Saturday, June 25, 2011

I am from a lost generation

I am from a generation of Iranian youth
Jaded from revolutions
And the iron fist of religious rule
In between homes
With no real place to call our own

And I am from a generation of Canadian youth
Jaded from the sugar coated fist of economic rule
With an attention span you could measure
Between instant messaging alerts
And no time for politics

We are from generations
Cut off from the past
In our thirst for the present
We no longer know anything absolutely
We no longer know art if it's right in our face

The revolution [in Iran] only broke the backs of youth
So their bones could support the seats
Of those who scrambled for power
The establishment collapsed
Only to give birth to one more evolved and ruthless

The commodities merely left us wanting more
Disconnected from one another
And the world around us
And the pornographic implosion of images
Only removed us from the very reality
They simulated in the first place

I am from a generation that has witnessed
The commodification of everything
Jaded from images and political ideologies
The pieces of our identity
The intangible within us
The mysteries of the heart
And what makes us alive
Have all been packaged and labeled
On an assembly line, ready for exchange

How can anything take the place of a heart?
How can anyone put a value to life?
Let alone package and trade it?
In this marketplace, everything gets sold
Authenticity, meaning, Gods, our very selves
Even the future lent to us by the next generation

We are from a lost generation
Deaf to any ideology but that of the heart
And in our being lost lies our greatest potential
Because who knows what boundaries of the unknown
We can test together or how far we can go
When the box of the known world
Is just not enough for us any longer?

Thursday, June 23, 2011

Clavinova by Yamaha

It is a Tuesday afternoon
she appears decked in black and white.
Soon she is everyone’s sweetheart.

He wants nothing to do with her
curls his lip and grits at her poise
and how she always gets checked out

but secretly, he can not stop
hearing the music in her voice.
A seed is growing inside him.

She takes in his stares, fantasies:
flurry of hands pounding her frame
fumbling furiously for the keys
to release her cry of pleasure.

And one night, he can not take it
he storms out in his underwear
to submit her to those cries
break her silence with hard fingers
and force himself on her, over, and over 
until she sings those notes for him.

Friday, June 17, 2011

Why I write

I write
to make a triangle out of the line
from thought to action.
I write
to use words as whetstones
for the sword of action.
I write knowing the limits
of the word, knowing that thought leads to speech
which in turn leads to action, or inaction
and I write to remind myself that I can act.
I write
because of the serene movement of clouds
I write
because I hear a song in the whispers
of grassblades against the breeze,
a symphony in every storm,
the purest melody in the flow of water,
and because I hear those same songs
in the beating of a heart.
I write because I saw a leaf
hold itself with the same poise
through rain or shine
until the silent dance of its death.
I write
to grant shadows to my tears.
I write
because I am bewildered.
I write
because there is something in me 
that is in everything else.
I write
because I saw the thinnest sliver of light
and through that glimmer I saw only blinding beauty.
I write
because my mouth has a broken way with words.
I write
because I know the darkness of the unknown
to be beautiful beyond imagining.
I write
to remind myself of the divinity behind the universe,
I write
in gratitude to the Source, the One, the Unnameable
that (life-)guiding force that bought me here
and makes every moment possible.
I write
because the images in my heart demand expression.
I write
because tears are not enough
for the flood I feel within my chest.
I write
in the hope that these words,
watered with enough tears
will one day grow into a tree.
I write
in preparation for the day
when neither words nor tears are of avail.
and I write
to remember that this--moment--is really it.
I write
to establish my kinship to the stars.
I write
as testament to the Water of Life.
and to trace my way back to the same
cradle from which I sprung to life.

a night of power

is a night of power.
Tonight I feel that familiar torrent
like a forgotten mountain behind mist
like the tectonic tremble of the earth
before she spews forth her fire.
Tonight, my blood boils in seething calm
my resolve, the flight of a falcon
an extended talon, the curl of razor beak.
Tonight is a night of power
and I have been made to feel this way
and there is no reason to ignore this flame.
Where I'm going, I will need
everyone I've ever been
where I'm going, I will need
everything I am capable of.
So come out from your long sleep!
Revel in this night of power!
Remember your oaths on this night.
Remember your shaking fingers
against this flood within your chest.
For what is your gentleness without severity?

For you

For you
I will open my heart again
and again like a rose in bloom
and I will sing your song as I watch
the petals of my heart wither and fall
to the trample of feet and seasons.
Sometimes, I see a reflection of you
in the faces of this crowd
in a crest of these waves.
Before such reflections I gladly bend knee
tear open my shirt and place the dagger
in their hands before my naked breast.
For you
I would drink the poison of a thousand heartbreaks
each one bringing me closer to you
because none of them are you.
I would laugh through the tears
as I sing out your song louder and louder
every time the world turns its back on me.