Poetry

1-

A window; facing the street; curtainless.

The right corner of the room is dark. There is a face eying the street from the inner side of the window.

2-

The face turns towards the endwall of the room where it is rather dark.

3-

A pair of eyes, if only,
from the dark end of the room, if only,
above cheekbones, if only,
parting cheeks from forehead, if only,
weren’t staring!

4-

There, where the chair is, a face is pressed face-first to the seat of the chair.

A body
– shoulders, stomach, legs and all hanged by the neck of a face –
is knelt on the ground, near the chair
– not chanting not murmuring-
for no reason other than a hysterical hunger to listen senselessly in to the silence.

5-

When it gets dark, the lamp, hanged down the ceiling of the room, shines.

Splashes light over the face near the curtainless window.

At times, the face turns this way, faces the street.

At times, faces the other way, towards the back of the room.

At times, faces that other way, stares directly into the corner of the room.

.

Then,
looks away.

.

The face looks senselessly cold.

Or hot, with anticipation.

She’s standing up; silenced.

From the sidewalk across the road, she does not appear steady.

6-

Under the streetlamp

Over the sidewalk

Air wriggles. Icey.

The body standing on the sidewalk, wriggles into itself cold under the streetlamp.

The eye frizzes fixed on the lamp hanged down the ceiling of the room across the road.

7-

A rope ties the street in to the home.

8-

Paralyzed you are when door is closed, window is shut, yesterday is locked away from today; today locked away from tomorrow; hand tied in to feet; shoulder chained in to the wall – and fears, fears,
distant and blind fears jam inside the skull

9-

Staring at the scene.

The Soggy light

The Intense light

The Murky light

Selfless hands and feet,
Selfless body,
Selfless pair of eyes,
Selfless pair of lips,
Flat chest with nipples buried in absolute darkness.

10-

You weight heavy over my chest, woman!

11-

Torn between the in ,

and the outs
of citizenry in an insatiable Gendermaniac Self

12-

Blue of the sky clashes with the scratches on the asphalt. This Is March 2011.  My Name Is Saghi Ghahraman.

.
Saghi Ghahraman
Toronto March 2011

Death has never happened
There is no memory of it in the body and mind
It is mistaken with a space void of things known, only, it could be a space full of things unknown

For a body looking to avoid things, and not only avoiding the things known,
the known and the unknown are not determining factors

.
Saghi Ghahraman
Toronto Canada
October 2024

At 4:30 a.m.,
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’ve 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 a.m.?
Is it not?

Are you awake, if the clock says it’s 4:30 a.m.?

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 the 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

backstreets of the 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 to

find and match 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 7 a.m.

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 Avenues.

The Avenue is a good spot, almost perfect, covered by 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 ran, 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 everyone does,

If only Ann keeling would 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 delicate body of waters,

Chirping of birds,

Murmur of the Summer winds,

The Fish fished with tender baits,

Faint falling of the leaves,

Gentle descend of Snow, and

Glory of the salty sweat when you’ve done a day’s of work all day long all day long,”

Now, couldn’t I just learn?

I don’t know

.
Owen Sound Ontario Winter 2005

Saghi Ghahraman
Toronto Jan 1, 2025

 

I love you bitch

I’m all yours, Grandma!

Minister of Labour 2005 Original

Titles

• I’m defined by my footsteps, imaginary or otherwise
• Your body parts are parts of the system
• The system is the system is the system is the system
• My Mother the Dick Breastfed me on spasmic orgasmic juices of ejaculation he did not have a use for right after

The Head is Where to Start

On the surface, I am the owner and carrier of a handful of body parts with some of which I’m more familiar, and with some, less.

The head, as a whole, I am familiar with.
The face, on the front of head, and over the head, my eyes, my nose, my mouth, lips, eyebrows, forehead – familiar. The two eyes, set side by side on the the top-section bridge of the nose; the bithches can’t look into each other’s eyeballs, that’s fact. We’ve created mirrors for that reason.

The nose is there only to sneeze, smell, sniff, and snort at times when a specific indulgence of choice is pulling hard at the senses.

There are two ears, one on each side of the head, can’t be bothered to hear each other’s ringing of the ear – I wonder why not.

