The Pharaohs’ Golden Parade event : new splendor after 3500 years
by Federico Wardal
The Pharaohs’ Golden Parade in Cairo
Cairo. The Pharaohs’ Golden Parade event, which I had the luck to see, is the most spectacular event at least of this millennium, even visible from space. Powerful beacons of light projected into space and illuminated the center of a crowd of 20 million people in Cairo for five miles.
This accompanied the passage of the mummies of 18 pharaohs and four queens from 3500 years ago (18th, 19th, 20th dynasty era) placed in spectacular hearses with immense beautiful processions with people in period clothes and singers who sang ancient songs.
The glittering golden parade was channeled over a five-mile path, guarded left and right by guards in ancient uniforms, from the Egyptian Museum in the immense Taharir square to the National Museum of Egyptian Civilization, located in Old Cairo.
At the entrance to the museum, the Egyptian president H. E. Abdel Fattah Al-Sisi gave a welcome from modern Egypt to kings and queens who brought Egyptian civilization to the world. A very touching magical moment. The news caught the attention of the media and so it spread all over the planet, as the lighthouses of Cairo have reached the world. Everyone knows how the ancient Egyptian civilization, one of the most spectacular and advanced of the ancient world, was fascinated by the skies and galaxies and their scientific discoveries were amazing for their time.
I find ancient Egyptian art beautiful and reflective of a culture with a high degree of wisdom and insight. The cult of the beyond, of life both before and after death, is predominant. Souls are based in eternity and find themselves in an endless circle of death and resurrection.
This is the profound meaning of the event: to pay homage to everything that the immense Egyptian civilization has created and continues to create. And this is certainly how this spectacular parade arrived, thanks to the strength of the love and respect with which it was made. It was a worthy tribute to the energy of the 22 royals, whose mummies, now, finally, have a home equipped with today’s most sophisticated means of preservation.
Prof. Zahi Hawass, legendary archaeologist and friend of mine, said in his major media appearances that this is an event that Egypt gives to the entire world and that calls the world to visit Egypt. But another fascinating event will occur soon: the inauguration of the Great Museum of Giza, the largest and most grandiose museum in the world. This museum, with its sophisticated and spectacular structure, will remain as one of the wonders of our planet, even as archaeological research continually advances, to offer us all beauty for our eyes.
A Dying Angel
Timing is insufferable puppetry.
Her cellular transmogrification
in Tron stars and winding chutes of richoceting snowfall
in hourglasses of disco moons and drooling easels,
Soaked with the spider’s mandala.
The filigree’s weathervane neon above
a deserted cemetery-these
are lattice, roomy and singes
Rembrandt black and green
from one flipping coordinate
In a symphonic
magnetite trance, her mandala’s
vegetating jingo code
under the duneflower’s tongue
t h e s o l e s e n s a t e s p l e n d o r
t h e p l a s m a d e w’s t o u c h
in a crisp noon
That film in the desert with
her at a distance, broken in clown makeup
these mirrored digital sifts
reflect back
a mis en abyme angle, cracked
in lunar symmetry.
