Building my homes

 

On 4:30am,

morning is overwhelming

Water is heavy

over the riverbed body there

on the Mill Dam

 

Outside Margaret’s window

night lingers longing

to seep in to enfold

 

I have counted all the turns

the wind took

before blowing away

 

In a minute I’ll go

out in to the outside to

build my house across

the road

 

It is that hour again

when everyone has a door

to open and shut

Is it morning

when it’s 4:30 am?

is it nott?

Are you awake

if it’s 4:30am?

I don’t know

I am not from here

 

Are you aware of the hour’s sly hand

ticking on the wall

on the Carnegie Hall

all the while

you are building your house

by the fireplace?

 

I know nothing

beyond the windows

of the house

I am building tonight

 

I saw the moon

yesterday,

before noon,

crazy,

walking up the streets, pretending,

hah, to be a lone star

I am not sure now, but here, in

Owen Sound, a moon, idling

down the road, or even up, when the time

is indeed reserved for the sun,

is unheard of.

 

The night is loud, selfishly dark

I’m getting out

of the house

to build my house on the

back streets of Harrison Park

Should I turn?

left?

right?

I am not sure.

who am I to know

I am not from here

 

If I had the means I would call Ruth, she’d know

She said she would go out of her way,

find,

and bring all the answers

to the question,

leave it in the fridge, for me

to have some, if I wished, with my tea

 

Now if only she’d tell me

how she keeps

the head of the goddess inside

the hat of mayoral calm,

I’d stop looking

 

It is loud

Night is in to stay till 7am

 

I am not particularly sick

I am not particularly not

 

I am sitting on my bed

I am sitting on my bed

I am sitting on my bed

I am sitting on my bed

When it’s light outside I’ll go

to build my house

on the right corner of 9th St. when

it hits one of the Second Ave.s

it’s a good spot, almost perfect

under a layer of cobwebs specially

made for the intersection where

I am always un-delivered between

the two post offices

 

but, who am I to know

I am not from here

 

If Judy doesn’t hold

my hand

I’ll be lost

and find I’ll never be found

 

When Judy was running I ran

she said, “Nice”

I said, “Yes”,

but I said “Nice” afterwards, honestly

it felt as if nice turned suddenly nice, regardless

 

Then I stopped and walked

into the Bay Shore

to build my house

They say, that’s what every one does,

 

If only would Ann keeling woul

give me a hand to cut a patch of

the asphalt for the bed

I am used, can’t help it,

to life on the roughs

 

“I wouldn’t,” she’d say, “Surely you can learn,” she’d say,

“to love the soft body of water,

the soft singing of birds, the

soft leaves falling, the soft

wind’s murmur, the soft fish fished, the

soft snow spread, the soft

sweet sweat when you have

worked, happily, all day long,”

Now, couldn’t I just learn?

I don’t know

–

Owen Sound
October 7, 2005
Saghi Ghahraman

My mother’s mother

She is my mother’s mother

Thick

Prancing around, she used to tower over me

Tall

Lying in bed in her bed now I bend over her

Flat on her back she looks fat

She laughs

her long hair wraps round her neck in a sweaty bunch

She weeps

  

She is tiny, very thin

Blended with the pillow, blanket, the pallet, she is an attraction from hell

I am a grown woman, her daughter’s daughter,

Shy,

But a kind of a seen-it-all

I sit at the foot of her bed, 

Her foot, I grab 

Her toes, I lick kiss caress

 

She sigh….s: aaai

 

I let my hands on the cushion-soft of her thighs,

Bitch, you’re beautiful

I get my hands to her hips

She sigh…s: aaai

 

I want you to say aaa….hh, grandma

Now she is looking     up     to size me up

I smile at her           

Then   

I lower     on to her other face   

She lifts her leg to rest it on my shoulder

Extends a hand to cup my breast

 

I want you grandma

 

I follow the frown on her face as I trace

In her vulva

The swallowing heat of comprehension

 

Teasing her delicious mouth

I draw back

 

Those tits of yours,      grand ma,     sucked-on fresh pomegranates

– silky little sacks with a bead weighing them down

 

Remember the time you poured

The bottle

Of milk

On me?

