts of the rich and poor alike?
{Nusrat has dozed off, it seems, her head tilted to one side against
the back of the chair. Benazir is seeking Bhutto's attention by
tapping him gently on the shoulders.}
Benazir: Papa! Why don't we fight poverty, first? Then, bribery?
Then, corruption? Bigotry, last? No, bigotry, first? No, poverty,
foremost? (Abandons her head on the pillow)
Bhutto: Poverty is a disease, my child! An incurable and contagious
disease. Would it be possible to fight sloth, plague, calamity?
Probably not! To fight lesser evils? If only the poor were willing
to challenge the bigotry of the rich? Confronting the zeal of the
rich with their own weapons of pride and honor? They could break the
false daggers of Islam by the sheer virtue of their own need to survive
and challenge. Could they, or rather, would they? If they would,
they could melt the bullets of zeal inside the purity of their own
noble, suffering hearts, dissolving all evils. Poverty, bribery,
bigotry, all? Are they not the children of God, feeding their poor,
little souls with...
{Benazir had long ceased to heed. Her eyes are glazed and shining.
Bhutto sits there ramrod under some paroxysm of delirium. Houris
have returned to the stage with the enactment of first scene. Bhutto
still bruised and bleeding. This time Zia is there, seated on a
prayer rug, genuflected. Houris watch him aghast and chilled. In
unison, they murmur.}
Houris: How can this murderer, this man despised of all Muslims,
dare come near the gates of heaven? Dare offer prayers? Dare expect
mercy from Allah?
{Another voice thunders from above.}
Voice: My Mercy overpowers my Anger.
{One frenzied scream escapes Benazir's lips. Nusrat leaps to her feet.
Bhutto, startled, holds her daughter into his arms.}
Bhutto: Now, princess, what is it? What I have been saying? Have I
frightened you?
Benazir: Nooooo...Pa--papa...loook! (Making a feeble gesture and
sobbing hysterically) Zia is prostrating, look, on the rug...look...
Pa...Zia...ooooover...th...
Nusrat: (Rushing toward the bed, alert and apprehensive) What?
Where? You are pointing at that accursed spot again? There is
nothing there...
{Thunder and lightning. Darkness. The scene with houris, Bhutto and
Zia-ul-Haq vanishes. Lights return.}
Bhutto: You are ill, princess! Ill and distraught. Rest, my love,
rest in papa's arms. Having nightmares while awake? Courting dreams
while sleeping? Why are you frightened thus, love? What frightens you?
{Nusrat plods back to her former seat, opiate and puzzled.}
Benazir: Pa...Papa! I am afraid...of death. Of...of, your dying. Of
anyone dying? (Sobbing) Death frightens me. I saw Zia...Zia killed
you, Pa...I saw! Are you...are you not afraid of death...Papa?
Bhutto: (Holding her closer to him) Hush, princess, hush. Your papa
is not going to die...not for a long, long time. (To himself) Life
is one half of a great big puzzle. Seeking the other half in death?
{Murtaza storms into the room. His night-shirt is unbuttoned half way
from neck to the waist, and his gaze wild and searching.}
Murtaza: I thought I had been dreaming? Laughter and madness? Sobbing
and weeping? Thunder and lightning and insane noises? And here, all
that comes alive as real? And right here in my big sister's room, too?
Papa! Mamma! Is Benazir ill?
Nusrat: (Commanding) Go back to your bed, Murtaza. Your sister,
she is not ill, just visited by a few bad dreams!
Murtaza: A bad dream!
{A volley of mirth escapes Murtaza's lips, as he flings himself on
the bed. Benazir squeezed between two men on either side. Bhutto
glowers at his son, who is trying to smother his mirth with a pillow
pressed against his face.}
Bhutto: Stop laughing, you giddy colt! And button your shirt. Have
you sold your manners on the streets of London? First tell me, what's
so funny about dreams?
Nusrat: (Murmuring, with her eyes closed) Madness...madness all!
Murtaza: (Fumbling for the buttons on his shirt, and trying his best
to control his mirth) Nothing, Papa, nothing! It's just that? I
thought...you and mamma...are somehow, a part of Benazir's dreams?
Well, I dream too! But my dreams...they are mostly bizarre, rather
hilarious. Real happy, really sublime, I should say. I will cheer
her up, Papa, I will, let me? (Snatches Benazir's hand into his own)
Bhutto: (Getting down from the bed and beginning to pace) Since when
have you learnt the art of cheering?
Murtaza: (Heedless, and squeezing Benazir's hand mercilessly) How
happy is London, Benazir, just think, just think about THAT. Songs,
parties, light-hearted fun and gaiety! And pretty, adorable...well,
never mind? Have you heard Elvis, his old songs, I mean? More
popular than ever...especially, after his death! That King of the
West? The golden god of America? Oh, well, his hair is not gold
but black. He is white as a lamb though, and ferocious as a lion!
And how he shakes his body? How his legs move...to the wild rhythm
in Rock-n-Roll? Have you ever felt those wild tremors of raags on
tabla, that's how...
Benazir: Cease your blathering, Murtaza! (Snatching her hand away)
Besides, you are hurting my hand. We are in Pakistan, Murtaza, and
you don't even know what's happening over here?
Murtaza: (Loud and sarcastic) Pakistan gives me the nightmares!
Bhutto: (Commenting without ceasing to pace) Nightmares? You heathen!
{Murtaza sprawls flat on the bed. Laughing and tossing a pillow
behind his back. He cups his head in his hands, his elbows sticking
out. Benazir leans her head against the headboard. Watching her
brother intently and amusedly. Murtaza, encouraged by her sister's
smile, begins poetically.}
Murtaza: We are all pagan, at heart, I mean. Loving pagan customs,
living pagan customs. Molding and remolding pagan customs to suit our
Belief, Culture, Religion! Weaving holiness inside the bruised knots
of greed, honor, mendacity! What do the Pakistanis want, if one may
ask? Wars, riots, anarchy? Why do they look so morbid and
distrustful? Does anyone in Pakistan laugh anymore, in this land of
plenty? Have they tossed their wit and manners to the winds? What
do they want...really, truly want? Food, money, security! No,
want gold! Gold and more gold! Even the poorest girl on the street
can't help but flaunt her gold possession. Gold bangles glittering
on her arms upto her elbows! Gold chains, gold earrings, gold
bracelets! There is so much gold in Pakistan that if we melted it
all, we could erect pyramids, much like the pyramids of Egypt! A
Wonder of Gold in Pakistan, imagine that? Or a gold Taj Mahal? We
could fetch Niagara Falls here if we wanted, and its falls spilling
gold, not water? Gold, gold is the answer! Gold for everyone?
