When will you arrive at my door?
January 15, 2007
You suspect poetry to be non existential. You question my continuation. You arbitrate and exceed. You doubt your own name. Who does that but an exceptional mind? I tremble in your hands. Hands that are an air away from your face when expressing your work, a face that has two bright eyes excel a vision that has assigned me into writing these pieces for you.
Am I physical to you? Undeniably I am. I am a woman. Everything in my eternal existence is physical. I have been born of a woman. A woman who was born of a woman, women that have been physical in order to survive the obstacles of history, race, religion, migrations, and men. I am physical because I am fervent about life, and want to live. After all no one has ever returned to tell me there is a life after life.
I want you to write to me everyday. Everyday so that I know you still are questioning me, a woman who wants to be the subject of your writings, writings that drive me into a rapturous journey. I love every inch of your truth. Sometimes I think I wouldn't be here if it weren't for reading you, drinking your words. You maybe are my Tao of Tantra.
It is Sunday
You know, at eight when the bombs were to diminish me, I mourned and experienced Lebenswende. I prayed to Thor whom I didn't know at the time. I wanted him to generate me light when I took refuge reading poetry. Now you have come with your tall words, and I fear not knowing if you are the god to save me or am to be saved from. Now I write page after page but what do they matter to you? They are unworthy literature. They do not heal. I am not a healer. I write from memory and you withdraw into the future. When will you arrive at my door? How will you direct me into your presence? Sunday is here and I still don't know you. You are the same man who leaves his name behind his pierced heart. I wish you lived close and I had invited you over to sit at my kitchen. I would ask you to come closer so that I wear your voice like topaz earrings for hope and balance of emotions. Now you seduce your readers. You write as if you don't want to know you compose to inhabit the soul. I wonder how it is to take your body and pen, to inherit you, to ride in multitude, to break the rules, and arrive. Why don't you write to me in your skillful words? Don't be an illusion. Write to me. This is not kindness, obsession, or modification but asking for your sonority. I want to know how it is to receive you under the turquoise dome, to feel your pulse when placing a kiss upon pen upon lips, to be planted beside you, and to write against mortality.
When Seasons Changed
You held my hand and we sat on the bench. You told me all you know of Iran is Omar Khayyam and laughed, as if I was to find humor in it. It was a June afternoon in Copenhagen. You told me you have black hair because black olives have been pressed hard against your hair, and because between the Catholic and the Jewish faith you thought your bishop dad was a rabbi. We went to a Persian restaurant. You ordered while meditating in my eyes. You called French fries, Belgian. The smell reminded me of your hometown and the time we were in Budapest. We had walked by the River Danube. It was August and you were another man. Down the liberation monument mountain, we stood across a castle where a restaurant was located and we heard the violinists play from afar. I felt a flaming fire in my heart. The same way I had felt when we had said goodbye in Stockholm. It was another chapter, another season again. We stood in the train station. It was a cold night in November. You throw your cigarette out. Draw me close and kissed me goodbye forever. We spoke Persian then. Ah! Which one of my lovers are you that have my devoted memory to his silent presence. The man who crucified me and floored my speech, or the man who loved my ghost when leaving the buildings and followed me everywhere. The secret torch man that kept me from falling face down, or the lover who bought me a string of jasmine and Pahzeb. Which language did we speak? Did we make love by the sea, in the forest, the tent, in the dark classroom, on the bed, or in the car? Which dreams we did not share? Which children we did not have? Tell me which grocery shopping we did not go together?
Have you read to me ever? Have you ever thought how I want to have your writings over my naked body? What is poetry to you? Who am I to you? You, a man without a name.