When I looked startled you looked startled

You laughed your shrill, piercing laugh,

You kissed my milky lips, mother entered, I stopped

I love your neck,

When you turn towards light,

When shadowy light titers

On your chest, dragging the eye to the slit of your breast,

I want you grandma

I love your other neck,

When I press

To stress

On my fingers’ findings

I love your knees, to sit and rock

Damn you grandma

Don’t let mother out of your womb, don’t let grand Pa in

I beg you grandma

 

No lights in this room,

No candles

Only the pale rays of the rising-setting sun

There aren’t any white veils fading

Behind casements

Mother’s maid’s ‘re not spying on us

On the ways of the inner house, I am smart

My way, I know in and out

 

You know your way in and out

You lift your other leg too to my shoulder,

You    face the wall at your side

You    lower your legs round my waist,

You tense,

You flex,

You fold

Suddenly pull on my hair, pull hard, you drop  

 

I hold your legs gently

Gently I roll you over,

I put my teeth on those fat rumps

You let me

I suck on the sore spot, I coo

That’s what you most like,

 

When they take you to wash you to put you in that tomb

You are bruised all over,

Some, the hikkies  I gave you

Beside each bruise

 

You’re a woman of many colors,

All over your body,

You wear a see-through night gown

To show it all

 

You don’t care for his panting, his pumping, you love my love

 

I am only hands, fingers, lips, mouth

The all familiar soft     soft     cheeks

I cum when you cum

 

You drop your arm round my neck, you say you want to sit up, I say let’s not right now, you say That’s easier if I want to find the spot, I say, oh, grandma,

I want to fuck you so bitterly

Till your eyes

Are full of tears

Of orange

Blossoms,

 

I feed you my hand

Finger by finger bunched into one 

 

What else could a daughter’s daughter

Give more then a serene, spasmodic orgasm

I am all yours grandma

 

You look sideways at mother,

She is the walking memory

Of a night fucked up

 

At me you look smooth sleek

I am her daughter

Yours but not yours,

 

She doesn’t like me, I don’t like her, she likes a fatherly touch

 

You taught me things, things I never knew

When I was to meet the husband the first night

You told me of my teeth which I’d try

On him      if he ever tried to try my mouth

You liked him, didn’t you? I always knew

Why else would you imagine him

from all the angles,

 

You like me too, grandma, that I always knew

 

You told me I’d be your girl when I bleed        

I’ve been bleeding for years 

I am bleeding now

 

You say: aaa….i

You say: aaa….hhh

You say: ooo…fff

 

I know

Your eyes in the chamber

ears-dropped

 

The new maid     in his bed   

 

He gave away     way too much

 

Guys do not have the head

 

To keep a household taut

 

You sent for the girl the next day

Had the servant slice her cunt

 

Well, Who Am I to Say to Do What 

 

A window banged open

A door opened bang

Curtains Kashshsh to the ground

Ears

dropped   

Eyes

dropped  

 

He dropped lots,   

Lots he dropped

 

You remained quiet,  

Vicious, were you?

You were fine, on your bed, all the while,   

 

Strings remained in your hands to pull

You pulled

They pulled

These MotherFathers are a curious bunch, grandma 

We

Know the path to the spring,

We bend and drink,

They

Pump, and they pump, and they pump, oh, grandma       

 

Confined to your bed you enjoyed

Uncles,  

and the wives

 

To me you said

There was a jewel inside

Told me to spread your legs

Look for it hard 

 

Still I like to do the looking

 

The looking I do I do the licking  

That’s how we are

We use on the men folk heaps of words,

Among us we talk a non-talk,

 

We’re shaashaashaashaa

We’re sooss

Noch noch noch

We are VaVeila

  

لالالالا   

لالالالا گل زیره   

چرا خوابت نمی گیره

لالا

لالا    لالالالا    لالالا

I dig the damn lullaby    I sing it if I must      I wake you up      

With a touch, a pinch, a kiss, a pull of the hair, a bite on the neck

You sit up

I teas your tears

I teach you things

I love you bitch

I am all yours grandma

 

 

 