Pakistanis don't want exquisite things in life. No beautiful
monuments in marble for them. The splendor of the Moghuls is
forgotten. The wisdom of the past holds no interest to them.
Even the modern luxuries of the West tempt then not! The glory of
time in change, progress, productivity escape their notice.
(Springing up and hugging his knees) I know the real cause of
suffering here, yes, I do. Pride and inertia! Greed and corruption!
All, every little maggot here, infected with the fever of prayers
false and inconceivable. All such maggots, offending even God with
their false prayers, invoking His Anger, not Mercy! Their zeal
alone slamming their eyes shut. Provoking God's wrath to such mighty
fire that He lowers down raging commands to blow out each blazing
light in this country with the bolts of thunder and lightning. Who
wants to live in this country unloved by the gods? Pardon me, God!
Allah, I mean.
{Bhutto halts in his act of pacing. Watching his son bemused and
unseeing, as if trying to paint this stranger inside the book of his
memory. Nusrat sinks further back into her seat. Her voice the echo
of regret as her gaze wanders from one to the other with a gentle
impatience.}
Nusrat: Pakistan is your home, dear Murtaza! Never you forget that?
This is the gratitude we get when we send our children abroad? For
what, did we say, dear Bhutto, for a better education?
{Bhutto begins to pace again, as if puzzled by his own lapse of
memory or thoughts. Murtaza bounces back to his former position.
Hugging his knees and rocking back and forth.}
Murtaza: Mamma, London is my home! Home is where there is happiness.
And joy and warmth and sunshine?
Benazir: (With a sudden burst of sarcasm and mischief) Sunshine?
More so, the fogs and the mists. Rain and gloom, more suitable to
your dear London. Even the colorful umbrellas can't dispel the gray
moods of visitors on the Piccadilly Circus!
{Nusrat's eyelids droop shut. Bhutto is lost in the jungle of his
own quiet pacing. Murtaza sticks his nose under his sister's chin.}
Murtaza: Metaphorically speaking, my big sister, metaphorically
speaking! But how could you understand when you don't even know what
metaphor is? My own sister, with no grain of intelligence, not hard
o believe! Even the fogs and mists are better than the hot, searing
sunshine over here, roasting one to Cajun cuisine?
Benazir: (Dunking her brother's head into a ball of pillow) How
very patriotic we are, Murtaza!
Murtaza: (Bouncing up on his feet with the alacrity of a gymnast)
Patriotic! Patriotic, you say? I can prove how patriotic I am.
I am! and that's the absolute truth. I know the whole national
anthem by heart, you want to hear?
{Bhutto halts in his pacing once again. Nusrat open her eyes,
amusedly. Benazir lips are forming words, but no sound issues
from them. Murtaza hastens to sing before anyone can stop him.}
Murtaza:
Paksar zamin shadbad
Kishware haseen shadbad
Toonshane azme aalishan
Arze Pakistan
Paksar zamin ka nizam
Qoowatee akhoowatee awam
Quom mulk saltanat
Painda tabinda bad
Shad bad manzalee murad
Saii ho Khudia zuljalal
Translation:
The land most pure, live and bloom
The garden most glorious, live and bloom
May your name in glory shine
My homeland Pakistan
One noble emblem with all its purity
Is its strength, Brotherhood for All
Empire, country, home for everyone
Live long, love everlastingly
May your hopes blossom in promises most true
Mercy of God, your shadow, with holy light to imbrue
Murtaza: How shameful, dear sister, what irreverence? Don't you
know you are to stand when a national anthem is sung? Every blasted
party in London, I sing our national anthem, and make everyone stand
still too!
Bhutto: (Trooping closer toward the bed) Stop this buffoonery,
Murtaza! Get down from the bed, this instant. Go to your room.
Benazir: Papa!
{Nusrat begins to laugh, trying her utmost to stifle her mirth.
Murtaza lands on the carpet in one quick leap. Obediently, he faces
his father. His look bold, yet contrite.}
Murtaza: Sorry, Papa! I will go, Papa, go to my room and sleep, if
you will too. And mamma, too? How can I sleep when I hear
your pacing, pacing, next to my room? And Benazir screaming! And
mamma laughing! And those awful bolts of thunder? How can one
sleep in the symphony of such frightful notes? I even thought I
heard a cat miaowing?
{Benazir looks startled. Her face flushed and her eyes flashing.
Nusrat gets to her feet, succeeding in stifling her mirth.}
Nusrat: Let's all go to bed.
Benazir: (Distractedly) What about breakfast, Mamma?
Bhutto: No breakfast, until I deal with this prig of a son! Did
I hear it right, Murtaza, that you want to live in London?
{Nusrat slumps back into her former seat. Benazir's gaze is riveted
to the bathroom door, but she forces her eyes shut. Murtaza
lowers his head, murmuring.}
Murtaza: Yes, Papa.
Bhutto: Suppose, son, just suppose? If I die...a sudden death,
I mean? And you in London? And your mother, your sisters and the
whole horde of relatives here in Pakistan? Would you still choose
to stay in London?
Nusrat: (Distressfully) Bhutto!
Benazir: (Opiately) Papa!
Bhutto: Answer me, son, say something? Don't stand there mute?
Where is your wit...the poetry in your thoughts?
Murtaza: (Incoherently) I...you...Papa...that's absurd!
Bhutto: (Vehemently) Absurd, Murtaza, absurd, you say? Absurdity
is the cloak we all wear when confronted by fears, doubts,
uncertainties, isn't it? Hope! dissolving into the valley of
despair, as you would say in one of your rare, sentimental moods?
Have you any idea what's happening here in this country of ours?
Murtaza: (Wretchedly) No, sir. I just got here the night before
last.
{Murtaza straggles away toward the window, sinking into one of the
chairs dejectedly. Bhutto follows him somnambulantly.}
Bhutto: Uncivilized times, my son, uncivilized times! No news
escapes the tides of the Third World countries, is that it, into
the bright shores of London? If you want to learn, you have to wade
through the waves of times turbulent and unpredictable! (Begins to
pace) You don't have to read the entire Pakistan Times, clamoring
always, to know the sanctified lies, son! Only, the bold, impudent
headlines. Bhutto accused of rigging the elections? Bhutto
conspiring with the Soviet Union to herald socialism into Pakistan?
