Phoenix

Here is my rise from the ashes of a love

That had burnt me in all my essence.

Here is the torn shell of fear

Dead and disremembered forever.

Here I drink to death for it is the thought of it

That brings joy to my living.

I am alive as the sunlight

Cast on the walls of this expeditious city.

I breathe in the air with hope and blow a kiss

To the people who do not heed my sprightly smiles.

I flap my wings with faith and rise to sing

To all the walking dead: “Come alive, come alive!”

Here is my rise in a poem

On the white sheets of this blue book

 As my body rises from the sheets

 Of your bed fulfilled and divine.

Here I greet the shimmer in your eyes

 And bid farewell to fears. 

I shall walk without fear on the air

 And all the five elements

For I imagine you watching me

 And hear your wings flapping next to mine.

Here I shall fly fearlessly forever.

Kisses

Kiss I

I once had a kiss;

It tasted of raw pear

And consciousness.

It was snowing

Like in Moscow,

The kitchen

Like a faceted chamber

In Kremlin

And I was melting

Like a snowwoman

In his glowing cheeks.

The mirror looked pale

With the fear of the unknown,

Unknown but not like death.

Curtainless windows

 Staring at snow

Were trapped in their frames

And didn’t dare to step

 Beyond the boundaries.

When I went to sleep

 I wished the world

Buried in snow

By morning.

Kiss II

I once had a kiss

That tasted of carrot and freedom.

It left me speechless.

It felt like a new language on my tongue,

A language I did not know,

But wished to speak.

I tried  

My lips uttered

“Spaseeba, Moya Luboyv”

On his lips.

Blooming

I am blooming with the winter fading in my background

The fresh green appearing on my twigs

Tickling the blue beyond.

The earth pivots

Round the axis of my spine.

I am as bronze as life.

The spring blossoms

When I smile.

I never pose

I just merge with the background

In the photo you are shooting.

An Untraditional Haiku

The sound of guitar

The smoke of cigar,

A wandering bee, and me.

Letter to an Old Love

That night, the city lights were stars

I was hovering among them like a cloud

Lost and ecstatic in your presence,

Feeling no traffic, no sound, no smog

Willing to go to the end of the world.

You said our future was a walk

From Azadi Square to Zanjan Park

But I, at the end of the walk,

Saw a house with you

Like the first lady of a Shah.

You said how busy was your life

With your exams and studies

And the medical civil service  

But I heard you saying “wait for me”

So I waited and waited for three years.

For three years, I picked up the phone at 9:00

We talked until 9:30 at night

You listened to my every single poem

And I saved your mesmerizing voice

Your laughter, in my ear until the next call.

For three years, every single weekend we met

I cherished every kiss at dark, every hug in cabs,
The smell of Safari on my hands

And could not get you off my skull

Even for a second of time till the next meeting.

But at the end of three years of homeless love

You started dogging me bad

Blaming me for all the mistakes I did not make

And I apologized for every wrong I had not done

Until the night I cried and threw away

The perfume, the gold bracelet, the scarf

The T-shirt, the blue back pack, the books

The dried bouquets, the box of candy wraps,
Gum wraps, gift wraps, your poems

And you!

Meeting an Iraqi in Hyatt Hotel’s Elevator in Tehran after the War

He got in on the 20^th floor. Handsome.

“An Iranian?

A foreigner?”

I asked myself.

He looked both familiar and strange.

His beard was familiar

But the look in his brown eyes…

“Where are you from?” I dared.

“Iraq”

I startled. Leaned against the corner.

The last country on the planet

That I expected, though a neighbor.

“What are you doing here?”

“Playing Volleyball.”

“Playing Volleyball!” I yelled loud.

“You killed my uncle,

Made my pregnant aunt widowed

My cousin Mohammad orphaned before he was born.

And my friend Fatima was only twelve

When you killed her father

She- she fainted over her father’s coffin.

You killed millions of young men

Sons, brothers, fathers, uncles

Destroyed people’s houses and cities

Bombed our schools, and hospitals

To come here to play Volleyball?!”

I ringed my hands round his neck

“You are dead man!

You’d better not come!

You are soooo dead!”

The elevator stopped on the ground floor.

“Welcome to Iran”

I heard my soft voice though could not smile.

And he stretched out his arm towards the door,

“After you, lady”

And I stepped out.

A breath in peace.

The next day I heard

Iran-Iraq Volleyball game result

Was equal, too.

Romance

Translated from the Persian of Granaz Mousavi

There’s a crow at my window

I scrunch

And scream at him

He stares

And doesn’t fly off

That is all I get

A winter sunset

And a crow who is in love with me

To My Mad Man

I am carried away

By the waves

The waves
By the wind

The wind that
Caresses me

Slaps you

You,

The man

Who thinks
He runs

The waves

The wind

The world

Cannot run

Me

Be mad

At the world

The winds

The waves

Or me

I am safe
On the waves

I am saved
By the wind

The Clothes

In response to Carol Hammoy’s Exhibition, WCC, NY, Fall 07

Ragged bags

Hanging from history lines

Speaking little or no English

For their content

Came here

Found jobs

Lived lonely lives

In a different culture, climate

Land and law.

