Phaedrus II: The Last Judgement of Thamus

Phaedrus II: The Last Judgement of Thamus

by Azly Rahman

__________________________________________

Men will never be free until the last king is strangled with the entrails of the last priest.

-- Denis Diderot, French Enlightenment thinker

There was non among the myriads of men that existed who would pity or assist me; and should I feel kindness towards my enemies? No: from that moment I declared everlasting war against the species, and, more than all, against him who had formed me and sent me forth to this insupportable misery.

-- 'Frankenstein' by Mary Shelley-Wollstonecraft


Sometime ago, after reading Plato's narration of a conversation between King Thamus and the inventor Theuth concerning the impact of new technologies on society, after reading media guru Neil Postman's work Technopoly, and after deep reflection on the idea of the Luddites (a movement that "raged against the machine" during the Industrial Revolution), I penned verses which I find suitable to honour Malaysian bloggers in their onward march towards creating a spectre that will haunt the state-owned print media.

Here it goes:

P H A E D R U S II
The Last Judgement of Thamus
Circa A.D. 2020
Lines composed near the banks of Hudson River, New York city
by Azly Rahman


Background notes: They say that there dwelt at Naucratis in Egypt one of the old gods of that country, to whom the bird they call Ibis was sacred, and the name of the god himself was Theuth. Among his inventions were number and calculation . . . and, above all, writing. . . . To [the king, Thamus] came Theuth and exhibited his inventions . . . when it came to writing, Theuth declared: "There is an accomplishment, my lord the kind, which will improve both the wisdom and the mentory of the Egyptians. I have discovered a sure receipt for memory and wisdom." "Theuth, my paragon of inventors," replied the king, "the discoverer of an art is not the best judge of the good or harm which will accrue to those who practise it. . . . Those who acquire [writing] will cease to exercise their memory and become forgetful. . . . What you have discovered is a receipt for recollection, not for memory . . . ( Phaedrus, 95-96)


And it was in the year 2020
In a not-too-distant cybercity
As Socrates' narratives on cybertechnology
Laments King Thamus's concern for the fate of academies

And Theuth my inventor par excellence
What say you concerning educational excellence?
Of the methods and principles of teaching
Brought about by new technologies of communicating?

O' Thamus, Wise King of Cyberjaya
Indeed our children will undergo Karma
Of one imbued with Dharma
Which will bring us all to Moksha
Karma is Rebirth
Dharma is Devotion and Duty
And Moksha is art of being one with Creation
Of which educational practice will assume a new reality

This invention called blogging
Of which for many ages we have waited so patiently
Will transform the meaning of Reality
                                            and Democracy
as it marries Virtuality
More than what print media has guaranteed

O' wise King Thamus
We are witnessing the death of Papyrus
the demise of Gutenberg legacy
As we witness the birth of PERSONACRACY
deeply personalized form of postmodern democracy
In the brilliance of anarchy
To be cultivated with the media of blogging
By way of this ideology called PERSONACRACY,

O' King
Our children, the true song of democracy they will sing
Of which the teacher will die a slow death
Like the first teacher Socrates
whose fate was a choice he once had
Our children will be Brahma, Shiva, and Vishnu
The Creator, Destroyer, and the One who Renews
Our children will make history and create Knowledge
Destroy paradigms
and like Vishnu, preserve what is old and what is new

They will be Renaissance men and women
In their mind neural connections will be made,
synapses will be woven
And the boundaries of the Real and the Imagined we can no longer ascertain
In this onward march towards Virtuality
Classrooms will cease to exist nor too the concept of teaching
The sage of Russia Illich
will be singing
In honor of this day when education means deschooling

O' Thamus wise ruler of Cyberjaya
The days wherein authorities rule capital cities
Will be gone with the advent of my invention called blogging
Pedagogy will be replaced with METAPHYSICAL TRANSITION THEORIES

And Plato's academy will be history
Buried underneath the magnificence of blogging
Gone will be the idea of faculties
In their place will emerge knowledge patterned like fractal geometries
And Chaos will be the order of the day
And Complexity will be king of pedagogies

For the sage Mandelbrott did once spoke
Of the patterns inherent in knowledge and wisdom
O' Theuth my kingdom's most honored inventor,
What say you of the blogger's impact on the teacher?
One who holds the key to any civilization's treasure
And who guards the principles of a moral character?

Wise King Thamus,
this is my conjecture:
My invention is Frankensteinish in nature
Aren't we already at the end of history?
Wherein the Knower and the Known has no longer a boundary?
This technology will destroy authorities
Including values we guard with jealousy
Slain like the dragon in Beowulf's story
Buried with Socrates and Dante Alighieri

A further elaboration concerning the death of authority:
O' King, I call this an Age of Subalternity
In which we will witness the dawn of PERSONACRACY
Of which with the help of blogging,
               the child constructs his customized version of democracy

O' Theuth Master Inventor
Yours is a song of conjectures
For, can you as a creator
Be the judge of what good and bad
               blogging will bring into our future?

My greatest apologies
Wisest of all Kings
Do you not remember that we are in the year 2020?
In which kingdoms have been crushed
                     under the weight of technologies of virtual realities?

And you dear king - are you not already ancient history?

You and your kingdom destroyed by technologies of Virtuality?

