saghi ghahraman

My lips are parched,

Like my self;  oozing with a shy blood

.

Brutal shears trim blisters inside my head with a slow hand

I retreat to cool bed sheets    fall in to sleep

    …then I laugh hard

       …turn back to the self

   …tilt the head back

…slap the knee with open palms

…grasp the belly, tight

I shake the laughter off

Nearly noon        of a bright day        every day     when things end up into a flat face – that’s the time when time gushes in, gushes out of the pit of my insides – I laugh hard

Then, comes morning

I breakfast a heaven with two pills an’ a sip of milk

I don’t remember what I do next

From the inside of my cunt, life vibrates

The hollow inside remains hollow for quite a while

I don’t remember what I do next

The shadow in the background of love is mocking;

I laugh hard

.

Saghi Ghahraman
Military Trail Sacarborough Toronto 2002

How

I yearn

To stretch my limbs

To the rhythm of the feast

Plump worms are having

Over my head

There are noises, if I listen

The standing up of hair

Teeth sawing on teeth

Then,

I let out a moan

I hear

Seepings

In that hole

Where I used to let my finger taste

The moist of an un-interrupted sex

Where roaches are feeling their way in, right now

My armpits are tight pressed

My legs pressed tight together

White, under a layer of worms,

As I lay here in my grave,

I hear raindrops

Green grass up above

Tiny shoots glitter beyond tiny drops of water ants scurry into the hole

I yearn

To roam

On the surface

Of my vulva

It’s a long wait

It’s a long wait

Wind
Whistles, teasing fronds of long-lived trees

Then, rushes into the under

Or
maybe it’s a snake I desire
To circle the neck
Fail the tits
Slip down below
Face-first into the hole
where I used to let my finger taste the moist of an un-interrupted sex

Or maybe it’s a snake I desire to slip face-first into the hole where I used to let my fingers taste the moist of an un-interrupted sex

.
Saghi Ghahraman
Finch & Bathurst Toronto 2003

I can’t be with-child!  that’s what I told them. I am a child, I’m only 3.

You are 43, they said. Besides, you already have one.

ohh, I said.

I took my harmonica to my lips to play him a tune of lullabies

No no!      They said, he is a grown 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 tanned, the cliff.

Hanging on I want to hang on on him

I love him, Don’t I!?      A son of Mine    43     I Do

Remember the night you were conceived?

The night when they entered me

Mother was second in line, right after my groom

They entered me one by one

Ravaged every piece        of me

I say to him, we were, weren’t we, happy, the night when you were conceived, oh boy

Me, lying flat, You, just about to happen,       Oh, boyOboy

No!

I said, I can’t be with-child, don’t you see?

Granny says then, Yes! no!

Mother says then,  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, 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, Or, the small of his back, astounding!

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

There is a wound up here

There is a wound down here

.
Saghi Ghahraman
Military Trail Scarborough Toronto 2002

We open the window

Cold breeze rushes in

The dead-dearest averts her eyes

Chill blankets over the room

We shiver

The dead dearest is lying on a pallet in a far corner of the room

We’ve robed her in a white gown

We’ve wrapped her in a white sheet up to her chin

Her legs are trembling

We’ve braided her hair in two ropes on both sides of the face on the pillow

We open the other window, too

Chill clings into chill

The dead dearest turns slowly black & blue

We pull the sheet away a little

Push the gown a little up

We open her legs and enter

We sit up

Smooth her gown down

Pull the sheet up

We sit back

The dead dearest swells slowly

Sheets flap up, and flap a bit higher

We keep her legs ajar an’ grab on our off-springs

We arrange her legs side by side

Smooth the sheets over her legs

The dead dearest shivers

Babies shiver in the cold

We drink tea

We open the window

We let go of the babies over the jammed streets

We drink tea

The dead dearest is a dear one

We go to her

Pull the sheets away a little

Push the gown a little up

We open her legs and enter

The dead dearest swells up

We open the window
.