  -

 Saghi Ghahraman

Is Isn’t

 

the dead don’t breathe when you pass your hand over the dead  

 

its chill, when chill settles in your fingers, doesn’t settle  

 

dead eyes do not look for the hand over her skin

 

while open, dead eyes stare dead, when shut, remain dead shut

 

the dead body doesn’t caress her self, doesn’t caress the soil

 

when I die I caress not

 

I will not wait for footsteps coming from afar, or from behind

 

what was behind is Now in front    front is behind Now    I’m not facing any direction if my eyes are empty of eyes   and do not spot directions from any direction

 

this nothingness     heavier then anything    is the being-dead

 

being dead is being none

 

And this Is- is Is/Not

 

This Nothing is being/living/dead

 

This    which is life    is nothing when all it is is nothing

 

Living is being/dead when there is none of the touching the listening for     the looking forward to

 

this glass of milk, spilt on my skirt, wet my foot, is Mine, Is my glass of milk

 

Now that I’m dead, glass, milk, skirt, foot, wet is Not mine

 

when I am not, the glass of milk, which Is, is not mine

 

I, which is, When I Am Not, Is Not mine

 

NoT is what Is

 

What is, is what Is/Not

 

The Is, is Not  now

 This is what Is

This is I   who is Not  now, and from now on I Is not I     

from now on, what ever is, is not

 What is, Is               I is not

 I is not                     what ever is, Is

 Suddenly I take/not a leap from here, to no/where, and nothing from now on is

 

Now On is not anymore 

 This is what is is

 What is, is not

 Mine is None

 I is not    I is what is not

 

Is, is is/not from now on

 from now on, Now is not. On is not. From is not. Even   is not    is not.

 When I touch to see        there is no touch

There is nothing     Nothing is what is

Nothing is                Is is not          

  -

 Saghi Ghahraman

Minister of Labor doesn’t cum

Minister of Labor does not cum

I come once

painstakingly, I come twice

The Minister does not cum,

my hands are useless

I feel like shit

        as I remember

it’s I who pays for condoms,

and he is the one who’s using them, disposing the used

on the ground,

oh, I cry

 

This

is the ground, to my left

 

This

is me

 

This is the sky,

to my right

 

I’m wearing my whitish skin

 

Rip the skin, I’m red underneath

 

Rip the flesh

I Am White Again All Ivory Bones

 

This is you

who have cum

with me

you

who’s got lips luscious and chic

 

Hold me in your arms

 

Don’t hold me

as if I’m a tree

and you

have delicate flesh

Hold me like I’m fragile

press me to your breast

hum lullabies to lull me to keep me in your arms always always

Stick your hand in my cunt, stick it out

of my mouth, make a sash

like this,      

and like this press me to your heart

wear me on your wrist like an Egyptian bracelet,

rest your hand on your shoulder

like this

 

Do your chores round the house

wash clean cook call the office

go out buy beer

you’re wearing me on your wrist

Turn the wheel open the door

fill the glass

you’re sipping your beer now

Lull me to sleep

I’m in love with you

Let my hand knead your tits

Let my teeth chew your tits

I am in love with you

  

I am in love

flanked

by the earth & the sky

pressed to your breast

 

Sky, to my left

             low

                 blue

                    bruised

and yet to my left, Earth

            swollen

              punctured

                     blistered

 

dusty

 

This is me wearing a whitish skin  

rip the white    

I’ll be red

rip the red   I’ll be white   All bones     Clatter I Rattle       I blabber nonstop  

 

I’m in love

 

I’m in love and I am a Refugee

 

In love with you, and with the Minister of Labour

 

And

with the Prime Minister, too

 

Prime Minister’s rounded kneecaps

wide

like big walnuts covered with yellow fuzz

 

What big kneecaps you have for me to perch on, Mr. Prime Minister

 

I’m in love with the other Mr. President too

who is not King, but the shadow of the God of the skies

In my homeland

I’m in love with this Mr. President

who is the shadow of the gods on earth

In my hostland

 

Still

you’re my only true love

even if you have no knees

or if you have

but must fall on your knees

 

I’m in love with you

 

Don’t fear me

I am not afraid

of things

I am baffled    

I have a puzzled fate    

I have puzzled fate   

I am tiny I am big 

Angels pinch me

Police pull my hair

I come from hellishheavens

 

I am a Refugee

It’s in my nature to come

I ripped my documents ate my documents, and shat away the evidence

since I’ve entered I’ve fallen in love

with you

 