Go back to the cave

Go back to the Cave
 by Azly Rahman


Let us go back to the cave, this new year
Let us move forth
beyond the hypocrisy of New York Time Square’s ball-dropping
of those screaming and yelling amidst confetti falling
More than just a night of fireworks in the sky, adorning,
Of drag racing,
Of disco-dancing
Of well-wishing
Of drunk-driving

And next, another year of national forgetting
… a nation in amnesia we are made to be in
Let us not forget what must lie ahead
As we retreat to the “cave”
To think of shadows on its wall
And to reflect upon the “doctrine of reminiscence”
… the river of forgetfulness we drank from, intoxicated therein

In this cave we congregate
And begin to look at this Reality we have constructed
Inside and outside of us as we are made to become cogs
in the wheels of Industry
Inside and outside of us we build Neon Gods and bow down to these
and their creators
Inside of us we have become these Gods

In the cave we must contemplate
The nature of revolution we must initiate
One that must begin with the mind and end with the mind
And in-between these we gather all those
Not yet intoxicated by the fireworks displays nor the hypocrisy of celebrating
Against the backdrop of world’s poor suffering
And in between these-- come forth will those be in full force
to bring this corrupt system down its knees
From inside of us, into the outside of this
… a revolt that must begin with the end in mind

In this cave
We are one
We are many
We are the powerful and the powerless and we are once the power abusers
We speak the language of Nature
Of one that will bring down this world of Materials Culture
Of one that will rewrite our History
So that the past will be closer to our Primordial Nature
So that the future will be close to our Heart’s desire

This will be our cave
In it we will speak of Politics and Culture in its most Ideal form
So that we may speak of The Culture of Vultures outside this cave
this vulture culture that is corrupting Human Nature
making the rich filthier
the poor poorer, trampled upon easier

This will be our cave
Wherein we no longer speak of the national economy
Calibrated by statistical lies only, trumpeted globally
In fine imitation of the language of composite indexes and standards and poor
And how bulls and bears will roam the streets running amuck
to the tune of the velocity of money
as currencies move globally creating national tragedies

This cave will be the place
Wherein we no longer speak of how many billions and gold bullions we will need
To prop up the next emperor with a kris
Nor a place wherein we talk about curbing corruption
Whereas we ourselves are too corrupt to curb ourselves

In this cave
There shall be no fireworks to burn
There shall be no slogans to clutter the timid mind of the people we govern
There shall be no strategies of deception and intrigues of politics to renew
There shall be no plans of monopolizing the prime media to honor
the Neon Gods anew

In this cave
There shall be dialogues our politics and pedagogy once knew
There shall be conversations around the idea of
Who should rule?
Why should we be ruled?
What is a just government?
When does a government become ineffective, abusive, oppressive,
and tyrannical?
and what then must we do?
Must investment bankers become emperors?
Must future leaders ally with global corporate raiders?
Must we disobey unjust laws?
How must we learn to question authority?
How must our children be taught?
How must their intelligence be respected?
Must these young minds be developed by State-conditioned educators?
How must we stop the decay in our universities?
How must we reclaim its prosperity and recapture its dignity?
And vote out those who rule with arrogance and intellectual brutality
What is an ideal society, a perfect government, a philosopher ruler
How might we create a messiah out of wisdom and virtue?
How might we make these possible?
Through a revolution of Pure Reason
That will overthrow governments run by robber barons

This will be our cave
As what Socrates once spoke of
In which Muhammad the prophet of Islam found illuminations in
In which Lao Tzu would had also once retreated to
Let us all go back to the cave
Let us first make our way to the mountains
There is no mountain high enough

Come into our cave---
Educators, university professors, Vice Chancellor, students, activists, enlightened politicians, social workers, farmers, rubber tappers, fishermen, doctors, lawyers, engineers, entertainers, religious leaders, military officers, artists, artisans, musicians, comedians, petty traders, currency traders, multimedia producers, princes and princesses, schoolchildren, …

Come into our cave---
Revolt we must against the Gods of Materials Culture and Political Vultures
Who reign through the Divine Right of Kings
Reigned through Hidden Terror
Mandated by the Modern State it Legitimates
Through the use of The Ideological State Apparatuses it Finely Decorates
So that the Masses will be cleverly subjugated

Let us, when we are ready, come out of the cave---
To create a new social order
For—this world is too much for us.
But we are not merely a speck of dust
We have choices. And we evolve.

This new year, we should be in a cave.

Scream of Consciousness

Scream of consciousness
by Azly Rahman

i want to write how my spirit tells me, where it moves my soul,
provided i can distinguish what is a spirit and what is a soul
and who writes what i have written....
i want to write as though my consciousness flows like a stream ...

i do not know where my soul lies
nor wherein my spirit reside
nor faith alone can tell me where my body and my soul meets
or when words in me conceived in antiquity
becomes flesh until eternity knocks on the door of
this temporality

i am writing as my heart tells me to
all that is existing in me are merely names embodying flesh blood bones
names that were taught to me in moments of deep serenity yonder in a distant antiquity
in a place only spirits may convene

i will stop writing
but cease will i not in composing the words, breathing life in them, worshiping words and only words
so that they may become flesh blood bones and awaiting for spirits and soul and thoughts and feelings and anger and joy
to yet take shape and form ... in the world of words only i am all too familiar with
as i have seen them in that place, serene, yonder , in a distant antiquity

i am now silent.

