Adonis Diaries

Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category

Young Raja Oueis posted this article in 2013, written during a creative co-sensing circle.

He passed away a week ago, of cancer in 2015

Posted on February 23, 2015 (with a few editing on my part)

He lives in the fleeting moment.

What life is for ,if not to live, think, love, exist in the moment?

He isn’t worried. He isn’t phased.

He knows life will continue whether he steps to smell the roses or not.

He Knows that he will learn, change, adapt, evolve, …

Newer versions of himself will emerge …

Love had a way of materializing as soon as he wore his heart on his sleeve … 

His heart – is now exposed, vulnerable, yet free and alive.

Another part of him seeks similar emergence – his mind. 

Just as love requires an object on which to focus, the mind requires one, in order for ideas to bloom.

The opening for his ideas to spring forth, lies ahead:

A change of institution, a change of country, perhaps just a change in nature, a new design created.

The opening widens as technology advances and he watches, wide-eyed

At a loss for knowing where to begin, the timing this creator desired to create.

Through the opening, his mind plants the seeds of budding ideas:

Augmented reality, telepresence, a world where organic technology doesn’t sound like an oxymoron –

These seeds need care to grow, they need diligent work and focus.

Many of these seeds will never grow, the mind will never access the granted opportunity,

Lest he does also learn to live and love …

His life, his love, his thoughts interact in the background of his mind. 

Instead of a sandbox, there is gray matter, to immerse himself in. 

Instead of a slide, there are ridges and valleys to woosh down.

Instead of a jungle gym, there are synapses to jump across.

Instead of a water fountain, there is a stream of consciousness,

And all in the mental playground, from which all came together and meshed.

Raja Oueis

What’s the impact of social media on public perception you ask? Gaza vs Israel

Posted on: July 30, 2014

What’s the impact of social media on public perception you ask?

Sherif Mktbi shared Omar Suleiman‘s photo.

What's the impact of social media on public perception you ask? Recent polls show Americans ages 18-29 think Israelis aggression is unjust by a margin of 2:1. Apartheid Israel pays people to go online and support them and even with that their voices calling for genocide are drowned out by the voices of decent human beings around the world saying enough is enough. The end of zionism is near God willing. #FreePalestine #GazaUnderAttack #GazaUnderFire #SupportGaza #PrayForGaza

Omar Suleiman

Apartheid Israel pays people to go online and support them and even with that their voices calling for genocide are drowned out by the voices of decent human beings around the world saying enough is enough.

T#‎FreePalestine‬ ‪#‎GazaUnderAttack‬ ‪#‎GazaUnderFire‬ ‪#‎SupportGaza‬ ‪#‎PrayForGaza‬Share Naomi Wolf posted:

Very late where I am.

Events in Gaza go beyond words yesterday and today. We are witnessing a holocaust and those who do not rise up to stop it are complicit.

Prose fails at the murder of innocents.

Where words fail poets have a role.

This is for the innocents dead this past two weeks in Gaza and in the region.

I have posted this “Dirge Without Music” by Edna St Vincent Millay before.

Some of us help death by inaction and hardness of heart and some are “not resigned.”

May we, of all backgrounds, continue to join together as not being resigned.

Dirge Without Music

BY EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY

I am not resigned to the shutting away of loving hearts in the hard ground.
So it is, and so it will be, for so it has been, time out of mind:
Into the darkness they go, the wise and the lovely. Crowned
With lilies and with laurel they go; but I am not resigned.

Lovers and thinkers, into the earth with you.
Be one with the dull, the indiscriminate dust.
A fragment of what you felt, of what you knew,
A formula, a phrase remains,—but the best is lost.

The answers quick and keen, the honest look, the laughter, the
love,—
They are gone. They are gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled
Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not approve.
More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world.

Down, down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.

Lyrics of Robin Thicke’s Blurred Lines

Posted  on September 21, 2013

Sezin Koehler posted this Sept. 18, 2013:

Robin Thicke’s summer hit Blurred Lines addresses what he considers to be sounds like a grey area between consensual sex and assault.

The images in this post place the song into a real-life context.  

They are from Project Unbreakable, an online photo essay exhibit, and feature images of women and men holding signs with sentences that their rapist said before, during, or after their assault.   