While Bhutto, defenseless me, all that he has done is to pilfer
pittance from the bulging pockets of the rich! And what for, to
feed the poor. By nationalizing the swollen assets of the rich
in banks, mills, factories? But all the vile accusations, I cannot
even begin to recount. What the calumnious headlines don't deign to
reveal is that Bhutto has splintered the power of the wealthiest of
the landlords. Their pride and greed are singed, and they are still
smarting under the lashes of nationalization. My folly, son! Yes,
my unpardonable folly. I ended the martial law. Changed the
constitution for a parliamentary system of government which welcomes
the concept of direct, popular elections. The biggest folly of mine
is that I granted all citizens the Freedom of Speech. Vice dubbed
as virtue, this freedom of speech! What do you think of this, my
son, this, my folly?
Murtaza: (Thoughtfully) In Pakistan, Papa, Freedom of Speech, means,
riots and anarchy! Since Independence, Pakistanis are accustomed to
the rod of the Army. Swallowing discipline with utmost obedience, as
all know. Freedom of any kind pollutes their lungs, it's a fact, and
they can't breathe sense without being choked on their own sensibility.
Bhutto: (Laughing) That's clever, Murtaza! And I thought you were
blind to politics. But I guess, you are just a poet...a dull poet.
A witless heathen! (Resumes his pacing)
Murtaza: No poet, Papa! Not even a heathen, just dull and witless!
Bhutto: (Deliriously) Massive demonstrations, day after day? Mullas
pelting the government with base accusations! Politicians flinging
insults at PPP! Mobs rallying on the streets against...well? Do
you know what all this means, son? (Leans over the back of his son's
chair abruptly) How long it has been since Pakistan came into
existence? How long, when it was freed? Liberated from the shackles
of so-called British Raj? Thirty, long, brief years? Muhammed Ali
Jinnah, Father of our nation? Dying, while still fighting for the
rights of the Kashmiris! Liaquat Ali Khan succeeding, later becoming
the victim of a foul assassination. Then Ayub Khan, imposing martial
law to keep order, and Yahya Khan doing the same! Cyclones and
devastation in East Pakistan. Its secession, agony and reprieve
both. Democracy verses martial law, how many times? How many
years of martial law, since Independence, do you know?
Murtaza: (Doubtfully) Fifteen years, I suppose.
Bhutto: (Amused and delighted) Right! Half its infancy crushed
under the weight of military rule, that's our Pakistan. (Smiling
to himself in an act of pacing) This is the nation of bigots,
schemers and hypocrites. And I the biggest hypocrite of them all!
Imagine that! Just to save my neck, I outlawed gambling, and made
both sale and purchase of alcohol illegal, for Muslims, for Muslims?
(Laughing) Once during an argument, I insulted one maulana by
calling him, a potato. And he looked like one too!
Murtaza: (Mirthfully) A potato, Papa!
{Benazir sits up, her look startled. Her eyes darting from one to
the other, and settling on the bathroom door in some sort of fright.
Nusrat's eyes are shot open too. Her look is puzzled as she watches
both her son and husband. Bhutto ruminates aloud, oblivious to his
son's mirth.}
Bhutto: Yes, a potato. Round and bellicose. He was opposed to
assigning the post of a professorship to one qualified man; simply,
because he was a Christian. Though I had refreshed his memory as to
what our Father of Nation had said: Pakistan is not going to be a
theocratic state--to be ruled by moulvis with a divine mission...
Parsis, Hindus and Christians...will enjoy the same rights as any
other citizen. But all this seems such a long time ago, though it
has been as recent as a couple of months. Eons, I suppose? Raw,
fresh fears and doubts and uncertainties? Benazir's fears! Why do
they sound so familiar, just like my own? (Stands by the window,
peering out into the darkness) Do you know, Murtaza, what your
sister dreamed? Has been dreaming? Is frightened out of her wits
by dreams, nightmares? She has been dreaming of death, of her
papa's death? Bhutto murdered by Zia, her fantastic dream of
this very night!
Benazir: Papa!
Murtaza: Papa, what are you saying?
Nusrat: Bhutto, her nightmares are not all black as death. Houris
and...
{A loud scream from the bathroom envelops all in a mantle of silence.
Bhutto whirls on his feet, then stands inert. Nusrat clasps her hands
in her lap with knuckles grown white. Benazir's eyes are riveted to
the door, unblinkingly. Murtaza flounces toward the bathroom in
a sudden fit of buoyancy.
Murtaza: Houris are screaming for freedom--of speech! (Bangs on
the door) Open up, open the door!
{The door is thrown open. One servant girl, in utter stupefaction
emerges forth. One sleek, black cat darts straight toward the bed.
Finding refuge in Benazir's arms, and purring sweetly. Benazir
fondles the cat's ears, avoiding all eyes fixed on her in stark
naked disbelief.}
Benazir: (Murmuring to the cat) Sable, poor Sable!
Salima: (Nursing her arm) The cat attacked...
Nusrat: (Leaping to her feet. Outrage shining in her eyes) Salima!
Bhutto: (His eyes shining in a blaze of rage and reprimand) How dare
you, Salima?
Benazir: (Pleading suddenly) Papa! Mamma! It's all my fault!
Salima is blameless.
{Bhutto edges closer toward the bed, holding a dagger of threat in
his eyes. As he approaches closer, curiosity and indulgence replace
the daggers of rage and threat in his eyes. Nusrat shrinks away at
the mere sight of the cat in her daughter's arms. She plods toward
the window and stands there with her back toward all. Murtaza stands
there bemused, ogling the young girl with a mute intensity. Salima
stands there flushed and confused. Benazir attempts an incoherent
appeal.}
Benazir: All my fault, Papa...I found this stray cat in London.
Mamma hates cats...I had to keep her hidden. It has been kept in
the servant's quarters since...well, tonight, I was frightened. I
am the one who told Salima to bring the cat...it could sleep in the
tub...Salima could watch...then, I forgot...
Bhutto: (Fondling the cat and whispering to it with a tender reproof)
So, you made our daughter lie to us?
Benazir: (Protesting) Papa! Do you want to hold her, Papa?
(Bhutto claims the cat, smiling to himself. Murtaza saunters close
to Salima. Mischief and adoration shining in his eyes. Nusrat keeps
peering out into the darkness.}
Bhutto: (Hugging the cat to himself) Soft as velvet.
Nusrat: (Murmuring aloud) Still so dark. Oh, darkness, darkness
all! (Swings around abruptly) Let's have breakfast, anyway. Get
it over with...with this night! Start the day clean and fresh.
