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Poetry Monster

Isolated Breakfast

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I see four nurses dressed in white

Four half breaths masked in blue

Helping who lying in street

Someone who about to leave

By the last deadline is received
....

I see a rare scene in my history

Entered by window to take my seat

I'v never had a breakfast like this

First swallow was taken by high beat

Separated chair knocking the door

With murmuring ' who is charged with this

My hands are again in the first role

Since author does not write by his feet

....

I see a rare scene in your history

An isolated version of your look

Owing a black-eyed glance at me

Still is floating under lined shock

Seems four-seat table all against me

With a separated seat walking up to me

Who knows what the morning's life like

If a frozen mask kisses you rather than me

....

I see four hands dressed nothing

A broken feeling saying nothing

In one of the most coldest time

All cavilling the breakfast to do nothing

Who knows what the morning's life like

If two crossed hugs sense nothing

7 am is the right time to date

Our watch has shiver and showing nothing

....

I see four nurses dressed in white

Stepped in to start an aerial fight

Four half breaths masked in blue

Begging to exhale by the last shot

Who knows what a drug feeling like

If not able to make the morning hot

Having no time in cleaning the table up

Witnesses now shows I was doing right

Take care of the three empty chairs

And say all you keep grabbing the cup

Waiting to see our breakfast released

With two cracked cups

Whose taste will be ever hot
...................
Iranian Poet and Researcher
Mostafa Sarabzadeh

Photography: Erica Zeitz
el Poblenou, Barcelona
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Poetry Monster

Hourly Illusion

To acknowledge the memory of a loving couple, 
Mrs. Izaura Martins Cunha & Sir. Albertino Sabino da cunha — -
Dedicated to their daughter, my dear friend, Dr. Cristiane Martins Cunha.

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I wished you be in my wall clock

To be an extension of my passing,

Sometimes by seconds

Sometime by minutes

And sometimes

Be early and a late

By the time I am all running.

…

I wished you, in the mornings

When I search my being,

To be my waking at 6 o'clock

Sometimes softly

Sometimes loudly

And sometimes

Be early and a late

By the time I am all dreaming.

…

I wished you be all the tic tac's

My body could go with on the time

Sometimes counted

But irregular

Sometimes listened

But unclear

And sometimes,

Be early and a late

By the time I am getting repaired.

…

I wished you move circularly

To shelter all the angles of my look

Why not to be a third clock hand

Sometimes forward

Sometimes backward

sometimes really stopped

Not to be an early and a late

By the time I was all watching.

…

I wished you to be inside

As like my wall clock in the mirror

Nobody knows who is all shown there

Sometimes it is a mirror

Sometimes it is a wall clock

And sometimes, it is only you in me

Are again an early and a late

By the time we are drinking tea (Mate) .

…

I wished you be again filled with me

Sometimes my early double-sit gathering

Sometimes my wall clock

Sometimes my mirror

And, sometimes be my morning passing look

Early and a late

By the time I am all you and on calling.

………………

Researcher and poet, INEF

Mostafa Sarabzadeh

Copyright © Mostafa Sarabzadeh | Year Posted 2022

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Poetry Monster

Special 6 am

A day,

in a quiet place,

with four walls surrounded you,

and a half-broken window,

with many black ants who are marching behind the window,

you probably feel scared and suddenly wake up at 6 am.


I know, It’s early, but you do not know,

it is always going to be late.

Seconds by seconds go further

till you open your eyes,

and say a lot, see a lot, sense a lot, smell a lot, wish a lot, help a lot

with a new feeling of growth and sublimity

which always remind you “you were nothing”, “ you are nothing

“ and “ you will be one day the same nothing”.

A real nothing as human being and our breakfast table,

but full of being as creature 

which will bring you another 6 am,

with an open window

and a white-dressed black ant who invite you a coffee… 


and again, 
you say a lot, see a lot, sense a lot, smell a lot, wish a lot, and help a lot.


.................... 
Written by Mostafa Sarabzadeh 
Thirst of Mirage
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Poetry Monster

A new kitchen table and psychology

I would always tell people “If you want to change the line of your life 
and re-write all the stories behind, do not go to visit psychologists anymore,
just try to buy a new Kitchen Table instead”.

