Watch me…

The wind wiped away a dove’s nest.
She flew the whole earth to find a new one.
All in vain…
She remained homeless, lonely.
So she built a nest on my left shoulder.
Since then I couldn’t bend over anymore.
So I took the straightest path among the clouds so me, you, and the dove Could watch the sky…

Time Exhumation

We exhume the time,
To look for rotten forgotten treasures,
Cries the time: “Don’t!”
We go ahead.
We pull out with all our power,
Blood,
Pus,
And agony.
We regret,
Throw away the shovel,
And sit in full exhaustion and despair.
The time looks like a left naked prostitute,
Moaning.
And the sky cries instead of time’s eyes.

A Eulogy for Your Eyes

From each of your fingertips thousands of rivers flow to water the barren desert of my soul.
Seeds grow in me and each of them becomes a tree for you to sit under its shadow and watch the dance of a blue butterfly.
The butterfly changes into me.
I go up the tree over your head and hang my hair downward that you come up.
You reach for the sun,
The sun changes into a white dove and sits right on your generous shoulder.
It’s getting dark.
The white dove changes into the moon. You see your picture in the moon.
The moon is me…

Chapter 84 of my Novel, Marsala

When you smile all the particles of your face change into blossoms. And when you laugh all these blossoms start to flower in the barren desert of my mind. The sound of your laughs reminds me of the sweet sound of the sea. I say things to make you laugh, but I don’t laugh myself that I hear you well. At this very moment, my world stands still and I inhale each single moment mixed with that sound into my(lonely)self. I’m filled. And the last movement of your head backward is a slap on my pale face to wake up…

A Reflexive Ode

I became the sun, but you turned your back to me.
I became the rain, but you never planted any seed.
I became the moon, but you never wrote a poem.
I became the wind, but you never put your washed shirt out!
Sunflower,
Gardener,
Poet,
Lover!
What should I be to take you out of your shell?

Condemnation

I ran out of the door and slammed it behind me.
It was raining cats and dogs.
I swallowed my tears in my eyes.
A kid smiled at me passing the street.
I turned my head back to the other side to try to pull together my lips to smile back to him,
But a tear dropped out of my right eye.
With the other eye facing him, tearless,
I smiled back to him.
That smile chopped every piece of my soul into pieces and the blood was right falling from my eyes...

Naught

My presence,
Yours,
Is like a dry leaf’s shadow.
How useful we are.
How desperately we seek
And seek
And seek
For things that we think they are.
For values whose presence is like the doubt we have whether we watered the flowers during the past week or not.
For our shoes to wear and dart out of home to get some fresh air when the last thought in our brain reaches a dead end…
Like now that there are many white unwritten lines below
For you to read and take a deep breath. Go ahead.

Hymn to a Wall

Burn my shadow
Clean all the traces;
My footprints and fingerprints.
Then find me
In the fogs,
And try to trust
The lies of words
And wake me up
In between the lines of compulsion.

Anhedonia

I put a butterfly sticker on my thumbnail,
And drank coffee by the window,
While watching the worried cat walking on the edge of the wall.
I opened the yard’s door.
The cat ran away.
I kneeled by the small garden and dug it.
I buried all the poems I wrote for you there.
They could be rich fertilizers for my daffodils.

Anathema

She died. And I decided to bury her with my own hands in our own garden where I could always visit her.
So I planted her in the corner of the garden.
After a week I saw some sprout on her grave.
After a month some leaves,
But after a year there were fruits up there!
Whatever effort I made to pick them I couldn’t.
It was as if they were a part of the tree and stuck to it.
They were gray.
A hundred years passed.
The day I died there were lots of her around me.
Each of them was weeping many a tear and their whole intermingled sound caused me to feel a hole in my head.
I died though,
And I never saw her, saw them
Again…

Think of Me When the Butterfly Dances Around You

Somewhere in shadows we walk,
For if we walk in the dark, we feel cold
And if in warmth,
Light will blind us.
I feel your existence under my skin
Together we are free…