The crude moon’s communion
jackal pale, sphinx eyed
mercurial black spinning
a chrome silhouette cinching
Time’s ether gases these cufflink
reveries, green stones, the glass
porch angels, cross legged
on the choral villas
The straw sun sounding
; the arrival, the moving yard sale
her reflection the bought mirror’s whole
The cube dreamt porch shingles
splinter and wet
these diamond tattoo tears
of a djinn belly dancer, her stare
the mosaic of how voodoo
suffer in these pixie sandstorms
in leveled chambers
of oceanic catcalls
These free digits and running
in that hushed, aromatic shade
Her rolling eyes
green and yellow
planetary eyes,
narcotic stars
in dust, transit as Grecian peaches
centering in a dizzy star scab
Her voice a score a planisphere between
shredded Euclidean angel tongue
The smoked mirror’s unsung
The fractal singing sand dunes
Krenek’s flute guns
I dreamt I traced you
Your simile a head in the Magic 8 ball
On the alien bouquet of rose water UV shade
On crumpled silkscreens, a faded Japanese smile
Eyes cinders in the windmills of diadem fortunes
The crypts of serrated light tombs
Insomnia moons
Rotten marquee lights spilling
The pegged lights lit like Judy Garland’s
black primrose trail
from her lap
She is chewing her movie jewels
in revolving chambers of yoga silk
Her yard line a ghost factory
An echo and Hindu arms winding
Her hair gone up in ringlets
seaweed silk
of combed astral smoke
Sounding in a black box,
Sky marble and glass
John Thomas Allen is from New York. His latest book entitled Lumière was published by NightBallet Press in 2014. His poems have appeared in Veil: a Journal of Dark Musings, Arsenic Lobster Magazine, Sulfur, Mad Verse, The Cimarron Review, etc., and he has a story in the anthology titled Narrow Doors in Wide Green Fields edited by R.W. Spryszak. In 2019, he won James Tate Prize for his chapbook entitled Rolling in the Third Eye, which was subsequently published by SurVision Books in 2020
As the title suggests, The Broken Mirror is a story that reflects on the aftermath of a couple’s marital failure. Like a mirror’s reflection, it makes obvious the consequences of divorce on children. The Broken Mirror is a family drama with unique twists as a bedrock to its plot. The tragic story follows the family as the children grow into adulthood.
Raheem, friends with Joke, twin sister to Shade, narrates the story. The title comes from Raheem’s diary. The relationship struggles of Bode and Cynthia, parents to Shade and Joke, get mirrored in the lives of their two daughters.
After incessant quarrels became the order of the day in the family, Cynthia hired legal luminary Ken and filed for divorce from Bode. Cynthia and Ken later married, and Joke lived with them in Calabar while Shade lived with her father, who was devoted to her and also chose not to remarry.
Heartbroken and enraged after the divorce, Bode lied to Shade, telling her that her mother and sister had died and that no one should ever mention their names again. Joke also grew up hating her father and twin sister, feeling that they had abandoned her.
Bode also lost his job and livelihood due to the divorce and a nasty smear campaign.
Ken abandoned Cynthia and Joke and was never seen again after that. After a rough childhood due to her father’s joblessness, Shade fell in love with a young man, Emeka, and got engaged. Joke grew up angry, looking forward to the day she would get back at Shade, whom she believed had stolen away their father’s affection.
Bode passed away after a lingering battle with leukemia and Cynthia died of cancer. One day, Joke realized that Shade was still alive, about to marry Emeka. This set a tragic chain of events in motion that took the lives of both Emeka and Joke.
After Emeka’s violent death, Joke’s friend Raheem found Emeka’s diary and was able to piece together this twisted tale of family relations.
you won’t hear a friend out of me. the earth is flat.
Summer ends. You buy a bag of carrots. You take the bag of carrots home. You open a bag of carrots..
‘Hey, is anyone one in there?’
Nothing. Nothing n the bag of carrots but the quietness of carrots.
You ask again but louder.
easter hymnal
how to poison eggs:
pacific ocean. joaquin phoenix. tulips. rimbaud. fish. dead editors. birds of sudan. soldiers playing with beetles. when they make a movie about you, you disappear. baking competitions. a river with no name. things that bother you. alphabet spaghetti. the sound of an approaching train. rivers that begin with the letter q. kurt cobain’s last dream. too long in the sun. mary magdalene’s 1991 donruss rookie card. jay feathers. virtue signaling. cool breeze. napoli. scuffed knees. paint factory. street signs facing the wrong way.
What do people mean by “exotic” in travel? A term influenced by personal preference and experience, exotic may have a different meaning for someone never having left their home town, than from someone who has wandered the globe. Merriam Webster offers four explanations for the word, with only one that would pertain to travel; strikingly, excitingly, or mysteriously different or unusual. I would vow that Varanasi, India would certainly qualify for such a definition, by even the most accomplished world traveler.
