Embedded Files
Ambivalence
Ambivalence
The inner world of mine and the outer collide
In the haze of the explosion, fantasy is born
It’s no longer possible to tell them apart
Life forms my reverie
Only in dreams do I feel alive.
My ambivalence is vague and inconceivable, I know.
Yet,
I can live with it
Why does no one else try?
An Absurd Story
An Absurd Story
A complete narrative,
from A to Z —
All the elements of a tale are there.
Alas,
a bizarre twist of fate,
an untimely beginning,
the wrong place
at the wrong time.
An ambiguous plot,
a blend of reality
formed in the chambers of the mind.
The characters of this saga
are nothing but shadows.
The words are hollow.
The event is fictitious.
An illusion of sorts
believable only
when the strange dream
begins to unfold.
Anthem of Lambs
Anthem of Lambs
Bah, bah, bah, bah,
We are meek and gentle creatures.
We harm no one.
Peace and harmony,
green pastures,
the softness of spring
These are the things we love.
This is our nature.
And because serenity lives so deeply within us,
our flesh is tender.
appetizing, delicious
a fact well known
To all who have tasted us before.
We are so calm, so yielding,
that even when danger approaches,
We do not kick or gore
Do not bare our teeth or growl.
No fight or resistance at all.
For these very reasons
Our meat is so tender.
When we are led to the slaughterhouse,
obedient beneath the eyes of the flock,
We quietly follow our executioner
who carries the knife in his hand.
We despise violence.
Our enemies admire us for this virtue.
When a vicious wolf invades the herd,
tearing apart one of our children before our eyes,
When blood drips from his fangs
and pieces of our beloved still cling to his jaws,
We remain composed and do not react.
We reject violence.
Serenity runs deep in our roots.
The wolves understand us well
Greatly respect our values.
If one among us suddenly roars,
charging toward the beast
prepared to spill his blood in defiance,
We stare at him in silence,
Contempt lingering in our eyes.
Surely, he cannot be one of us, wondering
What kind of animal behaves this way?
And then,
We do what we have always done,
Recite our anthem with pride:
Bah, bah, bah, bah.
Axiom
Axiom
I would never die if I weren’t born!
Bright Daylight
Bright Daylight
The sky is bright and radiant
an endless blue untouched by clouds.
No storm hides in wait
to ambush the calm.
Not a drop of rain falls
to quench the fever of the earth.
Winter is nowhere near,
waiting to trace frozen sighs
upon a fogged windowpane.
And the breeze,
The majestic voyage of a calm wind
has begun!
Yet even on a day like this,
There is sorrow in watching the breeze
crush the wishes of dandelions
against the ground.
Car in Reverse
Car in Reverse
Is he awake,
or trapped inside a recurring dream?
In his reverie,
a speeding car shifts violently into reverse,
hurtling backward at terrifying speed—
a dreadful journey toward the abyss.
Then, he awakens,
only to realize the runaway car
is swerving wildly left and right
along the very road he just escaped.
The helpless driver watches in shock
as destiny unfolds before his eyes.
Nothing can he do
to alter the ominous reality
and the victim of the crash—
an awakening
destined to come.
Cold Rain
Cold Rain
Didn’t I stroll beneath its heavy mist?
Wasn’t I soaked through on the walk to school?
Wasn’t my homework ruined, leaving the sting
Of punishment fresh across my young palms?
Didn’t the downpour leave me with a fevered chill,
A runny nose, and a rasping, heavy cough?
And that bitter syrup—didn’t I swallow it with a frown?
Yet, wasn't my first kiss beneath a broken umbrella?
A sweet, rising steam, the very flavor of rain,
Lingering between our parted lips.
If it wasn’t the rain,
Where does this misty recollection come from?
Why does it flow so freely through my verse,
Showering my deepest thoughts?
Why do I long for rain whenever I am blue?
And why does it perfectly complement my delight?
When my aunt passed, did the rain wash away my tears,
Or did my weeping force the sky to fall?
If rain is truly unfeeling,
Where does this profound sympathy come from?
Now, once again, this capricious rain pours down,
Knocking insistently against my lonely door.
It splashes hard on the walls of my sorrow,
Seeping slowly through the window cracks
To drip upon vintage photographs.
Through the foggy glass, I feel the quiet ache
Of frozen beads clinging to bare, nude branches.
Autumn has taken over; the leaves have surrendered.