Chapter 50 of My Novel, Marsala

50

I don’t really know for what I’m living. I could certainly depict that all the ties which connected me to life have torn apart. What really matters in this is that I myself hate anything which connects me to life. So many things don’t have the mentioned value in the first place. And despite this knowledge I move on in vain. Last night I witnessed my birth in a pool where my mother and father and I were in, in different corners. My mother who doubted my being alive gave birth to me and I was freed in the water. I grasped the little baby while looking into my mother’s eyes with fear and confusion. She said she’s dead but I peeled the thin plastic-like cover around the baby and hung her upside down and hit slowly her back and after a cough she breathed deeply and slowly. My father told me she was dead too right after my mother. But she was alive and the only one who actually gave birth to me was me. How can you?

Chapter 50 of my unfinished novel, Marsala

Chapter 66 of My Novel, Marsala

66

Recently, I see everyday a white butterfly. I enjoy watching them at that captured-in-my-eyes special quicker-than-ever moment. Yes! Enjoy the moment, cling to beauties and joys. But the issue still stands: Living.


Chapter 66 of my unfinished novel, Marsala

Burlesque

My head is stuck
Into life, into me.
And my feet are swinging in the air.
If you touch them,
My neck will break
If not,
I’ll be smothered.
I’m supposed to choose now.
This is what I should live.

Glossolalia

This overrated me, is left in the arms of the storm...

Seesaw

She shook intensely in full rage her dumb father's shoulders
And with her filled with tears eyes
Shouted: "I'm happy. I'm happy!"

Odd

There are moments that you are neither sad nor happy and you cry;
Moments in which
Another piece of you is separated from you
And is destroyed in an unknown vacuum,
Somewhere around.

Nonwords

I: Why am I struggling to unlive a life that I don’t want to?

God: …

I: I’m a grown-up now. Just tell me why.

God: …

I: I hate everything and myself.

God:…

I: OK, don’t you think it’s high time for you to finish me?

God: …

And I lived thousands of years afterwards!

On the Wing

Staring at the yellow chrysanthemums;
The shadow of the autumnal clouds on my hands;
I’m free…

Prowler

What a shitty thing to do and what a drudge I am! I have always thought that I have the most ridiculous job in the whole world. A wonderful narrow road has been formed because of the reoccurrence of my destintionless passage through this stupid desert. And the only thing which has ever made me happy is the fact that I have built this road on my own though unconsciously. And this is my realm. This is my territory. And I think I have been pretty successful in ruling, because I haven’t ever seen the footsteps of any animate being here. I guess I should describe my realm a bit further and say how it looks like here. There are always sounds here. But to me I guess they are voices. But they are delirium because I can’t do what they tell me to do and a kind of vain power pushes me through this road. I mentioned that there is no animate being here but I can see colorful butterflies around here when I hear that special voice and it is interesting that they show off so glamorously in this black and white world. I guess my name begins with something like K, because there is a brand on my left wrist showing “K”. And about my job; I’m a dragger! I drag a mass of flesh and bone behind me that all I know about it is that every pain to me causes a greater pain in it. I think I am the only kind of being who is totally aware of its absurdity and hollowness. I don’t know when my mission ends and when I can retire forever. And above all I’m so tired of not understanding what that special voice says. Anyway, that’s the only sound that doesn’t hurt me as much as other sounds, and I’m used to it like getting used to this flesh behind me, which is always hungry and thirsty and needy for everything and this is me who should satisfy its needs in this hollow desert within this suspension, and clean the trace of its blood…

A Paramour Called Life

She lets go of herself in the arms of everybody.
She laughs,
Coquets,
Cries of joy!
While someone from the back
Keeps me seated on a chair,
Forcing me to watch all these scenes
And retelling each story by only tapping my heels to the floor.
I’m frigid!

