Archive Sections: letters | music | index | features | photos | arts/lit | satire Find Iranian singles today!
Life

Now even is not even
With you the ethical bridges are in flame


March 1, 2007
iranian.com

In 1972, on November twentieth I was born on the third floor of Tehran's Hashtroudian Maternity Hospital. On its east wing faces were expressive to my heartbeat, and I cried: I am here. How so much of it has changed, that eastern country, wings of good memories jacket me warm only now and then. With the revolution of 1979 the dark night expanded over the country, over Iran, and men and women fell on the ground and the fall continues to this day. I am not there to see the falling of the fireballs firsthand but I don't live on the green mountains yet not say a word of the threes that are chopped, the fields, the grains that burn, that die. Now I sit where the earth tilts hours apart from my place of birth. Now even is not even, is uneven, and night is like black herd of goats standing and looking at me, here I am. In all this it is you who has won my trust, my nakedness in full. With you I don't hold back. You know me more than any man has ever known me. With you I am a saxophone and beat the world in to beats, heartbeats. With you the ethical bridges are in flame, rivers boil, with you I have abandoned the immoral. There is no wrong, no right in loving you. There is no boundary. In you I trust to say: I love.

You are a big city with everything and everyone that can be found in it. You are the nature with all of its purity. I look at my hands. The hands that hope to single you out in detail, to brush over your ears, to discover the tip of your chin, walking through your cells room to room, aware of the layers of Persian regions, and the genes. The chaos of work sometimes surrounds me and I watch my words fog away before my eyes. I wake up in the middle of the night to write for you my beloved but the mirror opposite the bed shows an exhausted woman, a woman who evidently has eyes with corners that cry and laugh, eyes that don't want to see the danger of losing you. I see shades and shapes adventuring on the walls. I see you unbuttoning my muscles from under the gown. I say: Touch me. I want an encore. I want to open my mouth to you. To drink you like wine. My eyes close open close open, my lips too, my lips. I am so romantically in love with you touching me, with your heart beating, your mouth breathing on mine that I move in the most unnatural way for my body. I need more of you to ease the emptiness at my center. I want me to surface shine you. Let my thighs knit around yours. I am a poet in love, a woman with dreams deep surfacing my hands where the fingers ray over your skin. You know beloved I love you the same way one longs for democracy in Iran, where men and women engrave on the walls of the oppressive regime's prison cells: Freedom. Touch me. I want an encore.

I come before you naked from want, yet I want you. I come before you to speak of my love. I try to avoid the wires, the layers, the edges, and the nick of time. If I don't write for you how am I to know how the voiceless are heard? I don't want hearts that are hooked in an unknown time space. I want this nature, my nature to be frost free, head free, tale and tail free, to be in flames, to burn by your eternal fire. I want it to fly and sit on your skin so that you are filled by the love I send your way in this now. I have no plan to nest with you because I already am nesting. I don't expect you to be in-love with me either because you already are my coming home after a fantastic walk, rolling over the grass in that summer down a hill in Birkerød high school back in Denmark, or the time I stood to watch a circle of gypsy children in Poland playing and letting me enter pass their social and regional sufferings.

Beloved, I have cut me free of the kings, the queens, all the cards, the catered-tailored expectations so that my days are kissed by you. I write words of passion that I didn't know I could write and I will not categorize it or my dancer's legs will draw me aware. I can't afford to not let this love not flow, not move, not let its joyful tears fall on my skin, inside the heart. I drop at your feet holding my arms around you. Let this love live with all its possibilities. Comment

Visit HowItGoesNaked.blogspot.com

COMMENT
For letters section
To Sheema Kalbasi

ALSO
Sheema Kalbasi
Features

HowItGoesNaked.blogspot.com

RELATED
Poetry

Echoes in Exile
Poetry
by Sheema Kalbasi

Copyright 1995-2013, Iranian LLC.   |    User Agreement and Privacy Policy   |    Rights and Permissions