Wuthering Heights II

Wuthering Heights II
by Azly Rahman


And his glorious eyes, like a thousand arrows from Indera's bow
pierced into mine from a pasture unseen yet aglow
into my soul a thousand blows
become seeds made of fireflies' souls glow

And sought thee not in heaven, nor earth, nor wind, nor fire
for he resides in the deepest dungeons of human Desire
of him many a life-time long a seeker longs like the ages of Man
                                           -- one Right a path through many wrongs

Never raise a coward cry in thou's search
for that with the thousand eyes
for he sees thine soul in momentous joys and silent cries
Cease not to think
Cease not to be
These are the hands of the minds
                    That plow the fields of eternity

Seek thee that spirit, seer
Through the sands of time
If thine eyes may catch yet a thousand blows
From Indera's arrow
Though in the pasture of thine soul a thousand rivers of forgetfulness flow
And never one had thou seen his glorious eyes
Neither in heaven, hell, earth, and water
Never once in this lifetime
But at least one has not ceased to think ... nor to be

Cease to think nor be
For therein lies the signs of thine's path to serenity
If thine's journey like Ulysses in Homer's story
Becomes thine’s own in thine's own glory

Seek not the one who shoots arrows
Nor one thou seeks in vain that will come to Humanity
                                     for a better tomorrow
For therein lies human folly and the burden of thine's sorrow
To wonder in disgust what ails one as one plows through those sorrows
of yesteryears till there is no tomorrow ...

The signs of times are the signs for thee
For in thee lies unbridled eternity
That which seeks the glory of the Humanity
wanting to become-- and to be
Arrows that pierce one's heart and soul and the signs inside of thee
are but reminders of the Thou in love with thee ...

Seek in thee the origin of Humanity
In the darkness of the early morn as it awaits the colors of glory
In the silence of the thundering explosion of the Universe and its story
Lies the birth of thee,
witnessed by the angels with deep jealousy

How many eyes are blinded by the brightness of pitch dark reality
Bathed in the river of forgetfulness mistaken as a Ganges of prosperity
How many eyes are pierced by those arrows of eternity
Mistaken the gift of sight to bathe in the glory
and worship the gods and goddesses of materiality

O' humanity
Did you not remember the day in which
                             on one fine darkness of neither day nor night we met?
In which thine has kept the promise to be free and to agree to walk with dignity?
That time when no forms nor substance nor appearance nor encapsulation makes thee?
Have thou forgotten that moment of deep silence that resounded gloriously like a symphony?
Did you remember what was told to thee?

Time is created for thee in this journey
So that thine heart will always be close to remembering thine self  in all its glory
Time, like the goddesses Kala, wait no Man nor promises Eternity
Time, when will thou unfold thyself
                                            for these earthly things that take pride in destroying boundaries?

That Light

That Light
by Azly Rahman

therein in us lies the light
that has transformed the self
and mutate the ego
into differing evolutionary stages
     of consciousness
therein lies, as Man was conceived from spirit and flesh
at Dawn and at the dawning of the historical Man,
the eternal light that alters the entire self
and elopes
and hides
and appears
and disappears
     for the self within,
therein lies at the beginning of creation,
the Man that drinketh from the fountain of Creativity
so that Man may become Creator
as he journeys
into the afternoon,
the late afternoon,
the daybreak, and next
the pitch blackness of the Day,
     only to be reborn and the cycle continues...

Only if man knows
of the light within
that brings him to greater heights
into the layers of the Universe
of the self
     -- larger than the universe outside
     -- until the universes and him becomes one.

But the light too has evolved and rebelled
      - unaware that the self it inhabits
is a well guarded self
wherein the Man
      - the Enlightened One -
sits on a throne
guiding his destiny and
charting his metaphysical history.

Ahhh how nice words like these flow
          -- those only the self knows
For is it not said that
for the known
there is a knower
For the living there is that that liveth within
For the seeing there is one that seeth
For the one that speaks there are verse spoken into .
     And so on and so forth
For -- there is no past nor future
All that ever existed is an ever-changing present ...

On listening to Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata

On listening to Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata
by Azly Rahman

Significant
is "night" as an inner cave of the self
           in which the soul seeks solace
            as it speaks to the senses
                      five, six, seven....
            and reconnects with the enlighteningly dark forces
            within the self.

Significant
is "night" as we retreat deep into the abyssimal
           yet blissfulness
           of the soul corroded so much by the multitudinality
           of the stages of life we tried to mediate
                   in this world of form and substances,
                          of the self and the selflessness of the self

Significant
is night to the bright of day
            as dawn greets yet another cycle
            of the creation of the self,
            yet another vow being made in thunderous silence
            in screams of the unconscious
                        -yet another moment of creation to be witnessed --
                                of the Big Bang of the body and soul united yet parted

Night
     you are no longer one with Day.

Will a sonata make us one again?

Thanatos cometh, she may

Thanatos cometh, she may
For the one in grief
By Azly Rahman


Like the glory of the early morn,
          as it leaves the serenity
          of the night of a thousand stars,
          of the universe bathed in the warmth of moonlight,
you will see the events folding as another new beginning.

There is the gift of the mystery that lies beneath.
          All the world’s a stage we are merely players
          and some play their part well
          some failed but forgiven,
                     next to be given a new script.

Like the fever that is engulfing you,
          yet another catharsis visits,
          leaving you like the one shrouded in a blanket
          awaiting for a revelation
          of yet another conclusion of a chapter in a book of life
                  written,
                  rewritten,
                  and as the hand writes,
                  nothing is erased
but becomes postscripts
of a grand narrative of the self.


Like the warmth of a distant Love engulfing you,
          as it cuddled the tenderness of the one innocent like a lamb,
          yet another wave of happiness awaits you,
          washing away the tears of yesteryears,
          giving you the strength to face the world that will be
                    kinder,
                    gentler,
as you conclude another chapter in your book of life
                   battling demons,
yet unscathed by the waves of advancing destruction.


You grieved for a son that has not the chance
          to taste the sweetness of a father’s love;
          you grieved for the self in you
that has not the chance to taste the blissfulness
          of a union made in heaven.