Dissolving all blackness out of yesterdays? (Turning to her son)
Murtaza, go, summon Ahmed. Or better yet, tell him to fetch our
breakfast.
Murtaza: (Languorously) Mamma! Salima is best suited to deliver
such summons. (Plods toward the bed, murmuring to himself) I,
myself, prefer the luxury of the bed. And breakfast...in bed!
Benazir: A miracle! Breakfast in bed!
Nusrat: (Impatiently, to Salima) Now, don't just stand there
sulking. Go, help Ahmed fix the breakfast. And bring several pots
of tea, I can drink by the gallons!
Bhutto: (Abandoning the cat into his daughter's arms and turning
to Salima, abruptly) Wait, eavesdropper, wait! Fetch my cigars
from my room, first.
{Salima exits in haste and confusion.}
Bhutto: (To Nusrat) The time-clock in my lungs is bleating for
Cuban cigars. It must be the hand of dawn stretching toward morning.
(Fixes his gaze to the Ormulu clock on the mantel)
Nusrat: You shouldn't smoke cigars, Bhutto! You will die of lung
cancer.
Bhutto: Cancer of the soul! It fetches death much more swiftly than
any ailment of the body and flesh. Cancer of the soul, festering
rapidly against the shadow of death?
Nusrat: Don't...don't talk of death, Bhutto! My heart is sinking.
Bhutto: (Capriciously) Take heart, my dear, life is much more
frightful than death. Considering, it lives in darkness, groping for
the lamp of Light? (Hugging himself and laughing) Yet, life is
wonderful. And my soul will always cling to life, as long as I
have you and...
{Salima's scream is heard loud and clear from the room beyond,
followed by stark silence. Bhutto, compelled by a sudden impulse,
clasps Nusrat into his arms. One convulsion of a shiver slithers
down Benazir body, as she sinks deeper into her bed. Murtaza
flounces down from the bed, puzzled. Salima returns, carrying a box
of Cuban cigars. Terror is shining in her eyes, as her startled gaze
wanders from one to the other. She holds the sandalwood box to
Bhutto, her hands trembling.}
Bhutto: (Pouncing on Salima) Are you trained in screaming, child?
What made you cry out loud, for God's sake? (Snatches the box from
her hand)
Salima: (Flustered) Sir...I...I? I thought, I saw...soldiers...
in your...but no one...no one.
Bhutto: (Impatiently) Ghosts everywhere! Is our home haunted by
ghosts tonight? Run along, child, fetch our breakfast quickly.
{Salima flies out of the room, as if followed by some invisible demons.}
Murtaza: (Flinging himself upon the bed) Much ado about nothing?
{Bhutto lights his cigar, puffing on it furiously. Blinded by a
cloud of smoke, he gropes his way toward the bed, murmuring to
himself.}
Bhutto: Why is my heart sinking too? Yet and yet again...have
never felt like this before? (Lowers himself on the bed thoughtlessly)
{Nusrat sinks into her former seat by the fireplace. She seems
oblivious to all. Her look glazed and fixed vacantly to the window
with no chink of light forthcoming. Bhutto, sitting couchant on the
bed, strokes the cat gently. His eyes meet Benazir's searching gaze.}
Bhutto: Are we all possessed by phantoms of the night this night,
my dear? Ghosts and dreams? Houris and nightmares? Strange
spirits roaming wild in our minds and hearts? Wondrous and fleeting!
(Puffs furiously on his cigar) Now that the cat is out of the box,
and the ghosts are retired, and the breakfast is sizzling on its way
time to absolve your nightmares for good, don't you think? Yes, for
you, my dear, I have mapped out a great itinerary, all in my head.
For now, a couple of hours of sleep. In the morning, consultation
with Dr. Rashid. Afternoon, you must fly to London. In one day,
you must be checked and banished, for your own good, if only your
ears could be unclogged of that nightmarish infection?
Benazir: (Laughing) Papa! I promise...
Bhutto: Promise, not to sleep?
Benazir: (Protesting) Promise, not to have nightmares!
Nusrat: (As if startled to awakening) Your nightmares, my princess,
need the comfort of one remedy alone. Marriage! I have the lucky
groom in mind, already. Asif Zardari. A young, handsome man. An
excellent polo-player. The son of a wealthy businessman. Of
Baluch family, a very rich and illustrious family. His father is
such a powerful landlord of Sind, that he could afford to own
Pakistan with a revenue of one quarterly crop alone!
Benazir: (Mischievously) Mamma! I was hoping to marry a prince or
a man-god? Not any dull, mortal man like...what? Such an atrocious
name, Asif, imagine that?
Nusrat: (Flashing a vicious look at the cat and her daughter) Princes
are mortal too, my princess! And quite poor, most of them?
Benazir: (Evasively) You are looking at Sable, as if you are going
to kill her? Why do you hate cats, Mamma, why?
Nusrat: (Vehemently) Cats, little vixens, are they not? Sneaky,
insincere! Loving places, not people? Besides, they have never
been associated with fetching fortunes, but bad luck?
Bhutto: (Laughing and stubbing out his cigar into the empty cup)
You don't believe in that, Nusrat, do you? All that jargon of luck
and ill fate? Superstition. Superstition is poison to the soul as
bigotry is to the mind.
Nusrat: (Heedlessly) Laugh as you will, Bhutto, but you must admit
you have spoiled your own daughter. Already, she is guilty of telling
lies...that ugly cat! She can get away with murder, as far you are
concerned. Too much liberty, and indulgence. All those wild ideas
in her head. When I was her age I was already married. In fact, a
mother of two! What whims and ideas she has? If you don't stop
indulging her, Bhutto, she would die a spinster. Wedded only to
her dreams?
Benazir: Mamma!
Bhutto: Some prince will revive her to the delights of youth and
beauty, I am sure. Joy and love are hers as long as she is my
princess.
Nusrat: (Heedlessly again) Where's our breakfast? What's taking
so long?
{Bhutto lights another cigar from the sandalwood box, puffing on it
greedily. Nusrat begins to pace.}
Benazir: Mamma, and you accuse me of impatience? Quite often, that
is. Only a few minutes since Salima charged off...you frightened
her, didn't you? Thirty minutes to boil your tubs of tea, and another
thirty to fix omelets. If the cook is boiling eggs; hope, he doesn't
boil in the same water for tea, to save time?
Nusrat: (Absently) I am so thirsty. Oh, how thirsty, can't tell
how much?
{Nusrat plods toward the bedside table, but one fierce miaow from
cat, and she flees toward the window. She stands there with her back
towards all, Benazir watching her amusedly. Benazir's eyes are
kindled to mirth and mischief.}
Benazir: You are just afraid of cats, Mamma, why don't you admit?