Let’s begin.

I know you want it.

Thicke sings “I know you want it,” a phrase that many sexual assault survivors report their rapists saying to justify their actions, as demonstrated over and over in the Project Unbreakable testimonials.

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You’re a good girl.

Thicke further sings “You’re a good girl,” suggesting that a good girl won’t show her reciprocal desire (if it exists).

This becomes further proof in his mind that she wants sex: for good girls, silence is consent and “no” really means “yes.”

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Calling an adult a “good girl” in this context resonates with the virgin/whore dichotomy.

The implication in Blurred Lines is that because the woman is not responding to a man’s sexual advances, which of course are irresistible, she’s hiding her true sexual desire under a façade of disinterest.

Thicke is singing about forcing a woman to perform both the good girl and bad girl roles in order to satisfy the man’s desires.

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Thicke and company, as all-knowing patriarchs, will give her what he knows she wants (sex), even though she’s not actively consenting, and she may well be rejecting the man outright.

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Do you like it hurt, do it like it hurt, what you don’t like work?

This lyric suggests that women are supposed to enjoy pain during sex or that pain is part of sex:

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The woman’s desires play no part in this scenario – except insofar as he projects whatever he pleases onto her — another parallel to the act of rape: sexual assault is generally not about sex, but rather about a physical and emotional demonstration of power.

The way you grab me. Must wanna get nasty.

This is victim-blaming.

Everybody knows that if a woman dances with a man it means she wants to sleep with him, right? And if she wears a short skirt or tight dress she’s asking for it, right? And if she even smiles at him it means she wants it, right?  Wrong.  A dance, an outfit, a smile — sexy or not — does not indicate consent.

This idea, though, is pervasive and believed by rapists.

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And women, according to Blurred Lines, want to be treated badly.

Nothing like your last guy, he too square for you. He don’t smack your ass and pull your hair like that.

In this misogynistic fantasy, a woman doesn’t want a “square” who’ll treat her like a human being and with respect. She would rather be degraded and abused for a man’s gratification and amusement, like the women who dance around half naked humping dead animals in the music video.

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The pièce de résistance of the non-censored version of Blurred Lines is this lyric:

I’ll give you something to tear your ass in two.

What better way to show a woman who’s in charge than violent, non-consensual sodomy?

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Ultimately, Robin Thicke’s rape anthem is about male desire and male dominance over a woman’s personal sexual agency. The rigid definition of masculinity makes the man unable to accept the idea that sometimes his advances are not welcome.

Thus, instead of treating a woman like a human being and respecting her subjectivity, she’s relegated to the role of living sex doll whose existence is naught but for the pleasure of a man.

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In Melinda Hugh’s Lame Lines parody of Thicke’s song she sings, “You think I want it/ I really don’t want it/ Please get off it.”

The Law Revue Girls “Defined Lines” response to Blurred Lines notes, “Yeah we don’t want it/ It’s chauvinistic/ You’re such a bigot.”

Rosalind Peters says in her one-woman retort, “Let’s clear up something mate/ I’m here to have fun/ I’m not here to get raped.”

There are no “blurred lines.” There is only one line: consent.

And the absence of consent is a crime.

Sezin Koehler is an informal ethnographer and novelist living in Florida. You can find her on Twitter and Facebook.

Note 1: In one of the book a Japanese magnate in the 80’s told this “joke”: If the girl says No, she means Maybe. If she says maybe then she means yes. If she says Yes then she is a slut

Note 2: Can you discriminate among sexual harassment cases? https://adonis49.wordpress.com/2013/05/25/can-you-identify-sexual-harassment-by-facts-circumstantial-evidences-or-plainly-the-perception-of-

Are you Dating an “ARAB” GIRL? From where is she exactly and how “Arabic” is she?

Posted  on March 1, 2014

Is she harder to convince and more complex to understand than the ones on the big screen?

Pictures, photo-shoot, videos that have convinced you of her delicate and timid nature?