Saghi Ghahraman
Military Trail Scarborough Toronto 2002

She lives on the 3^rd floor, or  somewhere up there
Comes down only to get it going
Then we start to bang on the drum; I am blind today
The sun came to see her yesterday after dark asked if it was ok not to shine on November 1 and  the 18, after the noon hour.
I don’t know what she said to him; we’ll have to wait and see

She is not called by her real name but she’s called ‘round the clock to change the order of things, or put things in order,
Yet, no one knows no one knows because changes touched by her feel like the norm, why? I’d like it the other way

She walks down the steps, waltzing across with a glass of red red
Tilts her head before she says oooh -meaning a load’s off some shoulders
I am crippled today

She teaches grammar to the needy, “It’s so crucial,” she says, “after all, everyone Wants, right? But can they spell it out?”
She clucks her tongue to start again every single time

She cooks a huge bird, yes, to feed us all. Then she cooks for the tiny bird, the one we’d not dare eat

Her days are 27 hours, not long enough, but still, she’s made a good deal with the minutes; I     admire her. Why the hell should any minute get any good deal out us?

She calculates us on the tip of her fingers, subtracts the job from I. Then she adds me   into the day’s remains, “There we are,” She says with an smile. She’s got a whole & a half # out.
She believes I’ll improve, so I will.
She has done it many times. I am sure she’ll do it fine this time, too; I just go to bed; Today I am deaf.

She blinks a tear, tears a smile halfway away

I talk and I walk and I wonder if she is tired

If I ask, would she stop to think of it?
Now, she wants to go back; I am mute today.

She says she wants to go back. If she goes back she will not be back. She would come here only to help us get by.

DMWB[1] yesterday today tonight tomorrow and all we know is that she’s managed to remain what she’s always been – A Joudee adearjudy because she is;
Today I Am.

.

Saghi Ghahraman
Owen Sound Ontario October 29 2005

[1] Daughter Mother Wife Boss

Trees are happy here, I’ve asked

Rocks are happy here, I’ve asked

Pallid blue, pitch black skies are both happy here

Roads, inside the city, and the country roads – Whirling Dervishes of the West – not quite 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 the nightlights of the big city

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

I’ve 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, insanely happy here

They said they would 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.

Babies’ are quite happy, no complaints

I’ve 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 here 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 the 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’m happy here

I’m happy here

Of course, I’m sorry don’t understand but I’m happy, quite happy here

.

Saghi Ghahraman
Owen Sound Ontario 2005

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

Rightaway, there’re footsteps; nothing more

There’re footsteps walking out of the room

Then, you’re in the shower

You’re taller than 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 when I want to look

You’re covered with soap, shampoo on the hair, water, I see the red facecloth some days, wet.

I don’t know how you wash it all off, how you turn to adjust under the 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 shower? Do you know how beautiful you look?

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

You let water kiss you&run, she loves you, you know that; of course you do.
And you stay there for ever.

I waited for ever the first day to look at you when you walk out of the shower; why.

This chocking wanting feeling wishing to touch your body is deafening, is so loud.

This is your ritual: you hug that pouring water for so long every day; why.

*

Then,
there is the knife, and then the cutting board every single morning.

You’re standing at the kitchen counter, facing the trees in the courtyard;
You are taller than the trees

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

You’re facing the sun, not looking at it,
I’m 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 been watching.

The stream of kindness you have for everything, everything; the menace you save for me and other intruders.

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

I’m 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 all gone

It’s all gone for a whole day

Do you know how long a day is these days?

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

Sometimes you eat, and I don’t know what

You sit in that other room

Or you sit here where I’m 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’m 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 do you sound like wailing, like a wounded sHe?

You’re still 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 of yours

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 can’t figure out

Words leave my lips chopped into 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 than the night

Am I walking into your bedroom?

What if I walk into your bed?

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

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

See you tomorrow
Have a good night

.

Saghi Ghahraman
Owen Sound Ontario 2005

When River turns decisive,
The Riverbed wonders,
Clinging to the resolve lurking in the rush,
Remains motionless.

Riverbed, motionless, irrelevant to destinations the river,
full of murmuring incomprehension, and no resolve,
rushes to.

Riverbed, wondering quietly, rousing waiting listening to the resolve in the river’s intended purpose, sore, crushed;
not by the weight of the current, but
by this vigorous constant friction leaving Them on the verge of erection-burdened distress;

My body is sick of identifying with the river while all-the-while identifying, most sincerely, with the riverbed, Ma’sha’Allhah

.

Saghi Ghahraman
Toronto 2015