The Place
Posted on July 29, 2013 Leave a Comment
My eyes are two candles…lit,
melting into waxy tears,
dripping down my face,
burning my skin
and boiling the moisture in my pores.
My eyes are two candles… lit,
their waxy tears raging down
the sides of my nose,
trickling into the corners of my lips,
slowly rolling inside my mouth.
My eyes are two candles…lit
whose waxy tears
drip down my face.
My eyes melt away . . . .
Ah, I have no eyes,
but I have two burnt eye sockets,
two black telescopes to my mind
and if you look through them
you will find
in the galaxies
of my thoughts and memories
the scorching star of birth
which constantly shines
in the universe of my brain.
A Close Distance
Posted on July 28, 2013 Leave a Comment
Echo
Time zones and oceans divided us,
but your voice still echoed
with my pulse.
Now time zones, oceans, and heavens divide us,
but your voice still echoes
with my pulse.
* * * *
On July 24, 2013, Mahmoud Ostadmohammed passed away. He was a great playwright, actor, director, writer, teacher, and more importantly person. He taught people to defy what they perceived to be their own limitations. On stage, he could absolutely transform himself physically and emotionally and take the shape, substance, and spirit of any character.
More than anything for me he was my Uncle, which was a big deal to me. Being the child of immigrant parents, my entire extended family was out of the country for most of my life. My Uncle though lived in Montreal and Vancouver for several years. I spent a few summers and a cold winter in Montreal with my Uncle, his wife, and my cousin. Also, they came to visit us in Los Angeles and lived in Los Angeles for some time as well. This was all during years when I was young and impressionable and I was blessed to spend this time with my Uncle and his family.
Eventually, my Uncle moved back to Iran. He finally received some of the appreciation he deserved when he moved back. It is difficult being appreciated in a foreign country when you practice your craft in a different language. Unfortunately, he became sick with cancer. I thought that my Uncle, who could do anything he set his mind to, would beat cancer and move on. I did not worry about him beating cancer because I knew he would. He kept cancer at bay for a couple of years, which just reinforced my belief. Now looking back I see that this was just me entering a horrible state of denial. A defense mechanism for being separated from him and not really being able to do anything to help him. People who live far away from loved ones will understand that we do and think odd or even improbable things to get by. I never thought that the last time that I hugged my Uncle was actually our last embrace. If I knew that, then I would have held on longer. His death was and is a surprise to me.
I take some peace in that my Uncle passed away on his own terms. He was a very independent person. Maybe even a defiantly independent person. He was not the type of person to ever want someone to bathe him or change him no matter the circumstances. Moreover, he passed away embraced by a community that loves him and in his home country with his friends, family, colleagues, and students nearby.
Luckily, my Uncle was a great teacher and he continues to live in all those he made an impression on. I carry his lessons written down, folded, and placed in the pockets of my soul.
The Sweetest Eve
Posted on February 14, 2010 Leave a Comment
Lightning struck
a sugary apple tree
on a snowy mountain.
The hungry flames raged
as they sought to be fulfilled,
trees went ablaze.
The snow kept returning, kept falling,
in the ebb and flow of the rising flames
and the falling snow
your image appeared.
You are the mistress of the elements.
You are the embodiment of love.
Your touch brings life . . . .
A half eaten apple lays at your feet
with our bite marks on it.
Mr. Unknown
Posted on January 1, 2010 Leave a Comment
Mr. Unknown
his flesh is composed
of twisted and crumbled paper,
which interlock to form his body,
a body, which is covered with a wrinkled skin of glue.
Mr. Unknown
his veins are a bunch of pens
burned and fused together,
twisting and turning within,
they are stained with ink,
not blood.
Mr. Unknown
his fingers are ten crayons,
his tongue a paintbrush,
and with them he scribbles and paints
images on the blood red canvas of my heart.
The images transform into sounds,
the sounds transforms into words,
words in my mouth.
I try to speak the words,
but I am silenced
by this system, by this censorship.
Mr. Unknown is poetry,
Mr. Unknown is a part of me,
Mr. Unknown is poetry,
Mr. Unknown
is a part of me….