You don't hate them, do you? But you fear them, am I right, Mamma,
say so? Why don't you come and get this glass of water? You said
you are thirsty, didn't you? Sable won't hurt you, I promise.
Nusrat: (Whirling on her feet, her eyes flashing) Murtaza, get
mamma that glass of water.
Murtaza: (Drowsily) Mamma!
{Bhutto, snatching the glass from the sidetable, carries it to his
wife under some spell of haste and thoughtfulness. Nusrat claims the
glass of water, and drains it thirstily. Closes her eyes, holding
out the empty glass and murmuring.}
Nusrat: Thank you. I am still thirsty.
Bhutto: Your ocean-thirst could be quenched only with tea...gallons
and gallons of it.
{Bhutto straggles back to the sidetable with empty glass in one
hand, and the cigar smoldering in his mouth. Leaning over the bed,
he tickles Murtaza in the ribs, laughing to himself.}
Bhutto: Where is breakfast, Murtaza? Better fetch it yourself, you
sloth-ball, or we will all go hungry? Tell the cooks to hurry.
Murtaza: (Opiately) Papa.
Bhutto: (Seating himself on the edge of the bed) Well, my princess!
Only you and I are awake? What do you fancy, your choice? Poetry
or politics?
Benazir: (Eagerly) Poetry, Papa!
Bhutto: Omar Khayyam?
Benazir: Faiz Ahmed Faiz.
Bhutto: My mind is bled white with worries. Can't recall any of
his! Do you?
Benazir: You asked too quick, Papa! No.
Bhutto: Well, then make your own?
Benazir: Rumi, then?
Bhutto: Why not Ghalib?
Benazir: Oh, Papa! Could you? Could you recite some?
Bhutto: (Reciting happily)
Passion feels confined
Even in the heart...
The sea's restless surge
Absorbed in a pearl.
Benazir: More, Papa, more!
Bhutto: No more, princess, no more! Ghalib is not my forte'. I
love Iqbal. You must study the works of Iqbal. He is the
philosopher-poet of the East. Yes, Muhammed Iqbal, the John Milton
of the seventeenth century! (Recites one of Iqbal's couplet)
If a Muslim is without faith, he is a slave to destiny
Endowed with faith, he becomes the destiny of God.
Benazir: Philosopher-poet, Papa! How dull?
Bhutto: More profound than your beloved Faiz Ahmed Faiz! Must be
dull, your own favorite poet...you can't even recall one line of
his poesy?
Benazir: Can you, Papa?
Bhutto: I can refresh your memory with one, yes, my besotted
princess. (Recites)
Ah, those fortunate people
Who considered their life work to be love
And those who were in love with work
I kept busy all my life
I made some love, I did some work
Work kept interfering with love
Love got in the way of work
At last I got sick of it all
And left both half-finished.
Benazir: Oh, how sweet, Papa!
Bhutto: Profound, I should say. Let's hear some from you?
Benazir: I am thinking of Rumi's...
Bhutto: Rumi is divine. Divine cannot be thought, but felt!
{Both father and daughter drift into silence. Nusrat gets to her
feet, gliding toward the window somnambulantly. She peers out into
the opal haze of the dark clouds, murmuring to herself.}
Nusrat: Dawn will never come. The day, as black as the night!
Benazir: Papa.
Bhutto: (Without meeting her gaze) Yes, princess.
Benazir: My heart is sinking, Papa!
Bhutto: (Slipping out of the bed abruptly, and standing there
thoughtfully) Why, my dear? From hunger, is that it?
Benazir: No, Papa!
Bhutto: My heart too is sink...
{A sudden commotion, followed by hurried footsteps. Zia and two
soldiers storm into the bedroom. Zia salutes stiffly, his expression
taut and arrogant. The two soldiers salute in unison, and then stand
there like the pillars of salt. Zia is impeccably attired in a
military uniform, his gaze stern and commanding. Silence cuts
through the room like a naked blade, as a wave of shock envelops all.
Nusrat is the first one to splinter this silence. She reels back
from the window, reaching for her chair in daze and swoon. Benazir
is numb with fright, her dark eyes sparkling. Bhutto thunders in a
fit of rage and disbelief.}
Bhutto: What impudence, Zia? How dare you impinge on my privacy?
You were not summoned, were you?
Zia: (Tonelessly) The judiciary committee has summons for you,
sir! (Nervously) You are to be arrested on the charges of fraud,
murder, bribery.
{Sable jumps from the bed, and dashes straight toward the bathroom.
Zia and the soldiers, friends turned foes, stand there wafting threat
and challenge. Murtaza is startled to his feet, his look dazed
and stultified. He rubs his eyes as if dissolving the vision of
some ugly dream. Bhutto lunges forward, his fists drawn. Before
he could reach Zia, the two soldiers pounce on him, making him
captive with his hands drawn behind his back. Two more soldiers
appear, while Bhutto's eyes rain expletives at Zia.}
Bhutto: (Struggling) You, foul viper. A most vile renegade.
Filthy traitor. Who dared issue such order?
Zia: (To the soldiers) Take this ex-president away, and clamp him
into prison.
{Bhutto is trying to free himself from the iron grips of the soldiers.
Zia saunters toward the bedside table, switching on the radio.
Loud and clear, a news-bulletin from the radio falls into the room
like molten lava. Bhutto is dragged away, his voice ominous and
ricocheting.}
Bhutto: Perdition is your final abode, Zia! Perdition and damnation,
and the fires of hell! You hated viper...
{Zia, captive Bhutto and the soldiers exit. Radio itself seems
charged with excitement in delivering the news of coup-de-mien.
The voice on the radio ebbing and spluttering.}
News: Martial-law is imposed in Pakistan by the command of general
Zia-ul-Haq. The soldiers are pouring in on the streets right this
minute, to impose law and order as a precaution against riot and
sedition. Groups consisting of more than five are not permitted
on the streets and...
Benazir: (Hysterically) Papa, papa! What are they going to do to
him. Mamma, why don't you do something? Murtaza, where are they
taking papa? They are going to kill...papa? Zia...is going to
murder...papa!
{Benazir flounces down from her bed in an act of following her father.
Murtaza is quick to turn the radio off, catching his sister into his
arms before she could flee. He pleads with her awkwardly.}
Murtaza: You are raving, Benazir. Calm down. No one is going to
hurt papa?
