Wonder

It takes time to see
the absurdity of
all things considered;

That fantasies turn silly
as I step into the unknown;
That the unknown was all I ever had
 It takes one breath of
damp grass, one last ray of
light thrown at you before the sun goes down,
one handful of morning breeze,
as the city rushes through
days and nights and pavements
are filled with steps storming through
life as if there is nothing to wait for.

It takes motions and tides and waves to
see,
at last.



Orkideh
London April 12, 2013

To Remember

The river reminded me, in her quiet calm. I was walking by, light-footedly. Taking in, hands extended, the wonder, the opening, the lightness. This was how it all meant to be. The lightness of knowing the road is yours, dream alive, words worth holding onto. The river reminded me, of paths unworthy, of ways petty, of not having taken this turn, not having picked that lane, luckily. Of one’s share of harmony. Of knowing love is kind. Of things worth fighting for. Of having no regrets too big to be undone. Of breathing in the hums of a river that knows me too well. Of the harmony of alleyways that have walked me. To here. To now. To belonging.

The Journey

"I gathered Love's adjectives

into a suitcase and

fled from all languages"

Nizar Qabbani

I pack a suitcase

as my life emerges

In journeys

The lightness of drifting

Is loaded with

such gravity

that I have never found

In any home

But what is a home after all,

Other than

A shapeless word.

When I journey,

Colours change,

Yellow is warmer in LA

Red in Boston

Green in Tehran

In each voyage,

Details take over

And general things become

Unimportant.

In each quest I find

A woman I didn't know before

In Westwood cafes,

I become shy,

And the weight of each curious gaze

makes me seventeen again.

[Sometimes in London,

I am forty

as if I have been walking a lifetime

Along the Thames]

When I travel,

I become.

I listen more.

I fear less

I walk endless strolls

Even in Los Angeles, where walking

Is a rare disease.

I feel the pilgrimage in my sore foot soles

And those blisters

Are bliss.

When I journey

Nothing can seem

Banal

And nothing can feel

dull,

Even the only four pieces of

Clothes that I wear

Everyday.

My odyssey

Comes to life on platforms

On trails, in gates, on the go

Breaching time

Lifting me up

Building me a home

Piece by piece,

In fragments.

LA, Feb 2009

Rituals

I am scared
Of calling it a dream
For it may never
Come true

But there you were
Holding the lighter
The way no one else does
As if it were a pigeon, sitting
On the palm of your hand,
Facing you
Your tall fingers sheltering it
And then, as if you were
Stroking its feathers with your thumb
You rested your thumb on the trigger

Tilting your head
Tapping your cigarette upside down
On the packet
Before lighting it
Your way.

Rituals, bloody rituals,
Are what separate the thought of you
From the rest of

My world.

May 11th, 2011
Houston

One Step Out of this World

It was,
Before anything else,
The world,
That we left behind
Stepping into Kettners;
Newcomers
standing out invisibly
among jolly crowds
of Soho

It was
Me, walking my way
Through the snowfall
On Bury Place
Heading to the little
Shop that was filled
With the smell of old books

It was you
Stranger than strangers
Who knew yet what it was
To sculpt sorrows
Into humour

And then I remember
And re-member
Picture after picture
Sound after sound;
Rushing black cabs,
Christmas crowds,
Vintage back and whites, and
Revolving bar windows
At The Lamb
The way you had with words
Echoes of jingle bells
Slushy pavements
Sofra's Turkish coffee,
Tiny boutiques, lining Barrett Street
St Christopher's Place
My charcoal winter hat
Hustle and bustle
The Independent's headlines on
Student protests
You asking me what
My green bracelet meant
Me leaving the world behind
for a moment or two

... The weight of my wellies
The colour of your checked shirt
My story
Your smile
All
Framed by the gateway leading
to the train station..

It was
A step
Outside this world
Where
You and I
Met,
last.

April 11, 2011

The Postcard from Berlin

The postcard
From Berlin

It's corners
Are turning yellow
So is the image of the two ballerinas

And as I pin the card
Above my desk
The thought of you
Melts
First in my heart
Then in my eyes
And runs
Down my face

And yet
I am still
And forever
A struggling poet
For, the thought of you
Is the poem that
Escapes words
Always in the making
In my heart.


April 2, 2011
Houston

“Sitting cross-legged on my own and yet I am not alone… Trafalgar, Trafalgar, don’t let me down..”

And autumn, the darling of my seasons arrived. She arrived at me when I was not looking; but isn’t that the story of unlived lives? And Autumn arrived; I know the exact time and place, where she threw herself on the night, and marked that very moment that separated the night from the sunrise. She marked London for good. She threw herself on the pedestal, right by admiral Nelson’s feet, in Trafalgar square. The winds were quiet. Black taxi cabs going around, red telephone booths standing still, London had the look of an ordinary night; except there is nothing ordinary about a flame under the ashes. And just like that, she confronted me. She bumped into my silence, ever so cruelly if I may, the way she never had. And the sun came out.