Then, there is the mouth, which can’t be seen by the eyes – the importance of mirrors – but could be well heard by the ears.

The mouth is kept shut by two lips, and bursts open by an urge of the tongue.

There is a forehead on the front of the head.
It’s not assigned to do much aside from taking a beating from open palm of my hand when I am frustrated, or lean on another forehead, skin bared or veiled by an ever-reluctant mane,
to share emotions.

And yes, the skin
The skin covers all ‘round the body, keeping my innards and insides from falling down and apart and flying all over the place.

The cheeks;

Without any holes, and openings, like what eyes and ears and mouth do, they reveal a huge lot by changing color, feeling warm to the touch, guiding a teardrop downward, keeping stiff when crashing with thunderous heavy slaps.

That’s not all.

There is the neck, for example, binding the head to the rest of me. I will go on in few minutes; don’t walk away

–
Saghi Ghahraman
King & Dufferin Toronto 2011

Doesn’t smile

I want him to smile

I want him to lie back and smile, motionless

I want to suck on his genitals till it runs out of milk

Till he smiles, and a tear runs down the side of his left eye

He doesn’t smile

He doesn’t want me to milk him. It hurts, he says

He’s got no genitals, he says

He says I’ve rubbed him out of it;
he lies

He wants to move on top of me

He says I’m the one with genitals;

he lies

He wants me to keep still while he licks me

Close my eyes, and press my lips together

Then he wants me to open up in a form of a smile

What a change, what a change !

Patches of black hanging down the sky

Then I creep up his leg; a roach, that’s what I am

What happened to me, to me, with my big blue eyes !

I creep up his leg up up up

Patches of black
What a change in the sky.

He lies

A good erection, yes, the roach bit the penis

What a change;
I remember things

Things have changed

I remember everything

The roach crawls down slowly, feeling as tiny as a lonely ant

Orange light falls on the bed

It is an isolated room

Down on the floor is where we made love

There on the windowsill, where we sat watching neighbors’ commotion

They were loud at times, then we made love

I used to envy him for his thirsty vulva

Feeding him my forefingers I would envy his pain

He had pain; he says he still does

He says I rubbed him out of his genitals

I want him to lie back, stay still

Then,
I want to crawl up a wall

We did nothing during the night

Crying yelling shouting whining was all we did

We used the night for a stage, a crazy one

The curtain rise !       The curtain fall !

Rise !
Fall !

Rise !
Fall !

Rise !
Fall  fall   fall,  stupid !

He is beautiful, sleeping, sun rays on his body

Kisses, how many kisses

Countless kisses my lips tattooed on his skin

How completely, entirely, absolutely he is mine

I want to wear him on me

Wear him on my bones

He is a child born thousands of hours ago

In a shell, dark inside and chill

He saw me on a dirt-road; why was I purpled ?

The road ran down a valley, deep and dense

But,
why was I purpled ?

I showed him my womb     Bloody safe warm soft, ah ? I told him

He is an enchanting goddess with eyes of sapphire

Wearing sky blue sandals

With a dust of purplish silk as a gown

I want him to smile

He wants to paint me all blacks & reds

Then;
he wants to hang me on a wall, wash his brushes, and walk off

Bright sapphire smiles
Red ruby smiles

Sit back like a motionless dirty sea
Like a womb taking back his child

No,
I don’t want to hide you

No,
I don’t want to hide

Why don’t you hang me up a tree like a silly star

Yes,
of course I hear the gnawing

Yes,
I know it hurts

Yes,
I see the clouds are crumpled

I’ll wash your gown, not to worry.

I’ll wash the sheets, bloody sheets, yes.

  —

Saghi Ghahraman
Davenport Ave., Toronto 1999

I carry womb

Womb carries child

Child carries hunger

Hunger carries pain

Pain carries hope

Hope drags us into wars hoping to catch something anything less painful than pain

War carries death

Death carries doom

Womb carries child

Child carries hunger

Hunger carries pain

Pain carries hope

Hope drags us into wars hoping to grab anything less painful than pain; except death teams up with doom and carry us away

I carry on and carry my womb along, anyway.

.

Saghi Ghahraman
Bathurst on Finch Toronto 2003

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