A long, cold season is on the way.
The rain knows it well.
And maybe, so should I.
Darkness
Darkness
When darkness creeps inside me,
I watch it with despair.
When it fills my soul,
I touch it with tenderness.
And when it lurks in solitude,
I keep it company.
Maybe it has something to say.
Maybe I need to listen.
Maybe I must learn.
Death and I
Death and I
Life is perhaps
A hollow tomorrow of today
As today is for the day prior
Death is a decaying reminiscence
The lasting impression on life.
“Live as if you’ll die tomorrow.”
This advice I took to heart all along
Lived in the moment, precariously
Erratic in deed, whimsical thoughts
As capricious as I was
Every single day, I wondered
Which tomorrow I would die?
Years passed, and as I grew older
Oh God! I thought,
The golden years have arrived.
The conditional clause “If” in the phrase
“Live as if you’ll die tomorrow.”
Was on the verge of redaction
From the last chapter of life
Losing relevance to the text it once revived.
Divine retribution, final revenge
The fangs of death
Haunted I was by a rasping thought
The mere fact that soon I would not be alive.
The horror of oblivion, dread of nothingness
Morphed into an eerie allure,
A peculiar temptation to explore death, my nemesis.
The ominous bird of my mind
Soared in the depth of reverie
Touched the void, forbidden to see
I wrote the abyss, mocked its dark shadow
Praised its mystery, scorned the malice
The yearning of intuition was a magical path I followed.
One night, as I plunged into a trance,
Death appeared to me.
Now, it was everywhere to keep me company.
I shared with death many anecdotes
It revealed to me so many more.
Tales of the other side, grim and horrific yet,
Fascinating to hear, and it was.
Oh! Death knows a lot
It has seen it all.
Death is resourceful, crafty, and shrewd
At times, it is so merciless, too.
But in all fairness, it wasn’t as awful as I thought.
It does have a sense of humor
That I don’t care for at all
Once it said, and I quote
“Life is perhaps, death’s definitely not.”
The wisdom of the axiom I praised,
The death’s tone and the smirk turned me off.
Death has its quirks and a softer side one needs to realize
As ironic as it sounds, death appreciates art
Since it knows well, by creation, mortals will never die.
Based on our shared instinct for survival
Death and I reached a pact, an agreement
Oh! A sordid affair, a tacit accord it was.
I don’t vilify death in my poetry and prose
In any way, shape, or form
No cheap innuendo, cliché, symbolism,
No excessive whining in alamode noir.
No dark canvas in my art
Gloomy birds in the sky
I pledged to show more respect
To destiny, to death, that’s coming about
The bottom line is that I play along.
And in return
Death would let me survive,
So long as I create art.
The contract was binding on one principle alone
To live forever through art or to simply die!
We also agreed, and it’s as follows:
The makeup of life, the essence of living
Pleasure and pain; sorrow and delight
Hope, despair, wishes, and desire
Are only mine to decide.
I confess, and as peculiar as it sounds
Death is bliss, an inspiration,
It gives a true sense and direction
To my very life.
Death of Light
Death of Light
A spectacular, historic event
was to happen in the sky,
a lifetime display
That would alter our lives in every way.
The human race is far too advanced.
to be concerned with such a change,
astrophysicists and scientists proclaimed.
The long-awaited night finally arrived.
The masses waited anxiously.
for the sky to turn into a stage
a free show, a memorable event
they were lucky to witness in their lifetime.
Millions rushed outside
to experience the exhibit in person.
When night fell,
the sky was tarnished with thick clouds.
Anxious chatter hovered, hoping the unfortunate haze
would not ruin their pleasant evening.
Suddenly,
A calm breeze caressed the scene.
sweeping the massive clouds away.
Before dazzled eyes,
The infinite stage was set against a dark backdrop.
Cheerful spectators rose to their feet,
applauding enthusiastically in a stupor
as the shiny crescent finally appeared
in the heavens before them.
The sole performer of the night
innocently coiled her dazzling torso,
like a timid young celibate surrendered
to an intoxicated beast on her wedding night.
The fragile virgin looked pale and aloof in the spotlight,
light shimmering through her sad eyes.
The rowdy audience cheered for the performer.
The main attraction was about to start.
The shimmery crescent, silent on stage
under the gaze of millions,
performed her last act. How captivating it was
when she quietly wept in solitude.