But grieve not
          till tears run dry,
          till there is no more walls of regret to tear down,
          till there is no memory of yesteryear to deconstruct,
 … move forth and live in the ever-changing present,
           cherishing every moment with love and forgiveness
… move forth slowly leaving the memories that still haunt,
            believing that all that ever existed was a stage
                 wherein you played a part in a plot that was never yours,
in subplots that called for thanatos
          upon thanatos to be played
          as if eros is the game …
          of hubris
           of hamartia


you flourished
you flourished
come what may
Thanatos cometh, you may

O' child of wonder

O' child of wonder
by Azly Rahman

You asked about the meaning of all life's sufferings
                     and all these;
there are none for some,
they are what you wish to create out of these,
                  for many.

You were a child of experiences
that vacillate between the sacred and the profane;
hence you seek for 'god' in "his" house
and still cried like a child abandoned by the divine

You traversed the path of self-discovery,
with beauty and wit as gifts
                  to break the heart of many;
but you gave too much,
too early,
until you find there is nothing left for you
to bathe in love's fountain of glory

You met keen souls
whose character and intentions your heart was never foretold;
only to find sadness and tears of living
you can no longer hold

You found the meaning of things
that grow like flowers in spring;
these are the signs of life you see rejuvenating.


I can go on and on with a thousand verses but to conclude I say

" Of past lives that comes a visitin'
there are those you met to guide you
                                 through the mysteries of the unseen,
there are those who want to tell you how,
                                together, life could have beautifully been."

Man in blue, part 1

Man in blue, Part I
by Azly Rahman


yonder i saw a man in blue
he must have been in his late forties
he must have been there in the cold for seasons aplenty
he must have a story to tell the world anew
in between the two trees i called theos and pathos i saw him

man in blue tell me your story
though from a distance i hear your whisper
though the sands of time like a hurricane's rage awashes me afar
what burden of this world have thou been shouldering
though in deep contemplation thou sits on the throne of dignity
in between eros and thanatos thou presides
over the spirit of Man in the valley of the shadow of Death
daily it roams


though enshrined in a cold winter's day
thou giveth warmth to the heart of many
of those who seekth thee far and near
to tell the story of a thousand sorrow
to seek thine's counsel so there'll be tomorrow
thou is the beacon of hope blue man yonder
though silent as a rock carved to the shape of a spirit
mystery revealed
man in blue thou has maketh this world think asunder


thou your silence will be eternal
like the rythmns of snowflakes falling in a forest yonder
pray tell me blue man
what life is
what love is
what death means
that thou dwellest in
that thou have seen all


man in blue
how can i touch thee
when thine is a light of multicolored hues
dancing like strobes of rainbow from a distant sky
has not thine a nature?
silent as a bayou so blue
thine like a monalisa's smile chiseled
unmoving
whilst the world of them and i is a rupture
when can i ever touch thee?


man in blue
whilst the world sleeps i stand here staring at you
i really want to know you
speak to me
as i should be spoken to


even from far i can only stare at your feet
Devotion of mine to the wonders of that man in blue
like worshippers of Zeus at the feet of Olympus
like Krishna devotees dancing in Times Square
like those who scaled the heights of Machu Picchu
like fools who dived into the Dead Sea
i will stand here between eros and thanatos, theos and pathos
speak to me, man in blue

bring on

a rimbauld
a reilke.
a rendra
a neruda
a whitman
a shelley
bring on the best of sages
to spew words well-chosen, well-crafted
verses and quatrains that explode emotions
bring on the masters of the iambic pentameters
of sonnets and elegies
to describe you, man in blue
they shall never be able to define you
but speak to me like i should be spoken to

between the streets broadway and amsterdam
of this city
you sit listening to the stories of many
tales of hope and deliverance and peace and plenty
like the statue lafayette brought in honor of lady liberty
you reign supreme in that corner overlooking philosophy
you hadth cometh far, man in blue
carrying the secret you were told
as a child in a far away land
secrets upon secrets told as you reached the peak of that tree
till you were blue, dazed inbetween realities
struck unconscious no child wanted it to be

man in blue, man in blue
tell me what those secrets aplenty you hold
of this mystery of the self i too must hold
i shall be standing here still, in between these trees waiting for thee
till i turn blue like you
whilst the city snow engulfes me

man in blue what hadth silenced thee?
Will I ever be spoken to?

Snow-covered bamboo leaves

"Snow-covered bamboo leaves"
by Azly Rahman

Today I looked out of my window. The world was white.
As white as the snow: falling and falling as if each snowflake must become
A postscript.
     Of the longest story ever told.

Each bit of snow fall become one amongst millions and billions.
Of snowflakes that will become a blanket of whiteness
That will be weaved like an endless design of a carpet of a story.
Again, postscripts of a life that will be concluded in white.

Today I looked out of my window. I saw not a single snowflake.
The world was not white.
     Leaves from those bamboo trees fall: falling as if each must
Become what a child’s dream is made of.
I saw a child barefoot
Playing with a blowpipe he made out of the postscript of his future.
Running, laughing.
      Away from his sorrows I suppose.
      He is a child of Nature.

He looked at me as I looked outside of my window.
We locked eyes.
I saw snowflakes.
I did not know what he saw.  From amongst  the bamboo trees his eyes pierced into mine..
He disappeared.
Not a smile.
Not a frown
           he offered as a gift.

In between the snowflakes and the bamboo leaves lie our story weaved.