I’ve had an affair with Ezraiel*

Once, Ezraiel and I were in love. I met him first, sitting opposite me in a train. There was no one in between us. The first thing he told me was: “nice hands!” and I suddenly looked down at my hands and smiled back at him, thinking with myself: “But my hands are not nice!” Though I never met him before I knew him. The way he smelled was very familiar. His voice, his being was familiar. In a part of me I always felt he is after me. I spent the best moments of my life with him; for he was in me, not with me. Once in another train sitting opposite me he said his very last words and since then I never saw him again:
“You should have died in my arms a long time ago.”
I heard these words looking down at my hands, but when I looked up he was gone.
So we broke up because he had to kill me in his own arms. And for he loved me, he let go of me in the middle of limbo. He has even hidden me from me…
How cruel, how kind you are. How easily you dissolved in me in you in nowhere.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------

* Ezraiel in Farsi is the name of a fallen angel who is responsible for taking people’s lives.

A Well-Lit Eating Space

Left hand on the right one, with a lit forgotten cigarette in between two fingers, I am sitting in a dirty populous café. I’m told that I have a rendezvous with three people and they haven’t showed up yet. I don’t remember at all if someone in my last night’s dream has told me so or someone in the real world. Or maybe this is a false thought or illusion. I have to wait anyway and see how it goes. Here the air is full of smoke but I enjoy the smoke of my cigarette spread in the whole air and dissolve in others’ smoke. It causes a kind of useless unity that I haven’t seen anywhere. Smoke should dissolve in smoke and stone should tear stone. There is no special explanation for this, but I like the structure and the dream behind it.

A girl sits in front of me and puts her bag and umbrella beside my cup. I watch people under the rain from the window beside me. The girl orders a tea and sugars it. After drinking her tea she starts advising me while I am not in a big shock. She tells me to be in love like her and see how interesting life would be, how sweet! I am gazing at people outside whose lives are way too interesting like hers. She talks for one hour with a complicated bad voice that I don’t hear anymore after a few minutes. My trousers have become slightly wet by the water flowing from her umbrella on the table and so I feel somehow cold in my back. She leaves I think after the same one hour and I chase her among the wet crowd.

I light another cigarette and puff on it when I open my eyes, to the face of a young man who is sitting opposite me. He is so good-looking with a nice beard. When I get that he is insisting on things which are tried once by a part of me, I don’t unconsciously hear him anymore. He takes out a book from his pocket and starts reading it to me. I don’t know to what religion it belongs to, but I feel I have heard the content before frequently. He doesn’t order anything to drink or eat. I remember his face well while he was drowning in my cigarette smoke, moving the air by his left hand while keeping the book in his right hand. The rain keeps falling on young men and women and speeds their actions in a funny way. The young man leaves me while I am gazing at a full-of-water hole outside in which people put their feet and the water splashes around. One drop falls on the surface of the glass next to me. He pats me on my back warmly though I don’t feel any warmness at all. He comes and goes like a breeze and he vanishes among other wet people whose noses are reddened by coldness of January. I wonder again for whom I am waiting here and how they would look like. I don’t know how many cigarettes I have extinguished in this wooden ashtray and here is the last one for now.

I put my head on the table and close my eyes for seconds. I order another coffee and when the old waitress brings it to me she sits down opposite me. I am surprised and I think maybe she is tired and wants to relax for seconds. Drinking my coffee I look deep into her eyes. She looks back into my eyes and says she was once young and beautiful like all those people out there. That she has many sweet memories from the past. She tells me to always hang on to my memories. Old people like their past because they have no other thing to stick to and talk about. And her old sad voice melts in my ears after a few minutes. Someone calls her and she goes. I look at my watch. I’ve waited there for a couple of hours for people whom I don’t know yet. I put the money on the table and wear my coat. When I open the door of the café, a cool breeze touches my face like the hand of an ex-friend. I take a deep breath and depart. The streets are empty and dark blue.

Futile Nows…

I’ll be lost somewhere no one would find me,
Between the forgotten rotten yellow leaves of an autumn;
In a vacuum between the past and present,
Which are both nothing,
Like the future.
All the gone moments have been each a future of chances and choices,
Not taken and made.
I’m stuck into this soil’s muddy hands.
How easily
I shiver,
I fall,
Though rooted…

Oversimplification

The oversimplified “I”
Keeps longing for nothingness
Among this excited, ever happy crowd,
Whose collars are wetted by the gray autumnal rain,
But don’t feel cold.