Glittering tears fell from heaven—
shattered crystals of a divine chandelier
Reigning over the enchanted sky.
A wisp of her tantalizing hair,
sparkles of silver bulbs,
trickled down onto the earth.
She recited her elegy with twinkling tears in her eyes;
as she wept, her crescent torso shrunk thinner.
Minutes later, when she fell apart,
such radiant particles, glowing pieces, vanished in the dark.
When her elegance withered into a murky void
and the world plunged into the abyss,
the audience gave a standing ovation
for her grand finale in the sky.
Then the masses of earth morphed
into long, ominous shadows stretched to eternity.
The murmuring phantoms of the world
wickedly wiggled through the maze of their existence,
lurking back into their dark dwellings
with only a faded reminiscence of
the beauty and the light.
Dream
Dream
I am the interpretation of my dreams
a shattered mirror of reverie,
fragmented fantasies,
disjointed thoughts glued by magic
to form the days of my life.
That’s
what,
how,
and who I am
the personification of my dreams.
Nothing real will happen tomorrow
If it is not in my dreams tonight,
or the nights I lived before.
Nothing has ever truly been real,
had it not been present
in my dreams prior.
Life is a trance.
an illusion on a stage
where I play an active role
in a theater of sorts.
The reality is:
I don’t see dreams
Dreams are seeing me.
End of Semester
End of Semester
I wander in a haze, lost in a bizarre trance.
and find myself on a college campus.
Students are chatting, some rushing to class,
all holding books in their hands.
Everyone has a purpose, a reason to be here.
Why am I here? I cannot understand.
The eerie setting gives me the creeps,
stirring anxiety beyond belief.
Suddenly, the realization hits: I, too, am a student.
Today is the end of the semester.
It is time for the final exam,yet,
I don’t have the textbook.
I have no clue what the subject even is, since
I’ve never once attended the class.
I beg others to show me the way
to the examination hall,
roaming through buildings to reach my room.
I peer through the window.
The students are already seated, the test well in progress.
I must be too late! For what, however, I never grasp.
My heart pounds, wondering what to do
at the end of this cruel charade.
Anxiously, I nudge the door open, only to
wake up wondering why
I constantly have such a peculiar dream.
Essence of Life
Essence of Life
Life is nothing but incoherent poetry:
a murky dream inundated with enigma,
a fragmented puzzle of countless bits.
Crystals of darkness, elusive slivers of light—
bestowed upon me at birth,
never a choice of my own.
I interrupt this dream numerous times,
and in the haze of awakening, I desperately strive
to piece it together, to make sense of it all.
Alas,
just when I have it all figured out,
I suddenly realize
none of the pieces have fallen where they belong.
Then, I despise my awakening,
and wish I had never entered this farce.
Guns and Consciousness
Guns and Consciousness
In memory of the victims of an elementary school massacre
What is wrong with us as a nation,
fallen in love with our guns?
Obsessed with an outdated right
“of the people to keep and bear arms,”
written more than two centuries ago:
“A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State.”
Is that why we worship guns?
When was the last time
the people deterred the tyranny of their government
by forming a militia with guns in their hands?
Are guns legal for hunting?
How many rounds of ammunition
discharged from an automatic weapon are needed
for a prancing deer to fall and die?
It is not about security, liberty, or the Constitution;
violence as a vice is ingrained in our psyche.
Villains are praised and mobs admired
in vicious games and Hollywood crap—
our pop culture is to blame.
Gun manufacturers are profiteers,
filmmakers and songwriters, too.
Politicians all have strings attached,
complicit in gun-related crimes.
How is it that no one in the corporate media
dares to rise above the fray
and ask the hard question:
Why so much bloodshed in the name of freedom?
The morality of a nation is on the verge of collapse.
Add to this shenanigan a broken mental health system,
a scarce budget for badly needed care,
and a large population ignored every day.
Dystopia is in the making; the stage is set
for a young anti-hero, a Joker of sorts—
a demented villain, fully armed.
A lethal blend of delusion and bullets
snaps into action to take charge.
And in a matter of minutes,
tragedy is in sight, carnage everywhere.
The blood of children stains our conscience—
fallen angels wallowing in vain.
Happiness
Happiness
I know happiness exists.
I felt it in the nap I took
on my Aunt Zari’s lap.
I savored it in the curry stew,
found it in the white velvet of the first snow I ever saw,
and in the darkness of Van Gogh’s Starry Night.