My philosophy of teaching

Azly Rahman

‎"To evolve into wiser individuals with enquiring minds, we must ask questions and reflect upon the answers suggested to us. If we are afraid to ask questions, our mind and consciousness will be owned and manipulated by those who think they have the right answers, or by those who wants to use force to tell us what the right answers shall be."
– My thoughts on the nature of learning

"I currently firmly believe that education should first be a dialectical and dialogical tool to mediate and resolve the contradictions between Existentialism and Cyberneticism, and of Cultures of Disabilities, ...and next be a Deconstructive-Reconstructivist tool and social force to engineer personal and social revolutions and progress towards the realisation of a personal republic of virtue, ethics, multiculturalism, and metaphysics; so that human beings endowed with the Natural Rights to be free may collectively become educated to rise above hegemony, domination, and oppression and in the final analysis, journey towards a Pastoral and Natural self ."
- My personal philosophy of teaching

To Pablo Neruda: by Azly Rahman

TO PABLO NERUDA:
by Azly Rahman


pablo--
you reign supreme amongst comrades, poetry your sword
your heart and soul unscatched by the journey
you rose from a speck of dust
untainted by the economies of scale
you serenade us with songs of children labored in chains and
           left to rot from the politics of pain
from the politic of mouth which speaks
from heart diseased like cold molten crust

pablo--
i do not know what you found, what you saw
in your wide awakened drunkedness
whilst you still called your poetry flawed

oh pablo
i may be a laureate your comrades longed for
nor my poems memorized by those in love and by the masses silenced

but wait pablo--
let me read you like a subtext
let me bathe in your passion for folklore
as i sit solemnly on a bench outside a new york city mall of glitz but violence hidden
as i sit - come hither
    let us have tea and talk about a revolution

you are a friend of the people
of allende whose for freedom instantaneously shattered
by round of ammunition spewed from the brilliance of the lost souls
                  of The Pentagon's totem pole
                  of a clever siege of copper and cattle

and you pablo --
your spirit rose above the ashes
as the wheels of commerce trample geopolitical marshes

am i wrong pablo--
    if is say that love might not conquer all?
       in this world of guns, guts, glory?
     where poetry lives in vain and machiavellian logic build human amongst us all?

am i not right comrade neruda ---
     in saying that the world is in a hurry
     to catapult darwin and friedmann to their glory
     and leave the child alone -- disfigured by splinters of the world economy?

oh pablo ---
you have descended from the poetry of love
cane down this earth, praises be unto you
but wait!
this is not the end of the story of love
the revelation use be constructed anew

and then--- let us finish our cup of tea
and talk about REAL nationalism
          and strange strategies
          and of the self in society
          and of the self in the march of history

ah ... let us now talk about this:
   who has the gin
   and who is hungry
oh ... wait a minute is it this:
   who has the gun because the child is hungry
wait again:
    who still has the gun and the child is still hungry

or-- they have the guns, guts, and glory
     and how do we arm the child with poetry and philosophy

ahh ... this will make sense pablo--

so that we will now know
      how politics is buried under metaphysical poppies!

may you rest in peace, comrade ...

Mao of Love by Azly Rahman

Mao of Love: preamble
by Azly Rahman
March 5, 2011

I had a dream
Of reading a Rilke
Whilst in a Rimbaud state of mind
Unfinished was my reading
    of the Duino Elegies
    of terrifying angels and of love
In that dream too
In-between my readings
I looked yonder
Three teens
In broad daylight slowly climbed up an apartment building
Scaling the height
To burglarize
And they took only umbrellas
Three beautifully crafted ones
And they opened the umbrellas
And together ... through the window
Smilingly, they ascend to the ground
     That image: like a freeze frame of a postmodern clip
              of The Matrix

In that dream
In a room
Full of people I saw her
    In red cardigan
    Or was it a turtleneck I was not sure
       As what dreams give me: benefit of the doubt
In her lies a childhood
A landscape of raw emotions
A tapestry of dialiectics
Amidst the world of growing materialism
Dialiectical materialism ... of love

I woke up
    Time collapses
       Persisting like a memory still, like a Salvador Dali
Flashed in front of my unseeing eyes are the words:
    Mao of Love ... Mao of Love ..
Forcing me to seek inside of me
This strange sensation of love
That constructs and deconstructs and reconstructs
That is a thesis and an anti-thesis and synthesizes and the cycle continues
That proposes and disposes and recomposes
That lives and dies and reincarnates
That loves and hates and reconciles and comes back in forms anew
That walks and marches tens of thousand of  miles and sacrifices for the Mao of Love
That has no fear to abandon love of materials for higher love

Mao of Love I was writing
Beyond the Tao of Physics
          I too was contemplating
Out of the dream that came a-visitin'
These words repeatedly I was chanting

My chants of the Mao of Love
Brought me back to my dreamstate
As every cell in me chants the mantra
incessantly
Like the wise one under the bodhgaya tree

Becometh of me was something I have never seen
A body and soul there is --
yet without boundaries
There are only words inscribed unto my entire body
Like tombstones glowing in a wasteland of warm lights aplenty

Like a apparation in front of me
I saw myself like clouds moving
in a pompous ceremony
Entering the room where the one in red sat alone
In the smoke-filled room
With multicolored strobe lights dancing
till eternity

We Shall Meet again

We shall meet again
By Azly Rahman



We once met when Time was immaterial,
grasped by the hands of the Beloved
When you and I was Space
          formless and void
whispers and screams of that tedious argument of creation we could hear
in the corridors where spirits roam
          in a purgatory of yet
                 another karma
                 within a karma
         to become yet another form and nothingness
you and I care not


Unforgettable Fire
I shall meet you again
With Time and that Void we have brought together
          as we unite and soar higher
as we become no longer flesh, blood, body, soul, intuition, Indra –


We have gone far my Love
This perfect union
Long has it been an imperfection
Dharma disposes

We have seen Kurusektra
Where fire rages within the hearts of men
Brothers against brothers
warrior against his guru
Krishna the charioteer
Guiding  that Kshatriya of all Ksatriyas
           Arjuna
the reluctant slayer

Ahh ... we have seen
     how Fire consumes the soul
             of mice and men


Have we not also seen the wanderings of Adam
imbued with names
banished in shame
to suffer the pain
Of a well-designed game?