And with the Minister of Labor

And the law

 

The law is good is sweet is gentle is a loyal lady is charming is truly pro-debate

It takes me out

of my hands

Hangs me

on the hand of the clock

To run

round the clock

round the clock

round and round the clock

 

I want to be hanging on you 

I want you

I want to run round and round around you

Want to be hanging on you

 

But the Prime Minister

Who is The Law

Wants me

and doesn’t want me

to want you

Because The Mr. President

Is indeed King

And King is God

And God is not Home

And the Law is hungry for both of us delicious ones

 

So he keeps me       

here

So he sends me       

back

Doesn’t like us

 

I am telling you this hush-hush

  

they don’t like us when you

stick your hand here, stick it through me

and bend your head to mine

to sing to me dear birdie, little birdie, don’t

                             perch  on the ledge

                                of our roof

                it might rain you’ll be drenched

    it might snow you’ll drown

       you’ll fall into the hands of our Mr. Cook Master

 

– Where Better to Perch Then On The Hour Of The Hours, and on Twilight, too?

 

from this line to the bottom of the page, why don’t we? shall we?

and with a sober tone of voice

on behalf of you,

to the end of the line, can’t we?

imply that you do not wish

to hold me the way I want you to

 

We could continue with our double act dialogue

around the contagion of Individual’s identity,  

Mono-ordained styles 

It’s relativity with the Second Person

 – which if you look from the other side

It is actually the First Person – And some Unidentified Persons in the back ground

 

This dialogue has nothing to do with The Minister of Immigration or of Labour,

        or either President,

or the relativity between the private life of refugees, and refugee-related issues. Full Stop

 

Copy of the announcement has been sent to the coordinator’s care.

 

But the refugee, for the simple fact of the circumstances, is entwined. Full Stop

Refugees are entwined into Refugees, Comma, and entangled is the person in the face of circumstances. Full Stop. 

 

Copy of the announcement has been sent to the coordinator’s care.

 

.     ,   :     “    ”   ,   ;   !   ?  >   <   / .

 

I stressed on all of the signs

I clarified all of the signs

Under this line I cried

I’ve been having a headache that’s why I cried

I scanned all the letters

Sent the email 3 times, cc to all of the offices of the coordinator.

This coordinator Is happening recently.

I am in love with the coordinator, too.

I am in love with you, and with the coordinator who is happening recently and has long arms covered with yellow fuzz – perfect for hugging – and does not return my emails.

 

I cried  because he’s not responding to emails

his silence puts me in such simple circumstance that it’s really complicated

 

Person in the face of Circumstances is not The Person

Person in the face of Circumstances is not in My Circumstances

(who am I? or, who I is? who is I?). Full Stop

 

Placing this Full Stop anywhere in this line is easy.

Maybe nonsense, but it’s easy. Aha. Full Stop. And done.

 

It’s not easy.

It’s not possible to place this Full Stop anywhere

my head is frenzied and I feel like throwing up at this present which is supposed to reach a future

and I don’t feel like falling in love with anyone

all my lovers dump me

the hell with you, they say, honestly

 

No. The hell with you.

They dump me

The hell with them

You will not be shaken ’cause you are shocked

It’s not you who is shocked it’s me who is shocked

You can’t be shocked the way I am shocked

You don’t even know how to be shaken when you are shocked

and my hands

empty of all the things I have lost.

Now you place the full stop: .

meaning that you’ve reached the end of the line

This This line has reached the end. Still you want me

to turn back and put my Head Head on my own pillow, draw the curtains.

and here is my Home Home?

Home is the beginning of the line.

You cross out a few homes till you get to the end.

Then you reach where the end of the line is, and you reach The End.

The coordinator emails back.

He has received I email.

The coordinator is in love with me.

He has received my emails.

He has written back:

 

Dear Mzz. Dear Mzz.

Darling dear Mzz.

We lovve you.

We’ve ffallen in

Fallen ffor you.

You’re a beaudiful beaudiful you.

Coal black eyes, arched eyebrows, lips most supersaying,

And your Persian throat gurgling FarsiEnglish endearments when we press you dearly to our breast

Give us tales

and details

and detales

How did you manage to burst in to our life?