For freedom, food,

Shelter, life, or security

From deportation, death

War, hunger, or injustice

To prove their intelligence,

Presence, or skills

Attracted to the gleam of America

Immigrated here as I did.                     

Fall

Through the little frame of my window I see

Sleepy trees that snore tall,

Brown, red, and yellow leaves  that fall

Against the gray or blue background of sky,

Birds and clouds that fly low and high,

Squirrels and deer that run by,

This neighboring willow that weeps in rain,

And at times a passerby with a bunch of flowers

Who reads my stone face and frowns in vain.

Here I have fallen forever

With my tired body cold, and covered

In this cozy little room deep down in dark,

Listening to wind and dry leaves’ lullaby,

Resting in peace while the world goes by.

Distance is a moment--

The moment that ends all--

Like a dry leaf that swirls and falls.

That’s all.

Mirage

On train station platform bench I’m waiting.

It’s a navy blue night at nine thirty.

The moon is spelled, trying to spell me.

“Search, search. You will find it”

“Round the earth I have searched,

But the world is not about it.

Dohol sounded melodiously from afar.

The sky is same old color everywhere.”

“All is inside and nothing outside.

Your heart is the only place you can find it.

Your words make your world.

The world makes the others’ words.

On pages of destiny, you write

 The novel of your life: cliff-hanging,

Repetitive, open-ending,

Then you act it.”

I get on the boat of the moon,

And disappear in Harlem hue

With my Dreams Deferred!

An Ode to Ghorme Sabzi

(This recipe is a family secret, and all rights are reserved to my aunt.)

An onion.

Be the woman, chop a big one and fry it golden.

Make sure seven neighboring houses,

In all directions, can smell it.

Add meat.

Already cut in cubes of one square inch.

Add water.

Let it boil over low fire.

Add Ghorme vegetable.

Already chopped and fried to dark green

Very dark green.

The tinier chopped and the darker fried,

The more feminine you are.

Add salt. 

Never put it first when you cook meat.       

Add pepper.

Just a bit.

Add turmeric.

It’s the secret.

Add Saffron.

Call it “Persian cuisine” now.

Serve it with steamed cooked rice.

Bring your macho man to his knees.

Forget the fight for women’s rights,

The right to divorce,

Custody of children,

And the fight against polygamy.

Nothing beats

The power of Ghorme Sabzi.

Arash the Archer (Arash Kamangeer)

Quatrains in iambic pentameter

I love the ancient tale my mom had told

About Arash the archer who was bold.

He put his arrow in his bow and pulled

With all his strain and power as he could.

Where ever the arrow fell would run

The border line of the good land of Iran.

And this he did with all his love, and pride

Consumed all his power, and gave his life.

This must be one good lesson for all foes

Who may against Iran put hands or toes.

We all have got an Arash in our chest

For our country we will do all our best.

Birth

Last night, darkness

Was in purer

Liquefaction;

I was afloat

In its fluid warmth.

From time to time,

Faint vague voices

Penetrated

My amniotic

Sublime silence.

Nothing moved, but

My prenatal

Heart, and soft pious

Placenta with

Me all the while.

Today morning,

The world turned, up

Side down. It got

Tighter and tight,

Darker and dark.

And then darkness

Vanished into light.

A woman was

Screaming, but when

I cried she hushed!

Why No?

An imitation of “Oh No” by Creely

If you dig through the earth

You will arrive here

And as you struggle to survive

Those back home will give you a place so high

For themselves only, to please their minds,

And with envious smiles

They will likewise give themselves places

That have no place in your mind.

Chance Lost

The

wind

blows, and

I’m a candle

shine, burning

blue, giving out

light, making

things bright,

many things

except

one.

I

shed

tears

being

dispersed.

Gazing into my

 death dance,

sits, someone,

silent, spell-bound;

an unread letter

in front. I may burn

 down, or perhaps be

 blown out, wondering

what will happen

                                     when it’s too dark to read.

Raqs Sharqi (Belly Dance)

The Oud’s played,

I unveil 

A cascade of black hair

Down to my curves.

For your pleasure

I’m half covered

In lace, half displayed.

               “Ahlan wa sahlan!”

               “Ma sha Allah!”

Here I come

With camel walks

Through the dining tables

And vulture eyes--

My snake arms,

Round your old necks

Cast the shawl--

Shimmy, shimmy:

Shoulders and hips,

Waving my belly …

                 “Ya habibi ! ”

As long as I have

My youth, my charm,

I’ll have your cheers and money

In my bra or hip scarf.

As soon as I’m old

I’ll be replaced with a blond.

When I die

You will say

I went to hell

With my Haram art.

You are all the same

Amir Al Bahar

Sheikh Abdol the Third.

I’m a belly; soft dumb belly,

A belly dancer.

Tulip

He has picked up his brush,

The man of night,

And has painted over

All blues with black,

Ignoring her below,

In the corner

Of the garden, wrapped in

Her wrinkled dress.

He paints a silver moon

With some stars around.

All poets give him an

A, while she dies.