O’ love ... did you and I not
bear witness to that?

You and I O'love
Could not endure even the sight of pain
of siddhartha the prince of light
he was becoming
          a living meditating corpse
          fasting
          suffering
          transforming

O' Love
you are a devotee to the wishes of men
            have you not bathed them in you?
                     so that they may become flesh and blood?

but you and i will meet again O'Love
Unforgettable Fire
     we shall meet again

Totem poles of the Unseen

Totem poles of the Unseen
by Azly Rahman

in thyself lies another Universe,
     of landmarks and tombstones and
     of totem poles of the Unseen,
couched merely in languages, concepts, words,
     that await meaning

– in this universe if one knows
-- ones does not exist but is created and destroyed
and recreated daily in a cycle of being and nothingness ..
and this Universe is formless but organic
and can be seen only with the non-existent eyes within
the world outside is an imperfection
that too needs to be lived in and explored
          ... as one is condemned to be free ...

the world inside is a perfect beauty
          and gloriously mathematical
          and symphonic that helps explains
          and guides the world ... outside ...
 as one is condemned to know
... Platonic one could say
being intoxicated by both worlds
       would lead to an imbalance
drinketh not from the River of Forgetfulness, some might say

how could one explain creation of the outside world
     when one cannot see what is created daily
          in one's inner universe?
how could one understand destruction in the outer universe

     when one's inner universe fails to experience inner destruction?
how could one reconstruct oneself out of the ruins of such destruction
     when one cannot master the signs and symbols of the inner world
          and name the temples and totem poles of the inner self?

read oneself well entirely
    and one can read the scriptures within,
    mastering one's destiny and charting one's path of righteousness ...
read in the name of thyself ... as within thyself
           lies the world that explains what lies outside ...

within the course of one's living
within the lifetime of one's existing
lies the story of Creation
only made meaningful if one could see
          how the beginning and the ends of things reveal themselves
           ... the Alpha-Omega of things entire

the world outside of oneself has taken a wrong turn
how could the Merciful and the Compassionate allow
mercilessness and chaos to reign
     from time immemorial
there is as if an angel of Death unleashed and allow to roam
...chaining the angel of beauty and life on its own,
          watching from the cage


speak to me of Existence, said the Outer Self
     as I am lost without an explanation
speak to me of Harmony
     as I am wobbling in this world I traverse
speak to me of Eternity and the Eternal Soul
     as I am a hollow being and has become the wretched of the earth
speak to me of the nature of the Creator and the Created
      of the Reality and one that is being Realized
          the Manifest and the one being Manifested
so that I may not live merely as a speck of dust
     but as a  spirit yearning to rise
     a soul yearning to Know

in the sorrow of men
     lies the evolution of suffering
           of Ignorance
of shattered window to the soul
of eyes that are not taught to see
of the ears that are not taught to hear
...the mouth not taught to utter the
          names forbidden to be spoken of

O' Wise One
Show me the path of the Unseen
     Should I become a devotee to what you are teaching
Show me where Life is
     as it nourishes the Living
Show me where Knowledge resides inside of me
     as it is guided by the One that Knows
O Wise One
where shall I find thee?
when you are now totem poles in me?

Paradise lost paradise regained

Paradise lost paradise regained
by Azly Rahman


Was I ever told of a paradise that once embodied me
of flowing rivers of a thousand amazons
in which the soul was embodied not by the flesh and blood
of a womb of love
why was I not told of a place I once knew
where sin is not yet a chess game of salvation
of a tedious argument between humanity and the almighty
Why was I not told of such a paradise?


Why was I told of a paradise of a time I cannot remember
of one where pomegranates they say are the seeds of the sins of Man
And old women and snakes as temptress like a set of tedious arguments creep upon my soul and eat out of its flesh
Ready I am to be expunged out of this paradise
With a soul as bruised as a apple gnawed by the worms of eternity
Why was I not told about my conditioned in such a paradise?

They said paradise is lost
They said paradise regained
Why should I not create one
    Closer to my heart’s desire?

In silence by Azly Rahman

In Silence
by Azly Rahman


in silence lies
     the formless
     the unspoken
     the unsaid
     that single breath
     the way
     the tao
     moksha
     Thou
in it lies the screams
           of the silence of truth.

Nature in me

Nature in me
by Azly Rahman

Speak to me of the wind
And I will speak to you of its origin

Look not into things that has no bearing
For, origin is fixed and soul ever changing

All the wind mean
Is that the souls have been
And the souls have seen
Everything and nothing

And sing to me the song of souls and spirits
And I will walk you down the path to where they inhabit

I long to sing the song of the soul
But I am mute

I long to hear you speak of the spirits
But I am deaf

Could thee ask them to sing  instead
Then all the meanings will stay intact

Speak to me of thunder and lightning and of the roughness of Nature
And I will show you where in the world inside of you Nature is preserved and ruptured

Thunder
Lightning
The roughness of nature
Oh the wonders of the world
tender to the sense but frequently blurred
    by the things shrouding the mind

Where in me are you --- Nature?

Mother's Day

Mother's Day
by Azly Rahman

Mother
I am at a loss for words
I could just write “Words cannot describe my love for you.
     Thank you for everything …”
           Like everybody said
           In those cards, those poems, those moments of well-wishing
I could just say that
And wait for another year.
     Another celebration.

At each and every breath I take
As each and every thought of every veins in my body that makes me stay awake
Each and every cell I bathe with mantras to
Each and every corner of your womb my eyes glanced through
I want to say “thank you …”
But that would be ordinary
As others too have wished.  Maybe.