Thaqafa Magazine  published this Feb. 5, 2014 (selected as one of the top posts today)

DON’T DATE AN ARAB GIRL

lay

Don’t date an Arab girl

She is not oppressed, like those caricatures on the news

Her long, flowing hair has not grown dark and strong to guide your eyes

To her curved figure, which exists not to twirl into shapes

That she may enchant you to the beat of the group vigorous Dabke dance.

The Arab girl is born

With a fire in her belly and

Has inherited the strength of her fore-mothers.

Don’t date an Arab girl for she carries the Middle East on her shoulders

Every war and every invasion pushes her to tears

And she fights those tears back

To be replaced with a brave face for her brothers and sisters;

Starving, homeless and grieving.

Don’t date an Arab girl, she inspires revolutions with her passions and her protests

She will come home late: she stays amongst the dissenters until

She can feel the winds of change.

Don’t fret, the Arab girl is protected from the cold

By the Keffiyeh around her neck; she is the one sharing her last droplets of water

To quench the parched mouths, dried shouting for freedom in the midday sun.

Don’t date an Arab girl, she will fill your shelves and your mind with poets

Qabbani, Said and Mahfouz.

The rivers Euphrates, the Jordan and the Nile run through her veins.

The spirit of Cairo, Algiers and the West Bank satiate her heart.

Don’t date an Arab girl, you will too often hear her sigh in longing

For the sound of the Muezzin in the morning, the taste of ‘real’ olives,

The smell of freshly baked bread and

For the feel of the sun’s rays biting the nape of her neck in the late afternoon.

Do date her because you believe in her struggle, when you can match her passion

And feel her pain.

Date her because you can hold her as she wavers

Under the load she carries, as the strength of her mother may fail

For a short moment.

lay2

This poem was inspired by the Arab women I know and the Arab women I don’t know but still look up to.

Cover art is by Lalla Essaydi and the poem’s form was inspired by Charles Warnke and Adi Zarsadias

Note: Women all over the words are the main sustainable demonstrators, the hardest to dissuade from when undertaken, the source of the support mechanism and logistics. Tough when she make up her mind to recover her rights.

Too old to be your father to make you sweat? Nice tits

Stephanie de Geryes shared this link berlin-artparasites

On a side road near my house

On an early morning run:
Hey, baby, I know another way to make you sweat.”
The driver of the truck punches the gas and spits gravel in my face.
I barely notice, too stunned by the words.
He was old enough to be my father.

On a city sidewalk:
“Hey, purple shirt! Hey, nice tits! Smile for me!”
I lock my jaw.

Put my head down and keep walking.
It’s not the first time.
God knows it won’t be the last.

On a dance floor:
Unfamiliar hands pressed flush against my skin.

A foreign mouth lunging for me.
I skitter back and his mouth collides with my collarbone.
He walks away, throws “fat bitch” over his shoulder
As if his palms weren’t just skimming my thighs.

Everyone will see the bruise peeking from my collar

And give me the look that says: they know what I’ve been up to.
I will not know how to tell them that I was trying to run.

Everywhere I go:
I am being punished.
I have committed the unforgivable crime of being a woman.

And I am not sorry to be a woman.

I will not apologize for having this body.
I don’t know what it would be like to not be afraid.

But I am trying.
I will not smile. I will not look their way.
I will be unapologetic, and strong, and beautiful, and brave. ―

Auriel Haack

painting by Amy Judd

See More

berlin-artparasites's photo.

Did I miss anything?

Reine Azzi posted on Fb a poem by Tom Wayman 

Every time a student asks if they missed anything important… I plan on using parts of this poem ☺️

Have you missed anything?

Nothing. When we realized you weren’t here,

We sat with our hands folded on our desks in silence, for the full two hours

Everything. I gave an exam worth 40% of the grade for this term
And assigned some reading due today
On which I’m about to hand out a quiz worth 50%

Nothing. None of the content of this course has value or meaning
Take as many days off as you like:
Any activities we undertake as a class
I assure you will not matter, either to you or me, and are without purpose

Everything. A few minutes after we began last time ,

A shaft of light suddenly descended and an angel or other heavenly being Appeared and revealed to us what each woman or man must do to attain Divine wisdom in this life and the hereafter.

This is the last time the class will meet before we disperse to bring the good News to all people on earth.

Nothing. When you are not present, how could something significant occur?