A Letter to Humanity

Dear humanity;

I don’t feel good at this very moment. I don’t feel good at all to write this letter to you, but I have the courage to. I’m brave enough to call you names and humiliate you. But I’m not going to do this. I don’t hate you but I don’t have any devotion towards you either. This is only a moment of revelation.

What are you really thinking? How dare you write every nonsense you want on me? I hope this would not end in a misunderstanding. For what I’m complaining about is not the essence of writing, but it is all the contradictions that I see in and within your empty world. A lover takes a piece of paper and writes his beloved a letter and describes whatever he feels and then when he sees her to give her the letter he squeezes me at the bottom of his pocket and doesn’t mention at all that he has written a letter on me. What should I do then? A philosopher who pretends to hate life and so doesn’t really live a life, takes a marker and fills all my sensitive skin with any kind of bull he wants; then he shuts the door behind himself and causes all my cells to shake for seconds. What does he really want from the poor wretched life? Some other time a girl who was laughing until a couple of hours ago with her friends, takes a red lipstick and writes on me that “Nobody is responsible for my death!”. And then she looks deeply into my eyes and brushes her hair and chops up her veins and dies. And the day after they print on me that a girls commits suicide for unknown reasons.

What is wrong with you humans? See what kind of hell you have made for yourselves and what a deep grave you have dug.
You have always polluted me with your own hands and have let go of me. You have always left me for some passerby to read, to ask for their attention though they don’t even give me a quick scan.

Although I’m so sick of the heaviness of your hands on me I have to tolerate and bear the life that you planned for me; exactly like you! The only difference is that I know myself but you don’t know yourselves. Eat your heart out humanity!


Never looking forward to hearing form you,

Yours never,
Blank Page

Relaxant

A butterfly burns.
Someone calls me I guess.
They are burnt on the fire of human's skull,
No air needed, despite the vacuum.Can someone tell how this fire is set?

A Fearful Confession

I can’t exactly remember since when, as an angel, I started crying. One thing I know for sure and that is the fact that it hasn’t been haphazard. I discovered that I could cry too by a special event that I don’t remember.

The world I live in has only three colors: black, white and gray. I don’t know what color I am but it is different from these three and it’s different from those of yours. Can you describe your colors?

I cry many times. I cry when I fly and that is when someone suddenly feels a cold drop on his cheek but when he looks upward at the sky he finds out that it’s not raining. I cry when I dream that there is a bifurcation of a path. Because I don’t know what I should do and which path I should take; for I don’t know how to choose. But I’ve seen that many of you easily can. Can anyone teach me how to choose? I cry a lot when I see a girl push her face into the pillow and cry for she misses love—maybe in vain and maybe not. I don’t know what I should do for her, because I don’t know how to help. No one has taught me to. I cry for I cannot walk on earth. My heels are always so above the earth.

I cry; for I cannot be you and it is exactly when you suddenly feel very cold at dawn…

Introduction

I guess I need to include a bio note in my blog for those who probabely don't know me. I was born in July 3, 1984 in Isfahan, Iran. My major at the university was English language and literature. Since 2004 I started writing poetry, short stories and essays in English. I have a number of publications in Ascent Aspirations Magazine and Barnwood Poetry Magazine in 2007 and 2008.

At the time being I'm working on a novel which I don't know where it would take me and how long it would take to be written. Its main abstract theme deals with my philosophical revelations within the frame of my experiences, without giving any exact concrete details.

On the whole, like all of you I'm a repeater of life in its true futile way. My words are a true reflection of me and my life. I'm not into any special "ism" . I try to create my own Golshanism! But my main interest is dark modern literature.

I try to make a selection of my works here including short stories, poetry and some short essays. Please feel free to express your opinions and comments. Your ideas mean a lot to me and are the best feedback.

All the works are copyrighted.