I know happiness exists.
I heard it in the ring of a phone call from the one I love,
and I cradled it in the last drowsy moments before falling asleep.
It flashes in my mind for a second or two
just so I can sense its presence.
It is buried in the rocky shore of my childhood,
the turbulent sea of my youth.
I know it’s there—
so real in memories,
I can almost touch it.
Heroes
Heroes
Heroes are bones in our conscious graves—
perished in prisons, exiled in solitude.
Then there are traitors, imperfect idols, damaged goods
who failed to live up to our ethical code.
Heroes are free; they cost us nothing,
so it’s good to have a few
to use as we please:
like the sardines, cream cheese,
and ketchup when we eat.
Next to bandages, cough syrup,
and aspirin pills for quick relief.
They don’t take up space,
shuffled into a pile of vintage photos,
lost in the lines of our unread books.
In an age of injustice,
at the pivotal moment when
we are bound to alter our fate,
we are sluggish to make a move.
Yet, our devious minds
always know what to do;
we callously play ignorant,
sitting silent in the comfort of our zone,
relegating the burden to heroes—our gullible fools.
We may applaud the valor of our courageous dolls—
years later, of course, after they die.
When it is safe and convenient,
we commemorate their sacrifice
in a chic gesture after a sip of wine.
It’s a shame, the deceptive game we play.
An infamy, to embrace such a farce,
exploiting our heroes just to get by in life.
I Drown
I Drown
On a stormy night, I drown.
Colors mean nothing in the dark;
the only dimension I fathom is depth.
In an abyss, I am intertwined.
My foamy mouth is bitter,
hands surrender to life,
feet stand on nothing,
eyes are void cavities.
The cold wind is hissing.
My heart bleeds.
A mirage I see, an illusion—
bits and pieces of hope floating afar.
I Will Become Rain
I Will Become Rain
When the wind blows,
it scatters my ashes.
Then,
particles of my being
rise to the sky—
sigh and blue unite.
When birds carry my wishes
to the dark clouds,
heaven cries,
and
a drop of a sigh,
locked in a crystal of light,
will gently fall.
That’s how destiny,
once again,
sows me deep in the ground.
From that sigh, one day,
hope germinates:
as green as spring,
as pure as water,
and as innocent as daylight.
Inferno
Inferno
How I reached the sky,
I don’t know.
Why?
An impulse, perhaps, to share the joy.
As I gazed into heaven,
when the clouds painted the canvas
white on the deepest blue
I opened my arms,
threw my hands in the air,
and
splashed an invisible fluid into the sky,
as the saints do
to bless the sinners.
And soon,
the sky became ill.
Blue turned to gray;
white became dark.
The vicious brush of the wind
painted a haunting image
before my eyes.
The lightning struck.
Storms separate positive and negative charge
amongst innocent clouds.
The air heated hotter than the sun,
and it came—the ravaging thunder
to ignite it all.
The huge clouds exploded,
an enormous mushroom
of fire filling the sky.
The dark wind blew,
blazing clouds collided,
exploding in symphony—
a harmonic devastation.
Heaven was on fire.
Then the rain came,
my desperate hope
to quench the thirst
of hatred and despair,
to calm the air.
Yet, from the blazing clouds,
huge columns of fire
welded heaven to earth.
Tragedy everywhere.
I started it all.
A cardinal sin I’ve committed
the rare moment of joy
when I shared my delight.
I am burning with desire
to tell my side.
Alas,
who could ever believe my tale?
With whom can I ever share my pain?
Who could ever be impartial at my trial?
And
what punishment could ever fit my crime?
My Beloved!
My Beloved!
What are you?
Perhaps,
the distant memories of a rowdy child.
The goosebumps in the cold, dark cinema with a frosty Pepsi in hand.
Perhaps,
the garlic flavor of a bologna sandwich, the orange of a Fanta,
or the salty flavor of doogh*.
You’re the burning sensation, the sting of punishment
in the palms of my hands.
The painful strikes of the merciless flog
for my sloppy homework or being late to school.
You’re every word I misspelled when taking dictation.
You’re the sweet steam of baked beets on a street vendor’s cart.
You’re the stripes of the plastic balls I kicked as a child.
You’re as dark and gooey as melted tar,
stuck to the soles of my bare feet in the summer heat of Ahvaz.
You’re the brawls I had with friends on school breaks.
My sore throat, my doctor's excuse.