Varanasi, a sacred place, where Hindus get a leg up on karma, provides them with a back door to nirvana. If one dies in Varanasi, the atman, or soul attains moksha, a release from incarnation. Thousands travel to this final leg of existence to liberate themselves, and become one with Brahman.
On the latter end of a circle tour of India, I arrived in Varanasi. I wandered the back streets— a maze of narrow lanes between high walls washed with ocher, indigo and red oxide. Brightly colored saris and scarves draped store fronts, and gift shops glittered with gold and gem studded jewelry. I was glad I brought a good size tote bag to hold my treasures, for hundreds of shops offered a plethora of goods ranging from the erotic to the mundane.
Determined looking women in kurtis and saris, brushed by me, and aged men in white linen, gathered in tea shops. I hopscotched my way around clods of fresh and dried dung, remnants of holy beasts left to roam on their own. When I encountered one or more cattle blocking my way, a good swat on the flank got them moving. Occasionally, I came across a funeral procession, where bearers carried bodies, shrouded in colorful linens, upon stretchers to their cremation site. A single family member, carrying an urn, accompanied them, making sure of proper care for the deceased. The air filled with the aromas of jasmine incense and garam masala, eventually enticing me into a local food establishment for some savory chicken tikka masala, which I washed down with a cup of chai tea.
After I explored the labyrinth of back alleys that made up the heart of the city, I wandered through passages headed east, eventually breaking through the cool, dense shaded darkness of the ancient urban environment. I shielded my eyes from the glaring sun, as I stepped out onto the broad ghats (steps) running down to and along the banks of the Ganges.
Atop the vast stairways, ancient temples and commercial buildings stood overlooking the Ganges Valley. Above the buildings loomed numerous shikara or temple spires gilded in gold or painted in bright colors. Hundreds of men and women gathered at the bottom of the ghats, purifying their souls, as they bathed in the holy waters. At various times of the day, ritualized ceremonies took place at platforms irregularly placed along the steps, and cremations occurred on a daily basis. The entire facade of the city flanking the river appeared other worldly, particularly in the early morning mist. Yet, it was at night when Varanasi became its most exotic, with the culmination of Ganga Aarti, the ritual paying homage to the River Ganges.
I rented a boat with an oarsman, who took me out on the river about an hour before sundown.
Once moored, the boat aligned with the current, allowing me a full view of the holy city, from the bottom of the ghats up to the temple facades and the tall spires. As the sun began to set and darkness descended over the city, various sources of fire began to move about the ghats. The figures of white robed priests, and funeral entourages became visible in the flickering of torchlights, casting moving shadows up and across the stairs and on the walls of the buildings.
Ignited cow dung and ghee fueled fires that slowly rose form the Pyres of previously stacked wood, as Jiva (humans) were given Antyesti, their last rites. At the Dashashwamedh ghat, a long wide concrete platform sat within the middle of the stairs. Across the front of it stood a high metal frame, composed of eight arches, topped with umbrellas, their exposed ribs outlined with tiny lights. Bright flood lights shown down upon the stage, giving a clear view of the activities that took place below. Priests gathered, and lit large brass candelabras, and urns filled with incense, which they held aloft in their hands, as they began to dance to a cacophony of ringing bells, the rhythm of tabla, and the deep vocalization of chants.
Movement in the murky water suddenly caught my eye. A naked body bobbed past the boat. It was the carcass of a deceased monk, who by custom, was not cremated, but weighted and placed in the river, his tethers having come loose. Clouds of smoke from various sources of fire set about the stage, enhanced the supernatural atmosphere of the evening. I became transfixed by it all. It was as if Yama, the God of death, had prematurely selected me. But unready, I remained in a nether world of fire and water between the earth and the land of the Gods.
