Poetry

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

They had chopped us

Limb by limb they had hung us on the entrance of the marketplace

Flowing in the air was the scent of water

We were sautéed entwined with spring

Flowing in the air was the wind

Wind, blew in in our veins, blew out of the hole of our eyes

You walked in
Piece by piece you arranged legs and hands beside lips and eyes

You bent your face over the face’s cheeks which used to be cheeks

Blessed the cheeks with a kiss of cherry blossom

Pain?

There was no pain

There wasn’t a hint of whimper in a throat cut along the hands and legs the tits the tongues

You came closer

Wind stopped

The market place fell silent

I, who had yet to have knees on my legs, walked

on my earlobes, watched

with my fingertips

Pain?
There was no pain

Pain happened, you know, when I blossomed with your touch

When my blossoms shimmered so red that you blinked,

And looked away

.
Saghi Ghahraman
Gildwood Village 1993

Then, all of a sudden
We are here,
Perched on a frozen 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
of the soft inside of an arm,
of the soft curve of a neck,
or a pull a handful of the innards

Heads whirling, bodies whirling
Swollen in a fair skin,
We are perched on a frozen land

We drink the juice of the fresh dead

Eat the ones closer to rot

There is no rain
It snows slowly down
Wind snatches bits and whirls slowly away

We are thankful for the veiling frost
Because if anything, anything at all
We dread this smell

.
Saghi Ghahraman
Military Trail Scarborough Toronto 2002

 

 پوست آهو کشیده به تن

Nude

Standing slanting erect like trees teasing the wind

His unbraided hair linger on shoulder blades

Nude

He’s pulled deerskin 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 sunrays

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 nowhere 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

.
Saghi Ghahraman
Owen Sound, Ontario 2004

 

Your skin is mine by rights.

And so is the smell of it.

And when your skin matures into the lips, the line distinguishing lips from the rest, is also mine.

And when skin is pouting, swollen into a pair of luscious lips, the sight of the pout is mine.

And when skin reaches the rim of lids holding your eyeballs, the crows’ feet under your magnificent eyes is mine.

And when skin seeps up to the hairline, anywhere over the area of your fragile skull it covers, is mine.

And when from up there spreads down and drapes round your shoulders; underarms; small of the back; your ass, the whole mound; thighs, down to the shins, the sole of your foot faced-up, all those gently wiggling toes, it’s mine.

Where the skin curves up beneath your nails to come out on the other side, it’s mine, by rights.

You share with me what’s yours.
I will be gentle. Wont tear it open. Not even when dead drunk.
.

MY love,
What’s under your skin

.
Saghi Ghahraman
King & Dufferin Toronto 2009