You are my ruthless teachers in third grade and fourth—
the slap in the face,
the excruciating pain of a pencil squeezed between my fingers.
You’re my first day of spring, the New Year’s joy,
the aroma of roasted nuts, the haft-seen*, the hyacinth.
The crisp bills, the money my father gave to everyone.
The New Year’s break—thirteen days of happiness.
You’re as scarlet as the poppies
blanketing the meadows in the spring of our town.
You’re the scent of bread
my aunt baked every Friday
on the roof of her house.
Oh, and I dodged your wrath
every time my angry mother threw
a shoe, an orange peel, or a spatula at me.
Now that I think of it, that spatula, I didn’t dodge
on that autumn afternoon—
it hit me right in the forehead.
And I cherished your mercy,
your kindness and compassion
in the lap of my favorite aunt after every punishment.
And I enjoyed the loans from Aunt Zari’s petty cash—
the coins I borrowed, the ones I never repaid.
You’re my feverish youth, one stolen kiss—
I swear to God, only one from my first love.
That forbidden peck at the age of fourteen!
The mischievous innocence and the scandalous affair,
and the long family feud that came afterward.
You’re in the books I read in solitude,
the new horizons I saw—illicit ideas, contraband thoughts.
The taboo of your life, and certainly mine,
was freedom for all.
Then came the turmoil, the revolution,
the decisive moments for both of us.
A rush in my veins, an ideal to make a dream come true—
I was there with millions in the streets,
in the heat of upheaval, in the labyrinth of Tehran.
We made the change; of course, we did.
Yet,
when the fever quenched and the dust settled,
hopes were dashed—fear, despair, and sorrow remained.
Only terror was left behind.
Then the time came to leave you behind, as I had to survive—
surely you understand why.
To live in a foreign land, hoping that one day
I would call it home.
Long years passed, and that day never came along.
My Beloved!
You’re an enigma, a tall shadow,
an innocent angel born in the limbo of my hazy dreams.
I am intoxicated by an exotic mélange of sentiments—
some I don’t comprehend,
some I don’t dare to share,
some I never had before,
and some I may never have again.
* Doogh is a savory Persian yogurt drink.
* Haft-seen is the traditional display of seven symbolic items for the Persian New Year (Nowruz).
The Riddle of Becoming
The Riddle of Becoming
My childhood was shaped by punishment,
endured in a climate of discrimination—
a systemic suppression.
As I grew,
the free expression of who I was
was fiercely forbidden.
Retribution struck, often for no reason at all.
Chaos, solitude, fear, sorrow, and rage
bruised my flesh and psyche alike.
And yet, years later,
from those very wounds,
A new creature has evolved.
From the ruins of collision,
from the shattering of dreams,
pain morphed into the raw material for creation—
my ultimate means of survival.
Now, looking back upon my life,
I face a perplexing question.
more terrifying than the suffering I endured:
Had I not been wounded,
Who would I have become?
If my childhood had been gentle,
and I had lived a quiet life.
cradled by a benign presence;
If my path had been left untouched—
would this fire still burn inside?
This is the existential question.
A riddle, a diabolical paradox,
a mystery to explore,
a dilemma I don't dare to resolve.
Nuisance Hope
Nuisance Hope
In the winter of my garden,
the luscious green lies dormant.
The yard is inundated with weeds;
only a few blown dandelions scatter the ground.
Four silent raindrops, in a perfect row
upon a slender blade of crabgrass,
morph into crystals of ice
before my bewildered eyes.
I weep, and a tear falls
right between the frozen bulbs.
Shivering in the breeze,
it becomes a heavy burden
on the frail, slender grass.
I moan in sorrow, but my hazy sigh
turns into morning dew—
one more frozen marble
added to the fragile weed.
The wildflower finally breaks;
we all fall, shattering on the ground.
My only hope is that when the warm spring arrives,
my sigh, blended with that tear,
will germinate the nuisance weed once again
in the coming year.
Rogue Imagination
Rogue Imagination
Before the first word was written, the pen leaked.
Ink spilled, smearing the leaf, and moments later
the page was completely ravaged.
A capricious trance unfolded before my dazzled eyes:
feral dreams, words not yet spoken,
and ethereal shadows transpired.
Enemies clashed in a silent chaos.
As random dark specks bizarrely morphed,
characters were born—a dark mélange of fantasy.