Mr. Unknown, or better yet poetry,
is a dying artist
lying in my soul,
hurt,
wounded,
and decaying
because of this system,
because of this censorship.
We can’t speak words,
but they will paint the walls
with our blood . . . .
Feathery Skies
Posted on January 1, 2010 Leave a Comment
On a clear day
if you look at the sky
with imaginative eyes
you might see
millions of blue doves
lined up in columns and rows
with their wings spread wide apart
and sewn together
feather with feather,
one blue dove with another.
I shall return,
return from my journey,
I shall return to your arms.
On a clear night
if you look at the sky
with imaginative eyes
you might see
millions of black crows
lined up in columns and rows
with their wings spread wide apart
and sewn together
feather with feather,
one black crow with another.
Their eyes sparkling white.
I shall return,
return from my journey,
I shall return to your arms.
I shall return from my journey
holding one blue feather
and one black feather.
I shall return to your bed,
I shall return
holding the feathers in guilt and shame
knowing that parts of the day and night
are not even great enough gifts for you
so I drop the feathers
and make another journey
for another gift . . . .
Deer One
Posted on December 28, 2009 Leave a Comment
Deer One,
lost in the forest of my soul,
drinking from the puddles of honey-water,
that rain from the clouds of love,
which have become sore and swollen under
my skin . . . .
Deer One,
lost in the forest of my soul
amongst the trees of desire,
which are rooted in my spirit . . .
my soul slowly closes like an open palm turning into a fist,
the trees engulf her, embrace her, those green fingers smeared their red sap on her,
the smell of their pines intoxicated her,
putting her to sleep in the green cradle of my soul,
the birds of lust in my spirit, make their nests,
interwoven,
all over her naked body,
forming a blanket to cover her body,
they give her warmth and security,
she becomes their breeding ground,
she sighs,
her breath flies,
in the forest of my spirit
like a draft full of seeds,
pollinating my dreams,
the mother of life in my soul . . . .
When the cradle breaks, she will arise from this green cocoon,
with the red color of sap,
with the baby brown of the nests,
with the vivacious green of the trees
all blended to become the magical color of her wings,
she becomes a monarch butterfly,
my monarch butterfly.
Phoenix
Posted on June 28, 2009 Leave a Comment
We are the fire under the ashes.
One day we will rise
and burn you.
The Rise
Posted on June 21, 2009 Leave a Comment
My brown eyes like the exterior of two rifles,
my ink-black pupils have become two dark barrels.
My pupils dilate, reloading, my whole body shakes,
my soul screaming, that beast within, war cries….
Firing looks,
driving away those who drove you away from me.
Fists clenched.
The march is on.
Lightning Fangs
Posted on February 11, 2009 Leave a Comment
I lie in front of the electric womb,
staring at it,
as if there is an umbilical cord of radiating light
wrapped around my stomach like a glowing snake
clinging to my navel with its fangs,
feeding me bubbling images of light
like venom, poison nourishment.
My knees pressed up towards my chest,
my fading hypnotized eyes
looking at the flashing snake skin,
seeing moving pictures
dancing on its rainbow scales.
I hope the womb would become
pregnant with death,
pregnant with death,
I press the button,
an explosion of blackness, darkness,
turning off the TV
I laugh,
sometimes life is not what you think it is.
Blanket
Posted on February 11, 2009 Leave a Comment
My soul is your blanket,
wrap it around your body,
it will protect you from
life’s cold rains.
It will protect you from the frigid winds
that make you shiver.
My soul is your blanket
hold it close to your heart
and feel its warmth,
feel its warmth
guard you from any storm.
My soul is your blanket,
look closely at it,
each thread is a star,
all the stars in the heavens
were sewn together,
one by one,
to make my soul,
spread the blanket out,
see it shine like a lake of diamonds,
wrap yourself in the blanket,
let that lake cradle you like a glittering womb.
Through my soul the stars were made to embrace you.
I have no other purpose.
No other purpose but to bring each star in the heavens
as a gift for such a beautiful person.
I have no other purpose.