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.