From the rhythmic pleasure of awe,
an eerie verse came to life:
a text, a passage
riddled with daring questions,
fabricated quotations,
and a myriad of exclamation marks!
None of it ever made sense to me—
neither the haunting images,
nor the overwhelming thoughts.
Soldier
Soldier
In the name of God, in defense of motherland,
For the cause of liberty or the purity of race,
I have shed oceans of blood across human history
And died a million times over.
I know a thousand ways to kill, and only one way to die.
I do not make decisions;
In the army, questioning is a fault.
Wars have evolved,
Grown elegant, humane, and vastly more appealing.
I rarely see death with my own eyes.
A button pressed from above, annihilation below—
I erase thousands of lives, reducing towns to rubble in a blink.
“It’s a game,” I am told.
Yet the losers are always soldiers,
Comrades blown to pieces, limbs scattered on the dirt.
If I return home alive,
I am told to reset my mind, to carry on as usual,
And forget all I have done until the next war calls.
But if nothing seems normal anymore,
If nightmares hunt me,
If I act erratic, fractured, emotionally unmoored,
Or feel the sudden itch to kill everyone—
Then my condition is given a name:
PTSD. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.
“Not to worry,” the doctors soothe:
“Common syndromes among veterans of foreign wars.
More popular now than Syphilis and Gonorrhea combined.
The good news? Therapy and medication are readily available.”
As a soldier, I am always on the right side of history—
Tucked into the lower corner of the page, in the margin,
Remembered only as Unknown.
A patriot, a warrior, executing orders.
Because my head is precious only when it is lost.
Solitude
Solitude
In the climax of ecstasy, my resin was poured
A destiny of sorts, though the cast emerged deformed.
Placed at the center of the circle, I still feel outside.
Well-defined as I may seem,
Within the frame I pose, I am a misfit;
The image is distorted.
I look, and what I see is strange.
My vision stands at odds with every norm
Unorthodox and eccentric to the eye.
I speak my mind, yet
The words I utter
Sound peculiar to everyone I know.
The way I see, the way I perceive, my feelings and my thoughts,
Anything I do, and whatever I say
It is deemed bizarre, uncommon, and naturally wrong.
This is the essence of loneliness.
The true meaning of solitude.
Standing on One Foot
Standing on One Foot
One day, as I stood on one foot
In the far corner of the room
Punished for causing a commotion in class
The superintendent knocked on the door.
He stuck his bald head inside
And called my name out loud.
Thirty heads turned, wondering:
What rule had I broken this time?
The teacher commuted my sentence, knowing
A harsher retribution surely awaited.
I dragged my feet to the principal’s office,
Utterly clueless.
To me, it was always a bad omen
When authorities were involved.
Step into the room, and I froze.
The office was packed with teachers, staff, and parents,
And there, in the center of it all, sat my father,
Chatting casually with the principal.
The room plunged into sudden silence.
Everyone stared at me as if I were an exotic animal.
Nervously, I fixed my eyes on my shoes
And listened to the chorus of dismay.
My poor grades and complete lack of discipline
Were laid bare before my father.
The principal read the long indictment of misconduct,
Citing my failures in math, reading, history, and art.
My father nodded in solemn agreement,
Approving every charge.
“I fully support your reprimands,” my father declared.
“Whatever it takes to teach this mischief a lesson.
Everyone! Please, look at his attire
The long, dirty nails, the wild hair, the filthy shoes.
Is this how a decent pupil goes to school?
You would not believe, sir, how often
His mother and I try to teach him right from wrong.
We simply cannot control him at home anymore.
You have my blessing to do whatever it takes
To discipline this rowdy child of mine.”
Chewing my fingernails, head bowed low,
I wondered how the guilt had landed entirely on me.
My damn sense of humor, the witty observations,
The sarcastic comments that got me into trouble—
I had learned them from my father, and no one else.
In family gatherings, he cheered those antics every time.
And my hyperactivity, my lack of patience,
My complete disregard for order and law?
I inherited that from my mother’s side;
My grandfather was an anarchist, for crying out loud.
Now, because the traits of my parents
Engrained in my genes and passed down to me
Had gone haywire,
Every finger pointed at me to take the blame.
As if I were an alien dropped into their world.
At that exact moment of weakness,
The most vulnerable, lowest point of my youth,
My own flesh and blood, my father
Disowned me in public, and left me to stand alone.