Benazir: (Wrenching herself free) Papa! They are going to kill
him. Why don't you go after papa, Murtaza, why are you standing
here? Bring papa back, Murtaza. I want my papa, where have they
taken him?
{Benazir attempts a wild dash toward the door, but Murtaza catches
her in his arms once again. Nusrat, unnoticed by them, is drawn
toward the window, peering out with utmost absorption. Murtaza is
leading Benazir toward the bed, whispering soothingly.}
Murtaza: Don't be a fool, Benazir, think calmly. We all have to
think.
Nusrat: (To herself) Darkness! Wild, hungry beasts, all around.
The soldiers are surrounding our home, this world! Murtaza, where
have they taken your papa? Where is Bhutto?
Benazir: Papa, papa.
{Murtaza tucks his sister under the satiny covers, and she closes
her eyes, murmuring to herself. Then he attends his mother,
lowering her gently into one chair. Without a word, he plods back
to the bed, finding refuge in its comfort, and pressing his temples
to still their throbbing.}
Nusrat: (Feebly) Murtaza, what's happening? Where's your papa?
Go, see...bring him back and...
{One rumble of a loud thunder, and the rain beats the windowpanes.
The entire room is plunged in darkness, as the lights go off
When the lights return, both Nusrat and Benazir have dozed off.
Murtaza is sitting couchant on the bed. His eyes are kindled to
a shining blaze, ominous and unflickering. Houris have returned,
much in conformity with the first scene. The ghost of Bhutto is
pacing, his throat slit and bleeding. His eyes are spewing sparks
and flames. Low moans escape is lips, while he continues to pace.
Some agony indescribable, which he can't even voice.}
Houri 1: Bhutto, why do you lament so? Was life so dear,
to you?
Bhutto: I do not lament life, but perfidy and injustice. And
tyranny, in life, in life. Zia murdered me. What a farce? No
trial, but execution. Is that the Order in life? Or should one
accept it as a boon, to welcome death?
Houri 11: There is no injustice in life! No evil, no tyranny either.
Certainly not perfidy? Only perfection! Perfection, tainted with
the soot of Ignorance. One imperfection indeed, if it is to be
perceived by mortal intellect?
Bhutto: Have you ever lived with the base, insufferable vermins
whom we call men and who have the power to invade the earth down
below with their lying, cheating tongues alone? Where are the
heavens? Crushed between hell and pandemonium? Lumped solid
inside the everlasting purgatory on earth, in life, in life?
Houri 111: Life is pure, and death sublime. Both live, both love,
both breathe the breath of life and death. Both yearning to mate
with the shadow of darkness. Both seething with the purity of Light.
Both radiating joy. Both creating Illusions. Both, seeking Truth!
Yes, both, away from the valley of Ignorance.
Bhutto: (Uttering one loud groan) Stupidity, not ignorance, is
the cause of evil in life, isn't it? Stupidity, the vilest of all
vices! Stupidity, in living? In believing, what, goodness in life?
Thoughts most corrupt, groveling forever, inside the mire of
damnation? Thoughts, carving wounds! Very deep, very painful
wounds? Those mental wounds? They fester not, yet incurable
and unhealing. Eternal and multiplying. Agonies of the soul!
Tragedies vast and bewildering. Hopes, dreams? One serpentine
mirage in the jungle of nowhere...
{Thunder and lightning. Silence and darkness. Light and immobility.
Nusrat and Benazir are sleeping. Murtaza still couchant on the bed,
mute and stunned. Zia storms back into the room, holding out a large
sheet before him while reading aloud.}
Zia: All of you, yes, you all are under arrest. No one, and I...
{Benazir wakes up screaming. Murtaza leaps to his feet. Benazir
scrambles past her brother, her hands reaching for Zia's throat.
She pounds Zia's chest with clenched fists, protesting hysterically.}
Benazir: Where is my papa? What have you done to him? I will kill
you! Where is papa...papa...
{Murtaza struggles to restrain his sister. Nusrat is murmuring
Bhutto's name, as if sleep-walking. Sable emerges from the
bathroom in a fury, attacking Zia's legs. Murtaza's hands clamp
around Zia's throat, while his choked rage lashes at the traitor.}
Murtaza: You, murderer! You will die a dog's death by my bare
hands.
{Murtaza's hands fall limp to his sides, as Bhutto returns with
the speed of a hurricane. With his fists clenched, he strikes
one violent blow on Zia's quivering jaw. Zia staggers, falling
on his face with a terrible groan.}
Bhutto: You filthy vermin! You base insect! Foulness and
corruption are molded in each fibre of your soul. What foul
breath from this heap of...
{Soldiers materialize with chains and handcuffs. Bhutto is hauled
away shackled. Zia stumbles to his feet.}
Benazir: Papa, papa...
Murtaza: (pouncing wildly) Murderer...murderer...
The Curtain
J. KEVIN WOLFE
Cannibals
~~~~~~~~~
I was standing at the gates of Hell
A vegetarian shook the iron from inside
and with a horrid face, "Cannibals,
we're all Cannibals" he sighed
In his zeal he'd killed a hunter
Satan, like remorse itself, had said
"I give you Hell", spat upon his hand
and pressed it hard to his head
Had relieved him of his ignorance
A third-eye-sight of all that lives
Carrots have such simple souls
over which dominion man God gives
Now the orange is cute and cuddly
since Satan chanted unto him
"Bird, beast, rutabeg, rice: eating: is death: is sacrifice"
He now: forever starving (yet appetite dim)
But he can't sever a cabbage's head
for now to him it seems animal
And his stomach grumbles in a dirge:
"Cannibals, we're all cannibals."
J. KEVIN WOLFE
Miss De Milo's Fat Shoulders
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
My acrophobic heart fell
but somehow leapt
the crevasse of my throat
at first glimpse
of her delicate shoulders
these perfect bones
under an exactness of skin
shoulders which
with a feather
God himself chiseled
and could not
have left to apprentices.
At that moment she
made Venus seem
unworthy of sculpting
The guile
less fact
of her smile
that had never been tugged
by a fleshly thought
made her shoulders nymphbare.
And all I could offer her
were my worst emotions:
jealousy of the sun
that warmed them
the distance of summer.
I doubt a prudish thought
was ever unfilthy
and found myself wanting
a sweater
to cover them
just so I
could see it slip
to reveal the subtle skin
that could not
be mimicked
in smoothness
of any stone
Helen's face
sent Troy to sea but
leering historians forgot
her mundane shoulders
J. KEVIN WOLFE
Mrs. Einstein
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
"Why is it" said Mrs. Einstein
"that a man can hear the silent
hum of the universe and
know what's making it knock...yet
he can't hear a word I'm saying"
"Huh?" said Albert
contemplating an expanse of space
and forgetting to wind his watch.