When it comes with a refreshing waking up at the most earliest morning time, 
that’s exactly where the new story begins 
to give you a warm dish even if that’s not much on the table,
two unconditional hottest hands on even if nobody have taken other seats, 
a real sense of sublimity to see whatever of positivity 
even if your eyes are half-opened 
and a white reborn version of your new being 
even if what you had worn so far has been all black-colored memories.

So please just sit and feel taking the first sip of the coffee
while your window blue sky rewards you a new image 
which the new kitchen table write your new being with. 

...........
Written by Mostafa Sarabzadeh, 
Researcher and Poet
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Poetry Monster

Fighting of Prouds

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In the market with full of people, 
there are many decorative ones figuring at the back of the vitrine in the front of thousands random eyes. 

As my pant coloured with alley dust of humble,
I have never been back of the vitrine along with thousands random shots.

When you go with them to an italian restaurant 
you could proud of them that restaurant lord know you,
eagerly welcome you, 
and considering special sits for you - 
seems a worthy moment to happen. 

But if you came with me, 
you could be proud of an real open embrace, 
strongly runs, comes and hugs us 
from a fortune teller child beside the restaurant.

This has always been a fighting of prouds -
between me and figurative people, 
as long as opened stores become closed 
and blind closed eyes become opened .../.
..................
From: 
Thirst of Mirage
By Mostafa Sarabzadeh
Categories
Poetry Monster

Todays’ today

At the end,

I will be the actor,

the same as promised by Masoud Kimiai.


It started with a sequence

where someone was dead beside the door,

But a festival-awarded poem finally confirmed

which one was an actor and which one was not.

The script attached to the movie scenario shows the first sequence was not part of the movie at all. It was just wet and bloody, and its start was where as if it was not there.

Even the main actor himself did not understand
Was it his main role or

the main role of the one who really died…/.

........
A piece of poem “Todays’ today”

By Mostafa Sarabzadeh
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Categories
Poetry Monster

The Azure Sea of an Alien Tongue

me_abandoned

 

The Azure Sea of an alien tongue
Lures the perpetual orphan in me
Me who had never been happy or young
Always suppressed and never free
One who is always betrayed and abused
One who’s been abandoned, alone
One, never loved, and one, always used
I have so aged but alas never grown
Never grown up, still a parentless child
Never content and never at peace
It would be so nice to be gone in the wild
Just to be gone, disappear and cease.

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Poetry Monster

Lament For The Makers By William Dunbar

Lament For The Makers by William Dunbar, illustration
Scene of Lamentation, Miniature, France, probably Paris, around 1460

Lament For The Makers

By William Dunbar

I that in heill wes and gladnes,
Am trublit now with gret seiknes,
And feblit with infermite;
Timor mortis conturbat me.

Our plesance heir is all vane glory,
This fals warld is bot transitory,
The flesche is brukle, the Fend is sle;
Timor mortis conturbat me.

The stait of man dois change and vary,
Now sound, now seik, now blith, now sary,
Now dansand mery, now like to dee;
Timor mortis conturbat me.

No stait in erd heir standis sickir;
As with the wynd wavis the wickir,
Wavis this warldis vanite.
Timor mortis conturbat me.

On to the ded gois all estatis,
Princis, prelotis, and potestatis,
Baith riche and pur of al degre;
Timor mortis conturbat me.

He takis the knychtis in to feild,
Anarmit under helme and scheild;
Victour he is at all mellie;
Timor mortis conturbat me.

That strang unmercifull tyrand
Takis, on the moderis breist sowkand,
The bab full of benignite;
Timor mortis conturbat me.

He takis the campion in the stour,
The capitane closit in the tour,
The lady in bour full of bewte;
Timor mortis conturbat me.

He sparis no lord for his piscence,
Na clerk for his intelligence;
His awfull strak may no man fle;
Timor mortis conturbat me.

Art-magicianis, and astrologgis,
Rethoris, logicianis, and theologgis,
Thame helpis no conclusionis sle;
Timor mortis conturbat me.

In medicyne the most practicianis,
Lechis, surrigianis, and phisicianis,
Thame self fra ded may not supple;
Timor mortis conturbat me.