I could send you a card
A prayer to your soul
And remind you of a memory of me when I was a child
And tell you where I have been as I walk on this world they called “maya”
I could tell you now what you meant by the path of righteousness
        The path I took
        The road not taken
        That may have made a difference
But mother, on this day of yours
Those would be ordinary.

I am at a loss for words
Unless my thoughts and my words are in the Jawi you know
I could write about the days when I was a child
       Fighting demons
       Strange creatures in my mind
       Out to destroy our kampong
       I fought them alone
       None will ever know
       On those trees
       In the rivers
       In the room I locked myself in
            No one knew . Not even you.
I could write all those on Mother’s Day
But those would be ordinary stories.

Mother on this day I must confess
That I was an existentialist as early as when I started to:
        Climb that tree
        Sneaked out of that wooden back door
        Jumped out of those old Javanese looking windows
        Roamed the city alone in my Japanese slippers
        Walked along the huge huge water pipes that lead to Singapore city
I was an existentialist, mother.
I cared about the Universe
But did the Universe care about me?
I wanted to tell you all these
On Mother’s Day back in the day
But my story would be ordinary.
     Plain ordinary.

You combed my hair daily
Laced it with Brylcreem
Masked me with Cuticura talcum powder
Tucked my shirt well into my neatly pressed pants
You held my hand everywhere I go
Afraid that the world would take me away
You held my hand tight as we crossed roads
Afraid that I would come to multiple crossroads
I wanted to tell you all these Mother.
          On the following Mother’s Day.
Back in the day.
Ordinary story to me.

Mother you are sweet
You said I had beautiful eyes
Those eyelashes too
Eyes that came from the depth of the night
Somewhere you and I may know
I saw you smile
When many came to look at my eyes
But what have those eyes seen now?

I don’t know how to say “Happy Mother’s Day”
That would be too ordinary to you and me.
I can only feel everyday is your day .
    Though for many years I was sent away.
        Like an anarkin.

Gently on my door she knocked

Gently on my door she knocked
by Azly Rahman

Poetry has come to me again
i do not know from where
       did it knock at my door softly?
       did it rage out of my fireplace and engulf me entirely?
       did it rain on me when i was out walking?
       did it whisper like a night of thousand stars
it comes when it knows i need her
when she knows
     i am in flames
when she knows
     i am as calm as a walden pond

Poetry comes to me when I am angry
At the world that has no mercy
       for those trampled by systems
          designed by human insensitivities
when iron hands in soft velvet gloves pound mercilessly
          on those fighting for basic human dignity
when black-robed men in the court of law preside
          over the fate of fellow men
stinking voices of higher justice
          whispering judgments into their ears
when men spewing religious verses in parliament houses
          rob fellow men in broad daylight
those horrifying faces of politics still running around
          spewing venoms calling for crusades
poetry comes to me in times that try men’s soul … in times like this

She has come again

poetry comes to me again
like a voice holding my hands into the woods in which the future reveals itself
like a world of wonder that unveils a curtain
to a congregation of the hearts chanting to ease pains
what must i write? will i have an audience?
must i whisper to you poetry; what i saw ... what i can see?
must i keep silent and let the loudness of the chants overwhelm me?


poetry has come again
whilst i open my arms
to catch rainbows
by the river Styx
poetry: you have come again 
tell me what this is all about?

Did you not tell me
          when I was a child
That there will be so much love to share
In a world that will grow older, colder, with the cries
          of a hungry child left in a huge dumpster of Progress?
          of a young girl driven to the brink of madness by the elegance of the neon lights?
          of a grow up man crushed of his torso by the heavy blow of daily toil?
          of a woman in twilight years whose Love having flown leaving her wilting like a rose dried up
                                                                              ----like a raisin in the sun?

poetry: did you not tell me all these whispered into me those moments we we up on that tree?
did i not ask you to whisper to me what the ultimate answer is?
                               or did i not whisper that to you
                                                   before you become you --- o' poetry?

poetry: you told me that rocks would speak to me in my alone-ness
as they roll down the hill
            gathering moss
that i would catch rainbows
            with open arms as i wade through the river styx
bidding farewell to the one i love
             you told me these, poetry
                               all these
did we not agree that Life is a child of Death?

Poetry: my first love ... my last
have you not flowed into my veins
build castles in every cell of my body?
become each breath that i take
reproduce yourself in every breath i give back
                       into this Finiteness of the world outside of you and i poetry?
i shall bid the world goodnight as poetry and i dance in our dreams

Angry poetry

Angry poetry
by Azly Rahman

Shouldn't have I been angry and write this cranky grumpy poetry
T's the state of the world so sorry
That has made my brain cells fried and my emotions so roller-coastery
Cool me off by writing poetry
Dip me in Loon Lake or the one where Loch Ness have its weekend party
I am cranky grumpy angry
And I am not sorry ...

Thought of taking a walk to Ben and Jerry's
OD'ed me on a gallon of Chunky Monkey
Started thinking of Malaysia's Bersih Rally
 Give me that gallon of Yellow Mellow, Ben and Jerry!
I want it now or you won't like to see me cranky
You capitalist ice cream maker colonialist imperialist ice breaker!
 I am cranky and sweaty
And I am not sorry for this cranky poetry

Yellow Mellow hot potato
Yo' Malaysians you are so cranky
You masses are angry I'll spray you with sambal tumis aplenty
Stupid rallies they say
Disturbing the peace of this country that is in harmony
Shut up masses
Hush and shush!
While we steal diamonds, submarines, Twin Towers,  golden yachts,
                                and smuggle them out of the country
Don't be cranky now
Don't be grumpy
It's all a game of who's mighty!