J. KEVIN WOLFE
tulips must be hindus
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
tulips must be hindus
(sprout blossom drop-petals die)
they reincarnate in spring
(sp out b os om. d o - a s die)
they are clumsy with their petals
( p out b oss ro pet ie)
so careless with precious colors
( s lo p pe as I )
J. KEVIN WOLFE
The Curious People
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Life is a brilliant red in Beijing.
It is communism
It is blood
It is everywhere and too thick to notice
My mundane was unique
so they stole half written postcards
to see the strange letters
and they leaped into
photos to see what boring scenes
I found interesting.
60 miles sprawled with tenements
30 million existences of sameness
and me
who made the comrades curious
I stopped
and l looked
at a nonexistent spot on the sidewalk
A throng solidified instantly
Switching glances between me
and the spotless I stared at
screamed whispers moved
in tiny waves of absurd
and serious
The disbelievers
gathered
like an anti-Fatima
as I bent to pick up
a closely examined nothing
Without letting on a smile
or looking in a single face
I walked away through a parting
sea of people
carefully holding air
between my fingers
as if it were an emperor's ring
I became "the man who glances"
They waved to me
they followed me
I was an expected circus
that had come to entertain
the billion.
JANET KUYPERS
Smart Thing To Do
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
June 28, 1999
There are so many things I have wanted
So many things I have wanted from you
There are so many things
That have scared me
Are we being safe
Is this the smart thing to do
And maybe the smart thing to do
Is to just avoid you
And get it over with
And maybe the smart thing to do
Is to get my arm around your neck
And drag your sorry ass to me
Because I have wanted you at my lips
And I have wanted that for a while
And there is only so much I can do
To stop myself from staying away from you
And maybe the smart thing to do
Is to just sit here
Until you come to me
And when you get here
Well, it is MINE, now,
And that is when I let it all go
The way I want it to be
It is at moments like this
When I want just about everything from you
And I want to wrap my legs around you
And I want to push you into me
And I want to push your life into me
And for just a few moments
I want to feel nothing else
than this ME thing,
And this YOU thing,
And I keep thinking
about this US thing
And that "just a moment" thing
is lasting a lifetime
And for once, that does not scare me
And that makes me want
So much more with you
And so much more from you
And Hell, I do not know
How this poem ends
I guess it is called life
And I will not be able to finish this
Until my life is over
And Hell, I will not be writing then
You know
Just know that I want you
And that I will want you
And that can last for now
And that it will last a lifetime
JANET KUYPERS
Against My Will
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
August 10, 1999
There have been so many times
Where I have been raped
Not that some man
Some quote unquote man
Had physically held me down
Has forced himself inside me
Against my will
That way is just to obvious
Not the "someone tried
To beat me up" thing
Because that is old news
If you have done the research I have
If you have gone through what I have
If you have lived the life that I have
Because
You know
I should be above this
I should be a fominist
With a capital fucking f*
I guess with that in mind
I should not mind the cat calls
Or the whistles
Or the fact that the word "woman"
Is the word "man"
With a couple of letterstacked on
Like we're an extension of them
Or the fact that men
First look at me
By looking at my breats
And not my eyes
I should be aware
That a woman with power
Instills fear
And a woman with power in a company
Can still be demoted
And that outside of the company
She can still be down-played
And demoted
I can handle the jokes
About being blond
Or being duumb
Or being both
I can hear the line
Always said insultingly
That we have to be irrational
Because we are so damn emotional
I mean
How can you trust something
That bleeds for five days every month
And doesn't die?
Fine
If they want to brush off
Everything that makes us strong
Fine
If they say we can not hold a job
Fine
We will just depend on you for money
And work on our OWN jobs
On our OWN time
And stash enough away for our OWN little nest-egg
How much money
are you boys going to have
when it comes to the end?
How much of a life
are you boys going to have
when it comes to the end?
How much happiness?
JANET KUYPERS
White Picket Fence
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
June 28, 1999
White picket fence
that is what I wanted
did I expect to almost lose my life
did I expect to find the right guy
at every corner turn
did I expect to be alone
and feel alone
did I expect to live life this way
I wanted a dog
and at another point in my life
I was sure it was a cat I wanted
now I will settle for the fish tank
just drop some food
into the damn aquarium
and leave it at that
what am i supposed to do
who am i supposed to be
what am i supposed to get
am i even supposed to get anything?
where do I learn all of these characters from
where do I learn all of these roles from
I think we all know the answers
to these questions
if we care to think about it
consciously
JANET KUYPERS
Overdoing It
~~~~~~~~~~~~
June 16, 1999
Oh, what am i supposed to wear
I need to look just perfect for you
I need to look just perfect for me
I have to make sure everything is right
I don't know
what the right impression is supposed to be
there are so many things
that I am unsure of now
and all I know
is that I want everything to be right
and I don't know how to get that point across to you
without looking like
well,
without looking like
I am overdoing it
JANET KUYPERS
Getting Quite Good At It
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
June 16, 1999
I'm getting quite good at the
roles I have had to play in my life
I have had to put so many faces on
that I am beginning to look like a clown
I am beginning to feel like a clown
and I am beginning to wonder if anyone notices
Someone told me once
that they could not lie,
that they were terrible at it
and I looked them in the eye
and told them that I had gone through a lot
in my life
and that a lot of things have hurt me in my life
and I told them about how someone had hurt me
and it still surt
and I almost cried while I told them this
and they felt sorry for me
and I told them,
that what I just told them
that it was all a lie
it is not like I am a liar
no, i'm telling you, i'm not a liar,
I was just trying to prove a point
no, i swear, i'm not a liar
I told them that so they would know
when it is possible to cover up the truth
and get away with it
and when that becomes a part of your repritoire
well, when you get to that part
you can get quite good at
doing whatever you want
that whole lying thing
it's just that simple
JANET KUYPERS
Change Your Clothes
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
June 16, 1999
What am I supposed to wear
so that I fit in to
the right role
There is always a role
to be played with you
I've played so many roles
I'm getting quite good at it, actually
I've played so many roles
for the likes of you
I have dressed like a school marm
to impress your parents
so they don't think we fuck
I have worn a business suit
and the skirt always seemed a little short
because I am so damned tall
but either way,
I would look professional
when playing that fucking female card
for all it is worth
and showing off my legs
I have gone to a different bar
every night
and I have dressed like a whore
I get the button-down shirt
buttoned always too low
I wear the ripped shorts
ripped shorts
intentionally
ripped too short
Jesus, I've even worn simple dresses
with wide skirts
and those pricks think I'm sexy
wearing something like a wide skirt
which doesn't show any of my curves
and they like me in it
brcause the skirt is wide enough
that they can crawl into it
and I don't even want to know
what they want to do with me
in that position
while they are under that dress
you're a fuck, you're a flower
you have the mania, you have the power
you have the right, girl
all you have to do
is change your roles
and change your clothes
JANET KUYPERS
Breaking Their Heart
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
June 6, 1999
"A close friend announces and important decision - a career change, a sudden
move across the country, a sudden engagement. You know this is a terrible
mistake. How do you tell them without breaking their heart?"
