Poem
Ali Alizadeh
Good Idea?
Good Idea?
Good Idea?
Fin-de-Siècle Francemuch more congenial
to the glum exuberance
of your thoughts. Exile
in the land of mediocrity
and gum-trees, no doubt
unjust as Ovid’s. Our Caesar
a banal bureaucrat who
jogs around a lake
in Canberra. “Intellectuals”
debate base quackery
in our desert island’s
bored media. Nearly
buried by the sandstorm’s
insignificance, I asked
for a good idea. My thesis
a pauper’s grave,
withered formulae; since
the thirst for life
often kills. I was, frankly,
serious. You: “Then again
there are no good ideas”
and discoursed
with obstinate, burning
exactitude the belief
of doubt. Abelard lost
his balls for this. You
may be the last cynic
in the barren domain
of odious and senseless
pastoral optimism;
the strained and resilient
rope flung toward
my hands sinking in
the sand of the island’s
so-called culture, or lack
thereof. Amen.
© 2006, Ali Alizadeh
From: Eyes in Times of War
Publisher: Salt Publishing, Cambridge, UK
From: Eyes in Times of War
Publisher: Salt Publishing, Cambridge, UK
Poems
Poems of Ali Alizadeh
Close
Good Idea?
Fin-de-Siècle Francemuch more congenial
to the glum exuberance
of your thoughts. Exile
in the land of mediocrity
and gum-trees, no doubt
unjust as Ovid’s. Our Caesar
a banal bureaucrat who
jogs around a lake
in Canberra. “Intellectuals”
debate base quackery
in our desert island’s
bored media. Nearly
buried by the sandstorm’s
insignificance, I asked
for a good idea. My thesis
a pauper’s grave,
withered formulae; since
the thirst for life
often kills. I was, frankly,
serious. You: “Then again
there are no good ideas”
and discoursed
with obstinate, burning
exactitude the belief
of doubt. Abelard lost
his balls for this. You
may be the last cynic
in the barren domain
of odious and senseless
pastoral optimism;
the strained and resilient
rope flung toward
my hands sinking in
the sand of the island’s
so-called culture, or lack
thereof. Amen.
From: Eyes in Times of War
Good Idea?
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