We feel partly dismayed

but it will be alright

we’ll be happy in no time

soon

 

If you smile, I feel alarmed 

If you don’t smile, I feel alarmed

If I feel alarmed all I feel is feeling alarmed

 

 

Dear Mzz. Dear Mzz. Mr. Prime Minister urges you

to love us

more

give more

details

and if

only if

in the name of love

and god’s grace

and law

and our expert staff

and honorary honourable members

… sorry, can’t go on

 

I can’t, therefore I am

 

such shame 

honestly,

you

made our life

harddsh

for what we’ve got we’ve worked hard

We     have     worked    for this love for this love for this love we’re feeling,

for this gun-powder-blue sky

for railroads shimmering under the sky

for trees, green, tall staring up at the sky

for shopping malls, so warm, so cool, with interior blinking stars

 

Sorry Miss, you’re a sweet, a rueful refugee, but please Do Not Touch The Trees.

Thank you.

 

 yours truly

L. Lowe

Prime Minister of your hostesscountry

 

p.s. you’re very much loved dear Mzz.

but please don’t touch the trees

and the light bulbs

You See, We Have Worked Hard for things we’ve got

 

Note: have some immigrants-interns volunteer to investigate the meaning of sky in the gov. memos; we tend to use it a lot.        

 

 

 

Hah, what’s not to understand if I understand what you understand

 

And then, I don’t even notice as you leave to enter the room in utter silence

 

 

 

In the absence of arms and bosoms

Mr. President is the one who’s fallen in love most passionately

I am fallen in love with the Prime Minister

I work laboriously along with the Minister of Labour

Minister of Labour works me

My work offers me as an offering

I offer my labour as an offering

He offers me my labour as an offering

I offer him my labour as an offering

He offers my labour

 

We give each other a hug, and voice our sentiments

Minister of Immigration feeds the birds

waves her hand

we have nothing to do with her

you are not here

You Are Entangled because

of circumstance which

Leaves a Person Face to Face with Circumstances

 

You’re in the midst of telling of the tellings,

and while you’re telling your head turns to

this side of me, you say:

 

To which of my withered memories I was the bride?

I’ve got nothing. If I did, I’d be wanting to buy

 

And you say:

I’d’ve liked to buy all of the six beauties

 

Then your head turns towards me

then your head turns

my head turns

Am I a wheel now that I whirl? Why am I whirling?

Why am I a wheel? Why am I whirling?

Am I a wheel?

and I keep quiet

I remain silent

Minister of Labour does not cum

I come and I come

It’s in my nature

I’ve got to come

I am a  ReFuGee

 

I’ve got no health insurance

I pay for condoms  

The Minister does not cum

He says maybe the next time

He thanks me swiftly

He gets up to go

Go?

Where?

You can’t go

 

It shames me so

when the Minister does not

cum in my hands

did it slip

                  out of my hand?

How come?

 

My hands, too, are tired

I am tired, too

 

I fear things that are nothing, really,

and go away with only a pill

but they sure drag a head into a frenzy

there is not much distance between me and that

I could

if I wished

Jump to that

Side

 

that side

is nothing

the ground

is nothing

the sky

is nothing

My feet when they walk,

go forth,

and touch nothing

that side is this side of here

 

And it’s so much illogical it is excused from keeping

 

There is no grave, and none of us is lain flat in a hole

 

We’re walking, and we don’t hit anything

 

Saghi Ghahraman

2005-02-05

To be continued

 

Why is the night a tasteless day in the absence of Kerman’s sky?

Why is Kerman’s sky embedded with thorns

why are the thorns hanging

from the sky, scratching

our face when we face the sky?

 

Why doesn’t Kerman walk out of Toronto’s sky?

Why is Ramin wounded by Kerman, and is wounded by Kerman?

Why does Kerman stay with me till I reach Ramin

till I get to an air not of Kerman,

but of my own teeny weeny dangling Prim Minister

who is so so so is so is or aint, or is or aint

 mine?