Early the next morning I went back out onto the river, accompanied by a young priest. When dawn broke, he began a low resonant chant to the god of light. As I faced east, daylight slowly spread out across the sky. Turning west, I watched the city begin to glow in the bright amber light of the morning sun. Wisps of smoke rose from the remnants of the previous night’s pyres, as men poked through ashes, and swept up the detritus of men’s souls. A trickle of Hindus began to clamor down the ghats towards the Ganges. Within a short time, the steps were covered with a multitude of people, all seeking to bathe away their sins.
Unique in the world for its culture, architecture and etherial ambiance, Varanasi provided me with a once-in-a-lifetime travel experience. For those of you seasoned, and unseasoned travelers seeking out that striking, exciting, or mysterious and unusual travel adventure, Varanasi may just be your Nirvana.
When she’s gone No more endearing smile to greet my return or laugh at wry and corny puns. No caress of the neck or tender rub of the arm. An absence of affection even in inconsequential moments. When she’s gone A silence in place of wistful songs of love. No more care in moments of need. An absence of knowing she will be there, always, but then not there.
When she’s gone A longing for words that admonished when things went wrong, and yet its demand required. A hole of improvement to be filled, but left undone. When she’s gone No pride of her dance and woven skills. The joy of accomplishment left behind, as costumes hang lifeless, and towels and scarves lay hidden in drawers, no longer given.
When she’s gone No feeling of wanting, of sexual yearn. A reassurance of manhood, as this figure waned. Her body still haunting after years of toil and age.
When she’s gone A lack of anticipation for things to come. No crazy impulses to thrill the hour. A day at the ocean, now only nostalgic as waves wash over the the memories of the water sign that was her.
When she’s gone A hush reigns where voices rang out in congenial times. Her gregariousness no longer dampening my loneliness. She was best for me in many ways. Now I am left once again on my own, to muse and remember, for she is gone.
Alas Love
She was complicated—an enigma Yet, I loved being lost in the labyrinth of her being She was a mystery—a contradiction but, I reveled in the dissonance of her dance
She was contrary—anti everything However, I was proud of her taking her stands. She was sensual—erotic And I laid my libido bare for her.
She was mysterious—a riddle And I willingly followed all of her clues.
She was magic—a clever trickster and I foolishly fell under her spell
She was a vagabond—a wanderer Abandoned, I now stand alone with only her story to tell.
Fat Jack
Jack Sprat ate no fat, and I should do the same. Alas, I lust as lions eye the bearded gnu on plain. A true carnivore am I. Order rare and fresh at bistro Jeaunty, Slicing thick or thin, no matter, scales will never haunt me.
I yearn for those crackling chicharrones, I’d even dice them with macaronis. Ham for this Christmas? I plead for more, My Jewish spouse, responds in horror.
No no. she screams, as it is trayf. Then pastrami, I say, for it is safe. There’s more to lean than meats the eye. A dollop of fat in mince meat pie. No sating my taste for adipose tissue. to hell with calories, they’re not my issue. So, here I sit in banquet’s scene, knives at ready, well honed and keen.
A roast afore me all marbled and mean. I’m ready to lick that platter clean.
Fica/Fico
Succulent fruit of ebon sheath, more alluring than Eden’s own temptation. Plucked when size matters, spewing it’s sticky milk; oozing, dripping, clinging.
Within it’s dark shroud lay a hidden blush of pink delight. Spread by gentle fingers, a soft, moist gel of suspended seed ready to be sampled, licked, sucked. A taste of strawberry jam, sweet and sticky on the tongue. A tip slowly lapping up forbidden flesh, sensing it’s texture, viscous, gelatinous, viscid.
An orgasmic release of gustation, requiring reflection, while savoring the next moment of oral satisfaction, pleasure, fulfillment.
Fig, your broad lobed leaf indeed, need cover thy shameful fruit.
There’s a stylish tattoo That is waiting for you, First given in West Africa. It’s not a tattoo You can see, But most likely, It will be free. It will allow you To come and to go, To get some of the things That you need. It will tell the man Things about you; Just about everything That he needs.
