by Dick Davis
the life of man!
Grasp at her skirts now, do what you will, do all
you’re able to;
Drink wine, and let the future come, since what
is that to you?
Choose wine then, and the flute, and hear the tale
both have to say –
“The world is built on water, like the wind
men pass away.”
Pleasure’s a blessing, and the world is sweet –
Obayd, though, chooses
To be the slave of one whose noble heart
all this refuses.
HERE IN OUR CORNER, WRETCHED AND UNDONE,
Free of faith’s comforts, quite content to shun
The world and patronage, uninterested
In anything that might be going on –
Here with our souls’ companions, bored to death
With hypocrites and all they claim they’ve done,
No pompous pride disturbs our minds, no thoughts
Of purity – no, not a single one!
We’ve drunk the poison of our indigence
And don’t want antidotes from anyone.
Happy the man who’s friends with misery
And rules in poverty’s domains; he’s done
What wise Obayd has, who is not ashamed
That beggary’s the kingdom he has won.
IF THAT FULL MOON WERE TRUE AND GOOD,
how would that be?
And if he feared God as he should,
how would that be?
I’d like to stay with him a while -
If he decided that I could,
how would that be?
I long to kiss his lovely lips,
And if he said he thought I should,
how would that be?
And if that idol I pursue
Pursued me too, and understood,
how would that be?
Or if one day that king should glance
At where this helpless beggar stood,
how would that be?
If wisdom followed me around,
Or if I’d sense and hardihood,
how would that be?
If happiness should lead Obayd
To him, supposing that it could,
how would that be?
DEVIL, AND THEN ANGEL – IS IT THE SAME YOU?
Which are you then, my prick? How should I name you?
You and that cunt of hers – no man alive
Can hope to get away from you, or tame you;
There is no mind that doesn’t dream of you,
In every house the seeds you’ve sown proclaim you.
I’M OFF TO STROLL THROUGH THE BAZAAR – AND THERE
I’ll see what can be flushed out from its lair;
I’ll lure a rent-boy home here, or a whore;
One of the two – either will do – I don’t care.
THIS TOOL OF MINE THAT’S TALLER THAN OUR MINARET
Is grander than our preacher’s prick, and more thickset;
It gets progressively more young as I grow old,
It grows more stubborn-hard the flabbier I get.
I’D LIKE A BOY TO FUCK – BUT I CAN’T PAY;
I’d like some wine to while away the day –
But as I’ve got no cash for carnal pleasures,
It seems there’s nothing left to do but pray.
I’VE DEBTS, AND NOTHING ELSE: ENDLESS
expenses, and no money:
“The world’s all pleasure, so enjoy!”
To me that isn’t funny.
I’m talentless, or bad luck’s made
my talents disappear –
I’ve let the reins of life go slack,
and now I’m sick with fear.
Time to get on your knees, Obayd,
to see what God can do,
This endless begging door to door
is not the life for you.
MY HEART STILL HANKERS AFTER HER,
My past life haunts me still, as strong as ever;
We said, “Together we’ll grow old”
And I’ve grown old, and she’s still young as ever.
SOME ARE ON FIRE FOR FAITH’S SAKE, SOME TO SEE
The houris promised for eternity.
My garden, wine, and lover are like heaven:
The faithful burn – in fires of jealousy!
AFTER FORTY YOUR SPRIGHTLY DAYS ARE DONE,
After fifty your weaknesses have won,
After sixty don’t hope for happiness,
And after seventy your health has gone.
WHERE IS SHIRAZ’S WINE, THAT BURNED OUR GRIEF AWAY?
And those brisk, pretty boys who served us, where are they?
Tomorrow if, in heaven, there is no wine or pleasure,
God’s heaven will be hell, just like Shiraz today.
HER PUSSY HAD THE KINDNESS TO INVITE
My prick to stay and dine with her last night;
Damn him, he didn’t even rise to greet her…
It’s shameful that my prick’s so impolite!
O GOD, SOLE HELP OF MEN IN MISERY,
Let mercy temper Your authority:
Please fix my wretchedness, since this would mean
Nothing to You, but quite a lot to me!
MY PRETTY DEAR, YOU’RE STILL TOO YOUNG TO MAKE
The pilgrimage to Mecca and repent,
But if you feel the need to be a pilgrim,
Take my advice, my dear, it’s kindly meant:
Straddle my prick and ride it – that can be
Your thousand-pilgrimage equivalent.
PUSSY REMARKED, “THIS PRICK’S A MASTERPIECE,
They’ve hung the balls beneath it very nicely;
From tip to toe, you’d say that it’s as though
They’d followed my prerequisites precisely.”