Everything. Contained in this classroom is a microcosm

Of human Experience, assembled for you to query and examine and ponder.

This is not the only place such an opportunity has been gathered,

But it was one place. And you weren’t here…

Tom Wayman

What of those Lebanese children that their parents prefer them to immigrate?

My parents sent 3 of their children to Lebanon boarding schools in order to save them from the multitude of incurable diseases in Africa (or lack of medicines), in the mid 1950’s

With a few editing

Mon fils, ne t’en va pas. Pas maintenant. Pas quand nous sommes fâchés.
Fais comme si rien ne s’était passé.
Attends que la poussière retombe.

La veille, quand tu es rentré après cette longue absence,

Dans ma poitrine, j’avais le cœur qui dansait. Au fond de moi, c’était, comme qui dirait, une explosion.

Quand tu n’es pas là, je perds mes mots, je me fourvoie et,

Pour que j’avance, il me faut désormais marcher dans tes pas.

Certaines nuits, quand le vent siffle trop fort, j’oubliais jusqu’à ton prénom.
Et puis ce souffle qui s’est levé, venant du port. (Reminiscing of the conflagration of the Port of Beirut?)

Ce souffle de verre, cette hécatombe de vies brisées en étoile.

Le sang coulait à flots et on ne savait où donner du regard.

Dans les rues, jusqu’à l’aube, tu as erré haggard.
Oublie ce que tu as vu.
Notre ville, souvent assassinée, demolie, devastee’.

Notre ville comme un millefeuille où passe en accéléré le temps qui, ailleurs, met des plombes.

C’est de mourir cent fois que nous sommes si vivants et chaque instant volé a le goût de l’éternité.

Mon fils, pourquoi t’es-tu figé ?
D’où vient cette pesanteur ?
Cette mort avant l’heure, est-elle la fois de trop ?

Qu’il est dur ce moment où, suspendu dans le vide, l’homme s’arrête de marcher.
Cette ville dévastée en un battement de cil, c’est le mauvais œil, les dieux qui sont jaloux.

Il est des fêlures qu’on ne peut ressouder, des plaies qui suintent comme des stigmates.
Avec le temps, nous avons appris à sceller un pacte.

La destinée n’a pas prise sur notre survie
Hier, en fermant les volets, le souffle de la montagne est monté jusqu’à moi.

Egrenés en lacets, les villages alentour palpitent comme des flammes.

Dans le ciel, l’étoile du berger s’est levée comme avant.
Ce soir, la lune est pleine et fait du bruit en marchant.

Chaque vie est une victoire, chaque jour une bénédiction et la mort d’Adonis, une affaire de saison.

Au jardin de ton père, les amandes sont ouvertes et la figue que tu cueilles est perlée de lait.
Qu’importe que l’on rase l’herbe que tu as foulée, que l’on fauche ta ville et déterre tes morts.

Nous sommes la chandelle qu’on ne peut pas moucher, la moule accrochée à son rocher.

Nous sommes le peuple qui danse sur la bouche du volcan. (Si on avait un volcan au Liban, ce serait chouette)
Même si, depuis toujours, tu es tourné vers la mer…

Condamné à porter le Liban en bandoulière, en escarbille au cœur.

Condamné à bâtir le pays des autres.
Ici, il nous faut construire sur le sable. (Même si notre terre est plutôt un vaste rocher)
Mais tant que la lumière se lève de notre côté, rien ne pourra nous arriver. (Esperont toujours)

Note: Only the governments in Syria and Israel follow the events and a few details in Lebanon. All the others never cross their mind that lebanon is a worthy subject matter.

Only Lebanon local news media try hard to inflate this croaking grenouille “nafekh hal Dafda3at

Prayer to Beirut by Lebanese Amin Maalouf (French Academy)

The English translation follows

La prière d’ Amin Maalouf

De Beyrouth, capitale blessée,
Une prière vers le Ciel,
Quelle que soit la langue dans laquelle on Le prie,
Quel que soit le nom par lequel on L’invoque,

Que Son regard,
Qui embrasse l’univers et toutes les créatures,
Se fixe un peu sur nous.