The Old Picture
The Old Picture
Where was I? I asked every time I gazed at the shades of gray
In the vintage photo of my brother and pregnant mom.
The gloomy faces etched on the paper made me wonder.
“You were there, just outside the frame,” my sister told me once.
For years, I examined the lines on those grim faces, frozen in time,
Searching for a truth, if there was one to find.
They stood together by a room I remembered well,
Locking their gaze onto a point past the edge—
Where my sister claimed I stood at that precise moment.
The room behind them was dark, the doorway blocked by my mother’s belly.
So, where was I exactly? I wondered all my life.
Was this the summer midday I jumped into the water basin
And struck my chin hard against the faucet?
Is this photo the echo of my agony?
My shivering body, my bleeding face captured in my mother’s anxious stare,
Seized on paper just a short distance away?
A silent moment, a dreadful calm in the presence of pain.
Were they wondering why I was always in trouble?
Was this seconds before my father was called to take me to the doctor,
Or seconds after the punishment for spilling blood into the water?
I was obsessed with a torment fading inside a crooked frame,
Standing right next to it, yet locked outside.
Then one day, as I touched the image,
Tracing my finger over an old scratch on the dull surface—
As I had done time and again, seeking the source of despair—
The dust cleared, the tarnish vanished,
And the reflection of a man appeared.
Right there in the glass, twirling his finger,
In a desperate attempt
To see his future in his distant past.
Vincent and Franz
Vincent and Franz
Vincent and Franz were my neighbors when I was young.
Each lived in a corner house
at the end of our dead-end alley,
a place invisible to the naked eye.
“Where was this neighborhood?” people ask.
Those who know where I was born
never believe a word I say.
“Iran has no foreigners,” they insist,
“let alone two in your part of town.”
Vincent was Ana’s little brother, I explain—
the youngest son of a pious family
who lived beside the mosque.
Ana, the coquettish girl
touched by devout worshippers
and married men alike.
Why would I invent such things?
Who do you think stood behind
the scandalous affair of Haji Morad,
the respectable rug merchant of the bazaar?
Ana.
And why do you think Ibrahim, her father,
slit her throat while she slept one night?
I know this story firsthand.
Vincent painted the crime for me.
The stream of blood soaking her pillow,
the stain spreading across her plaid skirt,
the doll she loved most ruined beside her.
Vincent hardly spoke at all.
Reserved, volatile, withdrawn—
yet he could capture every detail
of the mirages engraved
inside his twisted mind.
Franz was the bastard child
of a housemaid and a judge.
He told me so himself,
never ashamed to call his mother a whore.
Franz possessed an endless knowledge
of self-gratification.
It was he who taught Vincent and me
how pleasure could be sharpened through the mind alone.
He knew how to violate innocent words with elegance,
how to corrupt purity
without ever touching flesh.
The dead-end alley where we lived
was long and gray,
flooded with filth and deception
that even rain could not wash away.
Crooked houses leaned upon one another,
their misshapen walls rising high.
Doors warped with despair,
iron windows bending the light.
And still, I never forgot the scent—
that mysterious aroma drifting
from their kitchens at dusk,
their mothers’ cooking I longed to taste.
But the rule was absolute:
I was never to set foot inside their homes.
Everyone in the neighborhood knew:
Vincent was insane,
and Franz was a Jew.
The only true friends of my childhood,
the only ones with whom I belonged,
were, by every account,
two deeply disturbed souls.
We shared wickedness,
our private delight,
as we wandered for hours beneath star-filled nights.
Specters drifting through forgotten streets—
caressing the velvet of fantasy,
lost in the haze of life.
What I Loved
What I Loved
First, I fell in love with sour cherries.
Then, the girl next door.
Later, the love of reading
Books, freedom, and justice.
None worked out well.
A cherry choked me once.
The girl’s father slapped me around.
Reading became illegal;
Blacklisted, I was a man on the run.
Then justice came after me,
And landed me in prison for a long time.
And now,
Cherries, love, and freedom
Leave nothing but bitterness
The only taste left in my mouth.
Specter
Specter
When I roam the alleys of fantasy
And plunge into a maze of desire
The paradise of whim.
When I vanish into the rogue shade of caprice,
Drowned in the abyss.
When survival whitens in the velvet of a dream
How uninhabited I am, how free I feel.
Is this privilege a vice, or a virtue?
I wonder.
A blissful ecstasy, that is all it is.
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