 

To diminish the panic of night, and diminish the panic of day, smile

in the face of earth

lie on the ground

hug the ground

kiss it

push your hand beneath layers

caress it till the roots are stirred

till the trees shake their head

and get ready to alert the fronds

till the fronds bend on you to caress you

and lift you up off the ground

hang you from a tree

and swing you

then

     

when I opened my eyes

 

I was dizzied

 

I shut my eyes

whooshed down the rope

went down to turn the earth inside-out  

 

 

  

Minister of Labor

 Saghi Ghahraman

 

 

                  

        *  Kerman a city in Southern Iran

          Ramin, Iranian poet, human rights activist,

          form one of Ramin’s poems, Kerman bites into  the wounds of

         my wounded heart 

          Another exiled poet from Greece writes: Greece wounds me

Love and the Lute

I love you fuck the lute with gentle fingers  

Rub in the lute the seed the song

You love the lute with gentle fingers

I love you rock the lute in your arms   you lay the lute on your legs

You’re the gashed mother the fucker the father the baby the song  

You’re the song that’s how you sing it

I love

There is a difference between and between and in-between there is

 

When you stop between the now and the here

When you get up

 When you walk away away when you walk

 

Then suddenly you do suddenly you do suddenly

 

When you say, and you say Nah, again

 

I love

 

And then you do

 

Then again between here and this now here you push the future back to the past we’re dead don’t you see?

 

There is no use to open my eyes

 

You are

 

When you don’t, and don’t and do not at all, there is no use to open my eyes

 

Then you do

 

I am not looking at You you’re Him

You’re looking I’m Her

He takes in his arms the bunch of the drum the bulk of the guitar

they turn in his arms   whispering  beauties  crying out    

 

He beats on her to have her cry to let to go to go to let to sigh

 

the silence the song

the song  the silence  the sigh  the wailing drum

I love

 

And then I love you

And now I love

 

  

Nov. 19, 2005

Owen Sound

Saghi Ghahraman

Nude

Nude پوست آهو کشیده به تن

standing slanting erect like trees teasing the wind

his unbraided hair linger on shoulder blades

nude

he has pulled deer skin over his flesh

به ناز

 ایستاده، خیال می کنم، اما همین فقط ایستاده، اما به ناز

not bent

not straight

leaning his temple on the wall

 

the sun

now gone

splashed on his skin

he tips with the tip of the toes the pillow    not fallen on the foot of

the bed     in this room which is not a bedroom but a café

where I sleep at nights with all the beer

and gaze at his skin at him

nude

naked nude

در را به هم می زند پنجره را به هم می زند

سرد است

لخت است

زیر لایه های لباس

دستش را می کشد

بیرون

rubs

on my eyes my lips

opens my eyes my legs

so that I go

ahead

again

not come go back

not in sleep

not in person

and my mouth

agape

awonder

here

not to inhale

doesn’t look like sucking this swallowing up

I am sinking I am not coming, here,

اینجا

که ایستاده او باد وزیده به ایستادنش همیشه

naked

under layers of shirts color

over color

sitting up, or down, or naked

under layers of garments

it’s a wonder how his cloths’re becoming on his body on which

the sun shines on his moonlit skin

and his hands

those hands

and the legs

and the back

and the hair

sitting on the shoulder tips

به ناز

and the moonlit face

به ناز

and the moonlit تن

به ناز

کفل ِگرد ِ ماه ِ کوچک ِ گرد

به ناز

and the doped balls

dosing off hanging

به ناز

and sleepy dizzy dick

wobbling

hanging

flirting

naked

nude under layers

of garment

and here

my head

my tired drunken smoking coughing crying head

wobbling

tipped to the side

on my shoulders

turns hungry around

 

and he

standing naked under layers of garments

nude

a never present sun shines

on his skin

اخمالو اندکی، اندکی به ناز

می چرخد

وا می کند

his beautiful mouth, shuts his beautiful eyes, we’re nowhere here is no where to be,

sings, or he is sung by his song

خسته ام، حیرت کرده ام، از دست می روم، مست

I drink a little more

and blame it on the bottle when I see

a single stem of Jasmine, or

a tall Lily of the Valley, or

an evergrand ever-ruthless tree

sit by me, shake his head:

to whatever, whatever, whatever

and leans his head

به دیوار

not on my knees, and lets go

زیر لباس

لخت، لخت لخت

I am god if I am not

ripping shirts and pants off

him

to bare him

to bear him

whole

to swallow the dick whole while his hands

hold my head tight so I don’t swallow him whole

  -

   March 2006

Saghi Ghahraman

Happy Owen Sound

trees are happy here, I have asked

rocks are happy here, I have asked

pallid-blue, pitch-black skies are both happy here

 

roads, inside the city , and the country-roads, Whirling

Dervishes of the west, not quiet tipsy but very happy here

 

birds are happy,  they have their share of the nectar

 

cats are pretty happy, although they don’t care to admit

 

the sun is happy, even her glare is joyful

 

stars are happy, no competition with night-lights

 

the moon, of all the people, is quite cheerful here

 

I have asked many many people

a large number, I must say, all have confirmed they’re

happy here, very happy here

well, some looked displeased with my query,

amazed, as if it was insane even to consider the opposite

 

I said sorry. I said of course. I said I know. I said I understand.

 

I have asked houses, all types of houses

they said they were all happy here, very, very happy

they said they’d not switch places with houses elsewhere, not ever

they were aware, they said, of evacuations, of

abandonings, even bombings happening daily

on poor houses elsewhere

“Isn’t that awful?” they said 

 

Baby’s are quite happy, no complaints

 

I have asked dogs, all of them very

appreciative, most obliged

they said their only worry was that the owners

might, god forbid, take them out

of Owen Sound.

 

Cows, magnificent, serene cows, seem

to be in perfect harmony with the

meadow, they are happy here

 

the rain rains happy rains

she says she’s forgotten sorrows originally the cause

of her constant mourning

 

she says her droplets do not clash with the ground here,

that’s a relief, she says,

the cause? she believes it’s the rocks

the gentle, massive rocks have changed the murky nature of earth

the dreaded shaky ground is

steady here in Owen Sound

 

snow likes it here

stays clean shimmering white all winter long

doesn’t have to eat dirt like they do in Toronto

 

the wind is happy, very happy, hurling peacefully, no rush

 

I am happy here

I am happy here

of course I’m sorry don’t understand but I am happy, very happy here  

 

-

Nov. 2006

Saghi Ghahraman

The IceLand

 

then

all of a sudden

we are here

perched on a frozen solid ground

 

wind slowly whirls away

there is no rain

 it only snows slowly down

 

food is plenty

we eat big portions in short intervals

a few die every day

the ones left are left more to eat

we will have to eat more

there is no way to store the dead

 

we are bodies inside bodies

moving in a mute tune

we chew in dark in day light

we bend to rip a strip

from the soft inside of an arm,

the soft curve of a neck, or a handful of the innards

 

we are perched on a frozen, solid ground

heads whirling bodies twirling

swollen in a fair skin

we drink the juice of the fresh dead

eat the ones closer to rot

 

wind snatches bits and whirls slowly away

there is no rain

it snows

slowly

down

 

we are thankful for the veiling frost

because if anything , anything at all

we dread this smell

 

-

Saghi Ghahraman

The child is 18

I can’t be with-child, I told them, I’m a child, I’m only 3

 

You’re 43, they said. Besides, you already have one

 

Oh, I said, then I took my harmonica to my lips to play him a tune of lullabies 

No, no, they said, he is a man of 18.

 

Oh boy, how could I forget? The child is 18, I’m 43,

at the edge of a cliff, ready to jump off 

 

Doesn’t it look like his shoulders? I say. Broad and tan? 

 

Hanging on I want to hang on him, I love him, don’t I? A son of mine, 43, I do.

 

Remember the night you were conceived? The night that they entered me. 

 

Mother was second in line, right after my groom. They entered me one by one,

ravaging every piece of me.    

 

We were, weren’t we, the night you were conceived, I say, happy, oh, boy.

 

Me, lying flat, you, just about to happen, oh, boy o boy. 

 

No, I can’t be with-child, don’t you see?

Granny says: Yes! no!

Mother says: No! yes!

He says, – he, your father – Ladies, allow me to handle this

 

Looking at you, conceived at that split second, mother says, Yes, he does handle things rather well

            

The child is 18

I’m 43

My throat is sore

The child is sweet

I’ve got to fall down

My mind’s a jumble

Her hands with rough nails

Caressed my insides

Mother is ugly

I am 43

The child is 18

I love him so much

Aren’t his shoulders astonishing..