Depuis trop longtemps nous expions
Les fautes de l’humanité entière,
En plus de nos propres égarements.

Depuis trop longtemps, chaque malheur,
Avant de se propager dans le monde,
Commence par s’acharner sur nous.

De cette ville tant de fois détruite,
Reconstruite, puis détruite à nouveau,
De ce rivage où, selon les légendes,
Un homme libre a su jadis terrasser le dragon,
Une prière vers le Ciel.

Pour que le Liban puisse,
Cette fois encore, se remettre debout,
Et relever ses murs, et panser ses blessures.

Qu’il sache surmonter sa détresse,
Sa douleur et son abattement.

Qu’il sache triompher
De la férocité du monde,
Et aussi de ses propres démons.

De notre havre millénaire devenu, soudain,
Un monument à la folie des hommes
Et le temple de leur colère,
Une prière vers le Ciel.

(

From Beirut, injured capital,
A prayer to heaven,
Whatever language we pray to Him,
Whatever name is called to Him,

That his look,
Who embrace the universe and all creatures,
Fixing a little on us.
For too long we’ve been expiring
The faults of all humanity,
In addition to our own misguidedness.
For too long, every misfortune,
Before spreading into the world,
Start by trying hard on us.

From this city so many times destroyed,
Rebuilt, then destroyed again,
From this shore where, according to legends,
A free man once knew how to terrass the dragon,
A prayer towards heaven.

So that Lebanon can,
That time again, get back up,
And lift her walls, and dress her wounds.
Let him overcome his distress,
His pain and abatement.
Let him triumph
From the fiercity of the world,
And also of his own demons.

From our millennial haven, suddenly,
A monument to the madness of men
And the temple of their wrath,
A prayer towards heaven.)

In memoriam for the slain in Palestinian refugee camp of Sabra and Shatila: Poem

(With a few editing, my style)

Luis Lázaro Tijerina. September 18, 2019

Shostakovich Leningrad Symphony
comes to mind this night, this cold September air
receding into the terrible morning,

As Israel armor and bulldozers
Drive through our lives with impunity,

Death, the talisman of their fury,
They and others kill Palestinians (and downtrodden Lebanese living there)
as if harvesting leaves falling

And burning on an autumn night.
How many sheaves of horror, how many dead
reported at Sabra and Shatila?

We count your heroic dead
as we count the aimless years
of our hypocritical lives.

We the spectators (the Silent Majority)
who did nothing here in America or abroad.
How many dead, how many dead,

Their fingers broken,
The young men’s faces slashed
because they refused
to sell-out their lives to the Phalangist thugs,
and their Israeli puppet-masters pulling the strings

In this macabre play of horror,
In the Lebanese night.
Haddad, the butcher, and his Israeli henchmen,
Boastful brutes

Their insidious laughter
coming from their snarled mouths
on a bitter Friday night,

Others in the world slept in self-satisfied beds.

The Shostakovich symphony of disaster echoes
like the rumble of dark thunder,

How many dead, I ask myself.
Hundreds, thousands? Those rivers of blood
spilled across the earthen floor of the camps.

On television screens
We still see the horror
In a tragic mural painted in more blood—
Those butchered, shot,
and thrown into piles of garbage (in a mass burying ground in the Sport Stadium by Israeli bulldozers).

The women raped
And hung, their screams like the screeching of violins

In this Soviet symphony I hear on a night
in loveless September.
The cinder block houses stormed
by dark monsters with machine-guns—

Israeli Uzis, not unlike the Nazi troops
who searched for defenseless, quarry at Leningrad…
Now at Shatila and Sabra,
Old men and women lay
In a shattered sleep—
bullets in their heads
against the walls.

The camps of Shatila and Sabra,
those Goya nightmares— our nightmares
on a September night,

There you are—
families gunned down.
See the smiles
on the Phalangists and Israeli faces?

They never cared about life,
For they feared death.
Cowards against a defenseless people,

The only passion they knew
on a heartless September night.
Sharon, the bloated,
stubby-fingered general,
planned the massacre with glee
in the privacy
of his wobbling, arrogant head.

Cover your dead with our grief,
Those of you who survived the bloodshed,
Remember the Palestinian dead
on this Crystal Night massacre.