And there were footsteps that broke the silence of the lions that guard the solitude of the square. And there was the chilly morning of an Autumn that no one had expected, right there, right then.

There are moments, coloured by falling leaves, one after another, in a city where so much is to be lived. Or not. When the unexpected is too good to be true.

There are pieces that I have left behind in Trafalgar square, in that vast moment when autumn arrived. There are pieces to be collected one day perhaps, when these winds quiet down; when London stops haunting me.

And there is Russell square, and the fields. One can swallow the bitter of the hardest decisions in an espresso shot; and one can stand up again; and one can walk back. There is so much one can do, in autumn, in this city.

And there is Fleet street, where history rests. And there is Soho, where one can forget. And there is Holborn, where early birds have seen sleepless faces part. And there is the London House gates, where a story can end before it begins.

Autumn lies on my mind, on my chest, like a heavy burden. She doesn’t say a word; what’s there to say after all? She had never arrived at me with such conviction . And I am sorry I cannot be graceful. I am sorry I cannot say I understand; for I do not.

Autumn 2009, London.

Nizar Qabbani

He is my favorite of all times, he is the Neruda of the Arab world, talking of love and justice at the same time...
Just a few poem here, from a rainy summer in Montreal...


Light Is More Important Than The Lantern


Light is more important than the lantern,
The poem more important than the notebook,
And the kiss more important than the lips.
My letters to you
Are greater and more important than both of us.
The are the only documents
Where people will discover
Your beauty,
and my madness.



Every Time I Kiss You


Every time I kiss you
After a long separation
I feel
I am putting a hurried love letter
In a red mailbox.


Jerusalem


I wept until my tears were dry
I prayed until the candles flickered
I knelt until the floor creaked
I asked about Mohammed and Christ

Jerusalem, beloved city of mine,
tomorrow your lemon trees will bloom,
your green stalks and branches rise up joyful,
and your eyes will laugh. Migrant pigeons
will return to your holy roofs
and children will go back to playing.
Parents and children will meet
on your shining streets,
my city, city of olives and peace.

Smile

It is cold outside. I am sitting on the stairs, holding a cup of tea in my hands, this is my break out of office. I look at the river. The sailing boats are still, all in a row. Sipping over my paper cup of tea, I whisper an old Iranian song to myself, for a change. It the first Friday evening of October. It is exactly one year an one month and eleven days that I am living in the US of confusion. My face must be telling it all; since a stranger, a wanderer approaches me. He must be in his mid-fifties, his clothes are worn out, his shoe laces are following him from a distance. He could be drunk, or else, he might come and ask if I have a cigarette. I look the other way, at the river again. He is close now, when he points to me and says: "How about a smile?". I look at him, and Smile comes and sits on my face, on my lips, without any effort. "Don't you feel better now?" He says. His witty way of looking at me makes me nod: Yes. "See? I had to come and tell you what to do to feel better!". He then walks away, and I am still smiling. He was right. He had to come and tell me what to do to feel better. I do feel better. I think to myself perhaps I should keep smiling when the cascade of thoughts invade my mind. He is gone, his smile though is still sitting on my face. I should go back to my office. It is cold, but it feels warmer when you have a wide smile on your face...

"Let not talk of chains or things we cannot untie..."*

"...your hair upon the pillow like a sleepy golden storm,
yes, many loved before us, I know that we are not new,
in city and in forest they smiled like me and you,
but now it's come to distances and both of us must try,
your eyes are soft with sorrow,
Hey, that's no way to say goodbye..."

* Leonard Cohen

The wind, the wind again. I walk by the river and look at the sailing boats, lingering seductively in the hands of the wind. I envy their light-headedness. Cambridge is awaiting another season pretty soon. I should get prepared for the falling leaves. Sooner than you know, will come the indian summer. Though I am still stuck in these sticky nights of my first summer in Cambridge. I am stuck in a sticky dream, a vast moment, a vivid Déjà vu. The more I want to slip away, the more I get stuck. Too good a moment to let go, I said to the wind. Little did the wind care. I wish summer would never end. I should have known, should have known moments could become larger than life.
I shall write one day, stories of a life that I never lived. I shall look one day, at this river thinking to myself how many moments I let go by. I will listen one day, to all the songs that are playing in my head these days, and nostalgia will seep into my heart. I will think one day, of all the thoughts I ever fought, and will smile perhaps, thinking how young I have once been. I will try one day, to remember how exactly I felt once I knew I was living unlived moments that were not supposed to be the way they were. I will go one day, to every place I once loved, and will try to make sense of who I have been in those very moments of mingling with life, as if tomorrow would never arrive. I will smile one day, when I think of how broad a moment could be, when you lived it fully to the end. I will cry one day, when I think of how brief a moment could be, when it was too good to be true. I will come back one day, for sure, for "I will always have cambridge"...