Or the small of his back?

 

   even though you’re sweet, my child, don’t you see, my throat is sore

there is a wound up here

there is a wound down here 

  -

Saghi Ghahraman

The Ritual

   There’s a swift shift of the sheets on the bed in the other room

There’s been a heavy allquiet allnight in the other room

There’re footsteps right away nothing more

There’re footsteps walking out of the room

Then you’re in the shower

You’re taller then water

I want to see you there

I hear the splash, Where? It’s all over your body, the water, isn’t it?

Then your head moves slowly back, your face comes face to face with the showerhead eyes closed hot water hot on your face

What about your hands? Do they keep busy on your body? With water? With soap?

I can see you stripped of the shirts and the pants covering you all the time when I want to look       You’re covered with soap, shampoo on the hair, water, I see the red facecloth somedays, wet, I don’t know how you wash it all off, how you turn to adjust under the hot pouring hot, how you rub your five fingers on the neck, back, chest, thighs, legs

Do you bend, ever, to wash your foot?

You throw the hair back, you must, you comb it all back, hair doesn’t stay put, you shake your head to adjust the strands, I’ve seen the comb, do you close your eyes under the water? Do you know how beautiful you look?

When you’re not high, you’re high on yourself, you know how beautiful you

look

 

You let water kiss you and run, she loves you, you know that, you know

how

beautiful

And you stay there for ever

I waited the first day for ever to look when you walk out of the shower,

Why?

This chocking wanting feeling wishing touching your body is deafening is so loud

This is your ritual you hug hot water everyday for so long everyday why?

There is the knife, and then the cutting board every every morning

You’re standing at the counter, facing the trees in the courtyard,

You are taller then the trees

There is the meat, sliced, lettuce, torn to pieces, cheese cut and laid, mustard, lots of it, and bread

And bread to hold it all together

You are facing the sun, not looking at it, I am looking at the back of your head at your hair up there, and down to the ground where you are standing  

I look up

This is your ritual, you create four pieces of art on four slices of bread, such precision, so beautiful, so much love, I’ve noticed

the stream of kindness you have for everything,

everything;

the menace, you save for me and other intruders   

This is the ritual everyday I look keep looking till you turn back and I turn around to look at the wall or something out there

I am not looking at you it’s crazy

How can I be not looking at you? It’s crazy

Have you been looking at You lately?

Then it’s gone

It’s all gone for a whole day

Do you know how long a day is nowadays?

it’s a whole day every single day

You’re gone

And I don’t know where to look at

I look at things         things here and there

You walk in when it’s all dark

You don’t eat

Or eat, and I don’t know what

You sit in that other room

You sit here where I am sitting you say something I say something it’s crazy I feel dumb you feel disturbed why are you disturbed? Why don’t you ask?

I am the Prometheus my heart pulled out over and over right out of my heart

I haven’t offered no fire to Men, so, why?   

You hug your guitar

You say you’re off for your nightly ritual

I sit there sit there

Do I need another glass of vodka? Do I need another glass? Do I need to know what is it you’re playing? I open my eyes, it’s still your guitar, why you sound like wailing, like a wounded sHe?  

Still you’re playing the guitar

You’re bent on the damn thing      you’re gorgeous     now you’re playing the drum      now it’s the guitar        I open my eyes      it’s the guitar      now you’re singing with that abused beat-up buttered scratched sweetly dipped in honey voice 

crazy       you stand up     you say something like: ok, I’m —–     

I know that

but you say something else too while staring you say something I don’t know  I don’t get it       words leave my lips chopped to bits I can’t breathe    this choking wanting to follow when we’re going up the stairs leaving me there on the sofa for a minute a minute a minute a minute only

for only a minute I can’t exhale I am shocked

I am chocking with wanting to know you’re gone to bed       

You’re taller then the night

 

Am I walking in to your bedroom?

What if I walk in to your bed?

What if I love you sweetly, slowly, fast as I wish?

This breathing gritting of teeth swallowing hard beating of the heart in the head is the ritual

It is my ritual

See you tomorrow

Have a good night

 

-

Nov. 2005

Saghi Ghahraman