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All too soon
You walk and my feet hurt

January 18, 2007

All too soon
Do you think I will lose interest in you? Or you will have enough of me writing our story, enough of my sensualist mind? The truth is I don't want to keep you, or my love for your incredible presence will turn into an obsession or will fade away. You consist of three things to me, soul, clarity, and dry skin and I to you am an average, in the form of an effectively stereotyped Middle Eastern woman. You don't realize when I turned fifteen my purity of conduct abounded me like my region. Emotional attachment to me is like an unsuspecting mating selection in the streets of Tehran. I choose you. I study you because you have wounded my poetry, a subject that had brought the most charge and energy into my life. Now you are my subject and I encourage you into my intellectual pursuit, and into shaping, forming as many types of clay as I want. You haven't fathered my child. I can leave you, or love you on my terms without hesitation when the air breaths in antebellum. I have lost interest in poetry. On a day like this I would be ending my third poem. Maybe I am on a path to freedom, to clear off the patterns, to prove nothing comes before nothing. Now I write dutiful words of eloquence to avoid your spanning, and yet don't really know how to satisfy you when I have a leg on each side without your physical manifestation.

You have rules that I had. I react to your act. You walk and my feet hurt. With your words I am locked in mine.

It is all too soon to be casual but I want you.

I want to apply you to my days
I don't want to hear about the bulky religious and ideological books, the indispensable tools in the business of search engines. They make me feel transplanted, restrained, and incapable of thinking. I don't want to be taught standards of good housekeeping, or what to utter in curse of dead ends, and sanctions. I want to apply you to my days. I want you to reach out to my carbon paper and I reach out to your pen without stumbling, to write in such fascination that the sweetness of the ink reviews the outcome literature without stillness, or limit.

Nothing is illogical. It is I who is pathetically become conscious of what has already been a continuous rare thought. What is it that you write that burns all my entries to life and makes me struggle to my bones? Every word is like a curve that I don't know the outcome but hope the snowy hills aren't melting on the road, and the nature is in harmony.

Like a chair next to a table, exact. Take a word out of you and nothing will be the same, a Utopian fruit, you are. If I touch, you may not taste the same and I lose. If I touch you, you may veil. If I touch, you may lose your frequency, if I touch.

I no longer believe in my poetry. I had thought I have beauty, creativity, intelligence, passion for humans. I had thought I have a place for my prayer rug to practice myself in delicate characters.

These are strokes of fever. I want to survive you. Seize me.

I try to understand the complexity and my role in all these writings. The conflict I am facing is to lose control and be your way of life, an occurrence at the sea or the shore. What adds to the conflict is my fascination with wanting to find out the remedy. I wonder how you would like to answer me now that you have questioned everything that has mattered most to me. There is no misunderstanding. You are not tender to my existence, to poetry.

I want to remain, to hear voices that are close to my heart, every morning waving at me with a big smile or greeting me in love. I do want to fall back to sleep after lovemaking to you but you are someone who doesn't arrive in my dreams, doesn't say farewell, and never returns. These are your habits, aren't they?

I want to wake up to ironing a shirt and a pair of trousers and never think twice about all the feminist assertions. I want to make coffee, to prepare breakfast, to lean forward to kiss or receive but not to a shadow. I am a lover. I want your pen strolling down on me to make a verification of a quarter of a day out of my pages but you move all too fast, too often for a tree to pull out her insertions, and the roots off the earth even if her history has been one extraction after another. How am I supposed to carry the roots under my arms and reach out to you? Comment


For letters section
To Sheema Kalbasi

Sheema Kalbasi


The Poems of Hafez
202 ghazals in English
Translated by Reza Ordoubadian
>>> Excerpt

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