THIS NONSENSE-SPOUTING DOCTOR COULDN’T SEE
A patient and not kill him instantly:
Last night Death came to him and said, “For once
You’ll buy what you’ve been selling, and from me.”
I’LL FIX THIS HANGOVER, THEN FIND A WHORE
Who’ll be prepared to let me through her door;
And then my prick will either have her cunt
Or ass, but which of them I’m not quite sure.
IT’S SUMMER, AND MY PRICK’S TOO HOT TODAY,
It’s stiff with wine and eager for the fray;
I’ll take it down to pussy’s shady bower –
That’s cool and moist, the perfect place to stay.
MY PRICK’S A CYPRESS THAT GROWS TALL AND STRAIGHT
Beside your pussy’s stream, as is appropriate;
But come here quickly as it’s getting late
For him to stand around alone like this and wait.
RAMADAN’S COME – THE TIME FOR PASSING WINE AROUND
has gone;
The season when we bragged and drank and laughed and clowned
has gone;
All of the wine that we’ve been hoarding still remains
undrunk,
And, still unfucked, the gaggle of cheap whores we found
has gone.
ALTHOUGH THE ASS CAN BE ENTICING AND ATTRACTIVE
It’s drawn too tight, the air there’s pretty putrefactive –
No, take the cunt, it’s nicely moist, and grassy too,
And anyway there’s much more room there to be active.
AN INDIVIDUAL FUCKED WITH ALL HIS MIGHT
A virgin cunt, still girlish, small, and tight;
The cunt said to the prick, “How nice it is
When hopes come true, and everything’s just right!”
WELL, ONCE UPON A TIME, IN DRIBS AND DRABS,
Income turned up for me, throughout the year;
I’d dry bread and fresh herbs to hand, in case
A friend should unexpectedly appear;
And sometimes there’d be wine to drink, for when
A pretty boy or swe
et young girl came here.
But now I’m getting on in years, my life
Has suddenly become much more austere;
I’ve neither dry to eat, nor wet to drink,
And all that’s in my house is me, my dear.
TRY HARD TO HAVE MEN MAKE A FUSS OF YOU
And say, “He knows what’s right, he sees what’s true.”
Then if you’re good they’ll say, “Oh, he’s an angel”;
And if you’re wicked, “There, he’s human too!”
The Lesson to Be Learned from the End of
King Sheikh Abu Es’haq
ABU ES’HAQ, WORLD’S LORD, AT WHOSE COMMAND
Crowns were distributed throughout this land,
Tales of whose glorious generosity
Enthralled the world with his nobility –
Qobad and Afrasyab shared his domain,
An Ardavan, a Sanjar, in his reign,
Surpassing faith with wisdom, one whose arm
Revived the world, protecting it from harm,
A Khosrow in the pleasures of his days,
A King Anushirvan of righteous ways,
Who built fine porticoes, a splendid fort
In which a king could fittingly hold court,
And gardens of a heavenly design
Where he would take his ease and drink his wine;
Whose slaves, admitted to this court, became
Like noblemen and kings in all but name.
Look at the game Fate played, and how Disaster
Tugged at his court’s reins, and is now its master;
Catastrophe has swept away his son,
His government, and kingdom – all are gone!
And that great garden whose magnificence
Once rivaled paradise’s elegance,
That haunt of nightingales…lies stripped and bare –
A harsh, black-hearted crow has nested there;
That glorious fortress with its splendid riches
Is home to owls now, and to whelping bitches.
Obayd, from this sad downfall we can learn
A thousand clues to how the heavens turn;
Pity the wretch who grasps at stars, who tries
To hold on to the turning of the skies;
Lucky the man whose heart’s content, who stays
Indifferent to the world’s inconstant ways.
Cat and Mouse
COME, LISTEN TO MY TALE. IF YOU’RE DISCERNING,
Possessed of wisdom, common sense or learning,
I guarantee that it’ll knock you flat –
This story’s of a mouse, and of a cat.
O wise and knowledgeable one, rehearse
This Cat and Mouse tale in well-ordered verse,
Like pearls that roll from rhyme to chiming rhyme.
In old Kerman then, once upon a time,
There lived a lion-tailed cat – huge, dragon-jawed,
Pot-bellied, barrel-chested, leopard-clawed.
He’d miaow – and roaring lions would leave their feast,
Fleeing in terror from the savage beast.
He dropped by at his favorite bar one day
To hunt for mice – and waiting for his prey
(Just like a thief behind a rock), our cat
Prepared his ambush, prone behind a vat.
Then suddenly a little mouse peered out,
Saw the coast clear and gave his squeaky shout,
Dashed for the vat and let his mouse head sink
Deep in the dark intoxicating drink.
Now roaring drunk he cried, “Where is that cat?