The wailing and screaming tears the bitter skies.
Bullet-proof vests, Phalangists in shorts
They scurry like rats from cinder-house
to cinder-house.

At Akka Hospital,
Maimed and wounded, carried away,
Nurses raped and beaten
by Christian militia, professing innocence
in their sordid wet dreams
at Shatila and Sabra.

The refugee streets stink with death
Our lives stink with death.
Hypocrisy, our makeshift plumbing,
in our nightmares.

I hear the horns, the violins, the flutes singing
In the September night wind.

What song do they sing?
We have lived for centuries
of the old denial, the blood-walls of hate.

Identification papers handed-out
At a sport stadium; Zionist troops interrogate
the dead whose skins are pale like manikins,
and then we ask why—

Why so many dead in the streets
at Shatila and Sabra?
Rubble, death, medical wives,

Sisters kissing reporters’ arms
Because they want to know
“Who killed my brother?
Where is my father?
When will it all end!”

Shostakovitch symphony comes to its heroic end
on this September morning,
The slumber, my sleep, in our history,
Half-dream, half nightmare,
As the first autumn leaves begin to fall…

The revenge of cymbals, of the militant drums,
I hear in this morning dawn…
The tiers of the stadium wet with blood,
Palestinian blood,

Our hands are caked with their blood,
and the blood of others

We left behind in the gutted street
of retribution.

Note 1: I was in Lebanon at that period and we knew about this monster massacre 3 days later, after Israel allowed journalists and reporters to visit the camp.

Israeli bulldozers unloaded tons of chalk on the dumped bodies, one layers after the next ones.

Israeli troops lighted the sky for 2 nights so that the murderer mercenaries could achieve their macaber task thoroughly.

Note 2: I posted on my blog several articles on that events from various eyewitnesses and reporters.

Note 3: The camp had no fighters or weapons. All the fighters were shipped out of Beirut to Tunisia a few ago back with US guarantees that the helpless Palestinians in camps will be safe and secure. Even the Lebanese army stationed close by failed to intervene.

Image may contain: 4 people
Image may contain: 1 person
Image may contain: one or more people and outdoor

Luis Lázaro Tijerina, Burlington, Vermont

 

“The man with the long curly hair”: Fragments of Abu Nuwas‘ Poems (February 12, 2009)

Note:  I am attempting to convey the style and position of the great Arab poet Abu Nawas during the Abbasid period.  The translation is not literal and I am selecting fragments in specific genres.

Ascetics  (Abu Nawas is witnessing his physical disintegration after his 50)

It is true O God: Great is my villainy.

Your clemency, I know, is infinite.

If the virtuous only dares keep hope.

Then, who the sinner is to appeal to?

Whom the sinner is to believe in?

In humility I implore you my Lord.

Don’t reject me! Only You can have pity.

You are the clement and forgiving.

Finally and besides, I am a Muslim.

My God, you have always been good to me.

My gratitude is little adequate.

Do I have to present my flat excuses?

My excuse is that I have none.

Nullity crawls in me; my members are dying one at a time. Every moment takes its share.

My youth has fled and didn’t deign to listen.

What have I done with my tender youth?

My youth was dedicated to pleasure, every day and every night.

All possible mischief I have committed.  Forgive me God; I hear you and I tremble.

The full moon is just a dim glow compared to your majestic Face.

I carry on my front the indelible mark of prostrations that might pass me a devout.

Oh, how many noble figures are entombed and as many refined beauties.

How many brave are buried and as many great minds.

Let a rational man interrogate Earth. 

We have taken all Earth’s alleys, highways, and passes.

Earth is our enemy disguised as friend.

 

Satires

(The Caliph Al Amine is pederast and wanted to honor Abu Nawas young son Mussa.  The satirized personalities were the poet’s benefactors and he joined their merriments)

The Caliph is losing his way.  It is the Caliph fault.

His ignorant vizier Fadl and his naïve counselor Bakr are to be blamed.

The Caliph Al Amine is a pederast.  He loves young eunuchs.

The Caliph is the active actor: How wonderful!

His vizier is the passive one.

The compromises of these two are splattering all the neighborhood.

Like a pissing camel.


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