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Friday
June 22, 2001

Touches the soul

Dr. Hossein Bagherzadeh's poem "Refugee" is an absolutely great work. His poem captures, observes and touches the readers soul. Not only is it expressive but it's simplicity attracts attentions of those not having experienced living a life as a refugee, exile and first generation migrants.

Here is my feelings put on paper:

"An Exile"

Tripping, Tripping

Deep prison, humming

An escape from "The Home"

Moving around, arriving, arrived

From one to another

Host Countries (far fetched)

Dripping, dripping, not marking my existence.

Unquiet/quiet, No reminder of my roots/yours

(forgetting to blink my existence/yours)

In the tall, thin house

Improving/approving memory/s

Straight face-mobbing/child

How I/you want to bane the

Word from the world

"refugee"(so popular every where you look)

to not to walk in/on a narrow road

to sleep in Peace! Silent gasp (having a personal life/calm shadows) nurturing souls

to move not among centuries, pigeons/perched/bars

To move not among centuries

but to live,

walk among rosemary fields, breezing reigns

and the sound of crickets playing

not distinguish turquoise/flowers-lives

Held-ing red in the eyes, high heels of memories

remodeling the shapes, the phase, paintings of playing parts,

moments of loves, family home, not living in exile

bottom, buttoning up the glasses,

about/above the passenger's land,

to work on/for the mornings to come

museum is locked, sealed

Shhhh,

little blue-gray-velvet bay

my childhood, how I/you loved, Tivoli's, carnivals

rough...

This morning behind the closed doors,

inside,

Shrugging thoughts, shrinking,

Tried to wake me hard, take my breath away

Throw itself hard to remind me,

to let/not- the eyes soak my tears away

(inside my mandolin eyes) the red against the dark,

Justice not been served,

Your profile/mine,

An exile`, I/you are/still/are

Scarlet silk coffins steamed rails of thoughts/your thoughts/mine

Tangerine, wondering souls

I am one of the nobodies of the world,

Asking me,

The lips part/mine answering to them

Teaming words and above all,

They hear one word (an only word)

"refugee", she is.

and in their big Danish pastry eyes,

I become: a nobody

My womanhood, my skills, my Ph.D. fading away

Doomed-not the word "refugee"-only I,

I remain with a wooden frame,

Empty from me,

And far away,

I go, dipping in blood-freed-memory waves,

Powdery/dropping sands surrounding me.

Sheema Kalbasi

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