The heat
Intensity
Relativity
Hiroshima
Nagasaki
Humans are crazy
Radioactive crazy
Terrorists aplenty
Suicide bombers spirituality gone Lucifer-crazy
Purgatory
Black Sabbath Fender Stratocaster Hell-Raising guitar-ripping crazy
Grumpy cranky sweaty I am in the heat of New York city
Country roads take me home Sin City Jay Bee

My body's sweating with indescribable beauty
Blood sweat tears of industry
Like the workers of the world uniting in harmony
March on walk on carry on
In the heat of the summer night
Bring down the corporate imperialists down to their knees
Globalization ain't apple pie and cream cheese
A billion served a billion more starved
McJihad McTerror McModern Slavery
Aaargh...hot sweet summer beauty
 this heat is making me write cranky poetry
Stop me
Take away my pen
before I march alongside Old Man Samad Said in his next BERSIH Rally

Rubaiyat of Wall Street

Rubaiyat of Wall Street
by Azly Rahman

T'is neither Beast nor Beauty
But thoughts herein to tame those who are angry
For anger is  Fire of raw Desire
To be molded with clay -- to our Heart's Desire

The Beast is still a Beast within
The Beast speaks in quatrains
Whilst meditating in front of an Approaching A-Train!
A minute is like a thousand years
To hand the keys to Beasts who desire

Drink let us all -- from the cup of hot and cold
To reach the Heaven, from stories only we were told
Drink-- whilst I meditate upon chromosomes
Twenty plus THREE a pair -- all yearning to come home

The wind is like the Tempest's Ariel
High speed access of the Angel Gabriel
From seventh heaven the symphony cometh
Scent of the  One who reigns in a place
                             filled with Love and Warmth

Sing my love sing
So that you may find what is missing
Ecstasy is a meadow in this idea-scape of cybernetic philosophy
Where the King reigns in perfect harmony

Many hath journeyed and not come back
Scattered all over are multi-colored brand-named backpacks
But i am too in the forest and ocean floor
Living amongst myth, legends, and folklore

Worship, my Love worship
But not mute walls nor idols nor structures one reached through hardships
But speak thee with the Messengers entire
From dawn to dusk and night when souls are in slumber

Every inch of me embalmed in a computer diskette?
Like bones and marrow laid to rest in a rotting cascade?
The lightness of being is a state of Heaven's gate
No -- no -- not NIKE shoes nor Californian suiciders of Heaven's Gate

Wind -- I thank thee for stopping by
Come back to me, for more questions souls will live by
See me in my office -- between nine to five
All ten of you angels -- not the eleventh I banished whose union I denied

Origin matters
Origin matters
Else in life we will have metaphysical stutters
Tell me of the curse, my precious Love
I will send you a piece of my Love which will have it run wild

O'  Love
What hath been wrong with the way of the world
Forked tongue men in long flowing robe
    and women treated like hot-fudged swirls
My Love, if you cannot stand if this happens again
Sit still and meditate
   to unravel this mystery come snowstorms and rains of sand again

Love,
I am no beauty
Nor light in the dead and still of the night
But one who taught Alexandra how much to conquer
     and if Might is Right
Many eyes are sore
   diseased from too much of blinding light

O' Love
Tears of sadness flow down my cheek
Waiting for the seekers of Love --
    the young
    the old
    the oppressed
    the meek
News and views hath been sent  aplenty
Yet only a few will return to serve
     in this here-and-now Reality

May the force-- my Love
May the force --- be with you
This sword I give to you  is not brand new
Pass'd down from Sir Gawain
    the green knight he slained
This sword will split open the seven heavens
            with one strike so light
Engraved on this sword are so verses
                         so Right
                         so Mighty Right
  this word-- from a Beloved
     I will treasure till Death invites me aside  ---

Go forth in peace-- my Love.
 We shall meet again-- and become One.

Epilogue by Azly Rahman

Epilogue
by Azly Rahman


poetry has come to me again
so often it knocks at the door of my eternal soul, i do not understand
hardly the time i have to gather the spirits inside of me
from their wanderings whilst i am deep in slumber
to gather them
... to warn them that poetry hath come
so excuse me while i kiss the sky
and caress the muse
and serenade the darkening stars
under this angry moon
canopied by the red blood sky


T'is not my nature with poetry I meant to hurt anyone
Philosophy is so powerful it permeates
     and becomes love
     and becomes poetry
     and hence philos and sofia
     and the hands write ...
But philos must come down and dwell amongst the citizens of Maya

I am philosophy in search of boundaries
        religion in search of sensibilities
but perhaps, looking for these
            from the balcony of the glass walls of ephemereality
   --- i should not have meddled in the affairs of humans
          nor look closely at pine trees
but your poetry have of late touched me so deeply ... so deeply
                               shattering boundaries I guard jealously
and yours are words that branched out of this physical reality
    so real they are yet glazed with metaphysical reality
                                            with pure religiosity

These conversations
we hold dear to our hearts
in the presence of the Thou
    they are here to stay
    come snowstorms
    come sandstorms
    come the company of angels on fire
These conversations shall remain cherished
   and guarded from others who will never comprehend strange phrases i must utter

But not you perhaps
  For I have long lit a candle
  by the side of the biggest and strongest pine tree
  and camp there nights so many
    whilst I preach to this magic carpet
        --- rats! how can I bring this tree for this magic ride?
             never have I meant to transform dragonflies into trees!
             tress will be trees
               specks of dust will know joys and miseries
             for these are where heaven and hell lie
             in a world of fractal beauty and weeping dragonflies

We might never meet in flesh and blood
    --- only in cybernetic reality
But this --- is the ultimate beauty.

 
At the "Louis XVI Collection, European Art" Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York, circa 2005