I se that makaris amang the laif
Playis heir ther pageant, syne gois to graif;
Sparit is nocht ther faculte;
Timor mortis conturbat me.

He hes done petuously devour,
The noble Chaucer, of makaris flour,
The Monk of Bery, and Gower, all thre;
Timor mortis conturbat me.

The gude Syr Hew of Eglintoun,
And eik Heryot, and Wyntoun,
He hes tane out of this cuntre;
Timor mortis conturbat me.

That scorpion fell hes done infek
Maister Johne Clerk, and Jame Afflek,
Fra balat making and tragidie;
Timor mortis conturbat me.

Holland and Barbour he hes berevit;
Allace! that he nocht with us levit
Schir Mungo Lokert of the Le;
Timor mortis conturbat me.

Clerk of Tranent eik he has tane,
That maid the Anteris of Gawane;
Schir Gilbert Hay endit hes he;
Timor mortis conturbat me.

He hes Blind Hary and Sandy Traill
Slaine with his schour of mortall haill,
Quhilk Patrik Johnestoun myght nocht fle;
Timor mortis conturbat me.

He hes reft Merseir his endite,
That did in luf so lifly write,
So schort, so quyk, of sentence hie;
Timor mortis conturbat me.

He hes tane Roull of Aberdene,
And gentill Roull of Corstorphin;
Two bettir fallowis did no man se;
Timor mortis conturbat me.

In Dumfermelyne he hes done roune
With Maister Robert Henrisoun;
Schir Johne the Ros enbrast hes he;
Timor mortis conturbat me.

And he hes now tane, last of aw,
Gud gentill Stobo and Quintyne Schaw,
Of quham all wichtis hes pete:
Timor mortis conturbat me.

Gud Maister Walter Kennedy
In poynt of dede lyis veraly,
Gret reuth it wer that so suld be;
Timor mortis conturbat me.

Sen he hes all my brether tane,
He will nocht lat me lif alane,
On forse I man his nyxt pray be;
Timor mortis conturbat me.

Sen for the deid remeid is none,
Best is that we for dede dispone,
Eftir our deid that lif may we;
Timor mortis conturbat me.

 

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Done is a battle by William Dunbar

Done is a battle by William Dunbar
William Dunbar, Done is a bottle. Illustration – a miniature from the Chansonnier Provençal (1250-1300), Bibliothèque Nationale de France (BNF Français 854)

Done is a battle on the dragon black,
Our champion Christ confoundit has his force;
The yetis of hell are broken with a crack,
The sign triumphal raisit is of the cross,
The devillis trymmillis with hiddous voce,
The saulis are borrowit and to the bliss can go,
Christ with his bloud our ransonis dois indoce:
Surrexit Dominus de sepulchro.

Dungan is the deidly dragon Lucifer,
The cruewall serpent with the mortal stang;
The auld kene tiger, with his teith on char,
Whilk in a wait has lyen for us so lang,
Thinking to grip us in his clawis strang;
The merciful Lord wald nocht that it were so,
He made him for to failye of that fang.
Surrexit Dominus de sepulchro.

He for our saik that sufferit to be slane,
And lyk a lamb in sacrifice was dicht,
Is lyk a lion risen up agane,
And as a gyane raxit him on hicht;
Sprungen is Aurora radious and bricht,
On loft is gone the glorious Apollo,
The blissful day departit fro the nicht:
Surrexit Dominus de sepulchro.

The grit victour again is rissen on hicht,
That for our querrell to the deth was woundit;
The sun that wox all pale now shynis bricht,
And, derkness clearit, our faith is now refoundit;
The knell of mercy fra the heaven is soundit,
The Christin are deliverit of their wo,
The Jowis and their errour are confoundit:
Surrexit Dominus de sepulchro.

The fo is chasit, the battle is done ceis,
The presone broken, the jevellouris fleit and flemit;
The weir is gon, confermit is the peis,
The fetteris lowsit and the dungeon temit,
The ransoun made, the prisoneris redeemit;
The field is won, owrecomen is the fo,
Dispuilit of the treasure that he yemit:
Surrexit Dominus de sepulchro.

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