Who has a heart that is broken sometimes
and what does it take to break a heart
just to master one change in life
well, you have to be a master at that skill
and that whole "juggling different issues"
thing, it is next to impossible
i've been through a lot lately
and some of it was bad and some of it was worse
and in the process i've lost my job,
i've lost my car, i've lost my home
come to think of it, for the most part i lost
my freedom, i've almost lost my life
and some of that could be terrible,
i'll give you that
and some of it can be refreshing
if you decide to look at things that way
because with all that can happen
you can be liberated bt it all
who has a heart that is broken sometimes
and what does it take to break a heart
J.E. MARKS FOG at SEA ~~~~~~~~~~ A light mist in the air, an autumnal sway, celtic, crossed and re-crossed, we're on our way. A watery calvary. We stare into the blemished air. Today we dead coagulate - our dying words still on our cracked lips. All unreplete are we. Our vanishing life unfixed, unbridgeable now we grew old and fall away. Ebb, flow, neap, tide, taken at the full we were. Our child's eyes, stay with us now, no pearl as deep, as precious, as this now. Wrapped around ourselves we were making-do, as the decades leapt. Careering we chased chimeras. Unceasingly, till now. Things of no consequence entrapped us quite, till now. No time or place would do. Till now.
Come one, come all! Welcome to Newsgroup alt.centipede. Established
just for writers, poets, artists, and anyone who is creative. A
place for anyone to participate in, to share their poems, and
learn from all. A place to share *your* dreams, and philosophies.
Even a chance to be published in a magazine.
The original Centipede Network was created on May 16, 1993.
Created because there were no other networks dedicated to such
an audience, and with the help of Klaus Gerken, Centipede soon
started to grow, and become active on many world-wide Bulletin
Board Systems.
We consider Centipede to be a Public Network; however, its a
specialized network, dealing with any type of creative thinking.
Therefore, that makes us something quite exotic, since most nets
are very general and have various topics, not of interest to a
writer--which is where Centipede steps in! No more fuss. A writer
can now access, without phasing out any more conferences, since
the whole net pertains to the writer's interests. This means
that Centipede has all the active topics that any creative
user seeks. And if we don't, then one shall be created.
Feel free to drop by and take a look at newsgroup alt.centipede
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. REMEMBERY: EPYLLION IN ANAMNESIS (1996), poems by Michael R. Collings . DYNASTY (1968), Poems by Klaus J. Gerken . THE WIZARD EXPLODED SONGBOOK (1969), songs by KJ Gerken . STREETS (1971), Poems by Klaus J. Gerken . BLOODLETTING (1972) poems by Klaus J. Gerken . ACTS (1972) a novel by Klaus J. Gerken . RITES (1974), a novel by Klaus J. Gerken . FULL BLACK Q (1975), a poem by KJ Gerken . ONE NEW FLASH OF LIGHT (1976), a play by KJ Gerken . THE BLACKED-OUT MIRROR (1979), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken . JOURNEY (1981), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken . LADIES (1983), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken . FRAGMENTS OF A BRIEF ENCOUNTER (1984), poems by KJ Gerken . THE BREAKING OF DESIRE (1986), poems by KJ Gerken . FURTHER SONGS (1986), songs by KJ Gerken . POEMS OF DESTRUCTION (1988), poems by KJ Gerken . THE AFFLICTED (1991), a poem by KJ Gerken . DIAMOND DOGS (1992), poems by KJ Gerken . KILLING FIELD (1992), a poem by KJ Gerken . BARDO (1994-1995), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken . FURTHER EVIDENCES (1995-1996) Poems by Klaus J. Gerken . CALIBAN'S ESCAPE AND OTHER POEMS (1996), by Klaus J. Gerken . CALIBAN'S DREAM (1996-1997), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken . THE LAST OLD MAN (1997), a novel by Klaus J. Gerken . WILL I EVER REMEMBER YOU? (1997), poems by Klaus J. Gerken . SONGS FOR THE LEGION (1998), song-poems by Klaus J. Gerken . REALITY OR DREAM? (1998), poems by Klaus J. Gerken . APRIL VIOLATIONS (1998), poems by Klaus J. Gerken . THE VOICE OF HUNGER (1998), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken . SHACKLED TO THE STONE, by Albrecht Haushofer - translated by JR Wesdorp . MZ-DMZ (1988), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy . DARK SIDE (1991), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy . STEEL REIGNS & STILL RAINS (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy . BLATANT VANITY (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy . ALIENATION OF AFFECTION (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy . LIVING LIFE AT FACE VALUE (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy . HATRED BLURRED (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy . CHOKING ON THE ASHES OF A RUNAWAY (1993), ramblings by I. Koshevoy . BORROWED FEELINGS BUYING TIME (1993), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy . HARD ACT TO SWALLOW (1994), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy . HALL OF MIRRORS (1994), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy . ARTIFICIAL BUOYANCY (1994), ramblings by Igal Koshevoy . THE POETRY OF PEDRO SENA, poems by Pedro Sena . THE FILM REVIEWS, by Pedro Sena . THE SHORT STORIES, by Pedro Sena . INCANTATIONS, by Pedro Sena . POEMS (1970), poems by Franz Zorn All books are on disk and cost $10.00 each. Checks should be made out to the respective authors and orders will be forwarded by Ygdrasil Press. YGDRASIL MAGAZINE may also be ordered from the same address: $5.00 an issue to cover disk and mailing costs, also specify computer type (IBM or Mac), as well as disk size and density. Allow 2 weeks for delivery. Note that YGDRASIL MAGAZINE is free when downloaded from Ygdrasil's World-Wide Web site at http://users.synapse.net/~kgerken.
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YGDRASIL: A Journal of the Poetic Arts - Copyright (c) 1993, 1994, 1995,
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