The tale goes that every day Shahryar (Persian: شهريار or "king") would marry a new virgin, and every day he would send yesterday's wife to be beheaded. This was done in anger, having found out that his first wife was betraying him. He had killed three thousand virgins by the time he was introduced to Scheherazade.
Against her father's protestations, Scheherazade volunteered to spend one night with the King. Once in the King's chambers, Scheherazade asked if she might bid one last farewell to her beloved sister, Dunyazad, who had secretly been prepared to ask Scheherazade to tell a story during the long night. The King lay awake and listened with awe to Scheherazade's first story and asked for another, but Scheherazade said there wasn't time as dawn was breaking, and regretfully so, as the next story was even more exciting.
And so the King kept Scheherazade alive as he eagerly anticipated each new story, until, one thousand and one adventurous nights, and three sons later, the King had not only been entertained but wisely educated in morality and kindness by Scheherazade who became his Queen.
The nucleus of these stories is formed by an old Persian book called Hezar-afsana or the "Thousand Myths" (Persian: هزارافسانه).
The earliest forms of Scheherazade's name include Šīrāzād (شیرازد) in Masudi and Šahrāzād (شهرازاد) in Ibn al-Nadim, the latter meaning "she whose realm or dominion (شهر šahr) is noble (ازاد āzād)".
Scheherezade was identified, confused with, or partly derived from the legendary queen Homāy, daughter of Bahman, who has the epithet Čehrzād or Čehrāzād (چهرازاد) "she whose appearance is noble". Harun al-Rashid's mother, Al-Khayzuran, is also said to have influenced the character of Scheherazade.
Well, the poet, Scheherazade, lives in Chicago. She's certainly a peculiar girl with four eyes, three degrees, two languages, and one life lesson stolen from Lawrence: "And learn, learn, learn the one and only lesson worth learning at last. Learn to walk in the sweetness of the possession of your own soul." However, it was the theme song to an American sitcom that taught her to "turn the world on with a smile." And Sesame Street to sing out loud and strong. Don't worry if it's not good enough for anyone else to hear, just sing. Sing a song.
Here are two of Scheherazade's songs. Enjoy.
DO PIRATES OF THE CARIBBEAN OR WHEN NEW SHOES WON'T
(An Ode to Colonizing Liberals in the Dominican Republic)
Oh, the likes of them,
the likes of them.
That they'd wed
is no suprise.
And what better gift for the newly-jewelly weds than their very own
Louisiana Purchase-- due East of Key West.
Their intentions are not
So Moby says
(but he also sunk--perhaps too soon,
and too easily--one million dollars
into this venture).
Oh say can you survey?
What does a white liberal call the colonizing and subversive
nation-building of a third-world country?
Why, an "artists colony," of course.
Complete with beach-front bungalows
(only 250 available though;
and absolutely not
to be Meired in white
according to Celerie).
Going, going, gone!
For the low low price of $50,000.
That is, if you are of keen intellect, and socially conscious and
selectively, if not prolifically, published and and and "cash poor."
But, as Boykin says, you must be
Be advised to do as Boykin does
Do not drink the water,
Do not speak the language (Spanish is a devilish tongue and pidgin
isn't even a "real" language, so why bother?), Do not empower the
native peoples as partners, but keep them subservient as ornaments,
and drunk on the free-flowing kettle drum rum and the vapors of
And when the parent scolds the child for littering, as parents tend to
do Let the children respond with a hearty, if drunken, "fuck you."
Oh Missus Celerie Ma'am,
why bother to "slit the throat"
of this terra firma mistress
When you've already cut out
(A Sonnet for the First Amendment)
To speak of dark and wet and secret things, gives rise to petered
peckers and tapped phones.
Whether entwining limbs or skewering kings, rough words must not be
ground dull under stone.
Well-aimed barbs pierce the breast and bleed crimson truths that pinch
the loins and rend hearts.
The fool for love of country we dire need not to whisper but to roar
the hard parts.
To soak dry linen from an unstoppered flask, let freedoms surface
beneath still moist sheets.
Between the tickles, bites and who licks last love and liberty reign
when minds, not heads meet.
Salute the jester with middle finger extended, and grasp the unknown
as was first intended.
Stop by and say hello to Scheherazade at her house- Schadenfraulines!