I’ll cut his head off and I’ll flay the brat,
I’ll stuff his skin with straw; that cat to me’s
The most contemptible of enemies.”
The cat sat listening and he hardly breathed;
Slowly his teeth were bared, his claws unsheathed,
And then he pounced and like a leopard pinned
The mouse who squirmed and squealed, “I know I’ve sinned,
I’m sorry, I…” The cat replied, “I heard –
You liar, you fake Moslem – every word,
You can’t fool me.” And there and then he killed
The mouse and ate it. With his belly filled
He strolled off to the mosque, and glibly said
His prayers as if a mullah born and bred:
“Court of the Highest, I repent; no more
Will my sharp teeth be soaked in mouse’s gore –
And for the blood that I’ve unjustly shed
I’ll give the poor as alms twelve rounds of bread.”
He prayed and moaned and heaved such bitter sighs
That tears stood brimming in his feline eyes.
Behind the pulpit lurked a little mouse
Who quickly bore the news off to his house:
“Great news, the cat’s converted, he repents,
He’s filled with sacred Moslem sentiments;
This paragon of pious virtues keeps
Prayer vigils in the mosque, and moans and weeps.”
Then when they heard the news the laughing mice
Seemed blessed with all the joys of paradise,
And seven elders of the mousey nation
Were chosen as a special deputation –
Each of them carried something rare and fine
To give the cat: one bore a glass of wine
And one a spit of lamb kebab; another
Took currants in a salver, while his brother
Sported a tray of figs; one cheese he’d made,
And one a syrup of sweet lemonade;
One bore him yogurt, butter, and fresh bread,
The last a tray of rice upon his head.
The mice drew near the cat – and with salaams
And deepest bows and eulogistic psalms
They greeted him: “O thou, for whom all mice
Would undergo the final sacrifice,
Accept the gifts we offer you, O lord.”
He peered at them, and chanted, “Your reward
Will be in heaven; I’ve fasted now for days
To please the Merciful beyond all praise;
Whoever does God’s work it’s certain he
Will be rewarded, and abundantly!”
Then he continued: “But come closer, do…
Dear friends, a few steps more, a very few…”
Then, frail as trembling aspen leaves, the mice
Went forward as a group – and in a trice
The cat leapt like a mighty champion, like
A fighter who sees when and where to strike;
Five mice he captured – two in each front paw
And one was snapped up in his lion-like jaw.
The two remaining mice that got away
Fled crying, “Slothful mice, oh rue the day –
With claws and teeth the cat’s dismembered five
Of us and only we remain alive.”
Then at this bitter news the grieving crowd
Donned mourning clothes, lamented long and loud,
Heaped dust upon their heads and, contrite, cried,
“Alas for our great leaders who have died!”
At last the mice were able to agree,
“We’ll tell the king of this calamity;
Before the throne we’ll chronicle our case –
The foul oppression of the feline race.”
The mouse king sat upon his throne in state;
Far off he saw his subjects congregate
Until they came before him as a crowd
And, with a single motion, deeply bowed:
“O king of kings and of the ages king,
This cat has done a hideous, dreadful thing;
O king of kings, we are your sacrifice,
An annual one of us would once suffice
To feed this cat; but, since his late conversion,
Since he’s become a pious Moslem Persian,
Five at a time is n
ow his greedy style.”
And when they’d whimpered and complained a while,
The king replied: “My dearest subjects, wait!
I’ll be revenged upon this reprobate,
I’ll kill this cat in such a way the story
Will fill the world with my eternal glory.”
He spent a whole week mustering his men,
Three hundred thousand mice-at-arms, and then
Another thirty thousand; each mouse bore
A bow and spear and shield, and longed for war;
Now like a wave they poured in from Gilan,
From distant Rasht and fertile Khorasan.
The brave victorious mouse addressed the horde:
“I speak now as your leader and your lord,
A mouse must be our envoy to this cat;
Our message is, ‘Submit, or failing that
You must prepare yourself for endless war.’
There was an ancient mouse ambassador
Who was entrusted with the valiant plan;
He traveled to the cat’s lair in Kerman
And there he bowed and said, “I represent
The noble mouse king and his government,
And bear a message meant for you alone:
You must pay homage to the mouse king’s throne;
War is the price if you do not submit!”
The cat replied, “I never heard such shit!
I’ll not budge from Kerman!” But secretly
He summoned cats to his confederacy,
Cats like lions, cats from Isfahan,
Wild cats from Yazd, cats from his own Kerman;
And when their army’d grown they set out for
The destined conflict, well prepared for war.
Across the desert marched the mousey horde,
Down from the hills the feline army poured,
The plain of Pars became their battlefield –
Each side fought bravely and refused to yield.
(So great the slaughter was no man could say
