Arabian Nights' Entertainment Revisited Poem by Daniel Brick

Ali Baba has joined his fortunes
with the remaining thieves. He told me
in the market place last week, 'My friend,
I've suffered enough poverty, I'll make
some rich man feel the sting.' I could see
his eyes wandering greedily over the market wares.

A green dhow sail rose over the crest of
of the surf waves. 'It's Sindbad's ship! '
The cry echoed along the wharf into Basra's
residential area. A crowd arose and people
jostled for the front row. A solemn Sindbad
disembarked. He looked older than I remembered.
'My friends, there was no business, no profit,
no rocs, no crashing waves, no villains, no heroes.'
He kept walking slowly away, his face now wrapped
in a dirty yellow. I alone saw his eyes: his once
flashing, fierce eyes were dead. But the people
gathered at the harbor refused to believe their eyes.
'His adventures this time have worn him out. He needs
to rest and recover. Then he will regale us with stories
and treasures. Oh, the wondrous adventures he has had!
Oh, the wonders he will share with us stay-at-homes.'
I alone realized the truth: No book of stories would
record the Eighth Voyage of Sindbad. It is a closed book.

The Visier spent a fortune of his Prince's wealth
to buy a talking parrot from Indian merchants.
The bird was very tame and even seemed to bow
before the Prince. He cocked his blue-green head
to one side and began to warble, then cackle, then
made rumbling sounds in his throat. And suddenly
he began reciting the verse of Abu Nuwas in perfect
meter, with pitch-perfect intonation. 'Oh, my word!
Oh, my word! ' the Prince repeated in helpless wonder.
The visier smiled in triumph... Three weeks later,
thirty court poets, all dismissed, some after decades
to the Prince, huddled together in a hovel near the harbor.
'Oh, my words. Oh, my words, ' they whispered. It was almost
a chant addressed to the clouded heavens above them.

The Prince of Baghdad employed me as a go-between
when he courted the beauteous Fatima, daughter
of the Prince of Nasra. 'You, mangy cur, do not offend
my beloved with your scrawny voice. Bow your filthy
head and hand her my love poem. Then leave her blessed
presence and report to me.' Ah, it was plain to see how
much they loved each other, with a love noble and true...
But the families could not agree on arrangements, the dowry,
property issues, etc. I continued my humble role as go-between,
until that Golden Day when they were married in a ceremony
glittering with gold and gemstones. That was in high summer.
In late autumn, an angry Prince led his caravan of horsemen
and camel herders, carrying chests of gold and gemstones,
back to Baghdad. 'He divorced me, the mangy cur, ' I over heard
the Princess yell at her father. Her eyes were fierce with
venom, her hands twisted a precious Chinese scarf. Her father
nodded ruefully and embraced his unloved daughter. I was dismissed.

On my lonely journey back to Basra, I stopped in a small oasis
famous for its musical fountains. I settled myself against
against a soft flowering tree, and lulled by the softly
bubbling fountains fell into a deep sleep. When I awoke,
it was twilight, already the full spread its lovely over us.
US! Yes, across from me sat a giant genie, with his huge
arms placidly folded over his chest. 'You've witnessed wicked
things, you've had much bad luck, you mangy cur.'
And he laughed in a roaring voice. I shuddered in fear.
'I've had my eye in you... You are a good man, Omar.
You deserve a better fortune. I will grant you three wishes.'