by jamh

was newly paved, I suspect,
for its American class.

Running to get our bread,
I would see blonde heads
under concave glass

urging a bodyguard or two,
passed out from the heat
fumbling their keys.

I would see the playboys,
hand dangling off shoulders
of the foreign beauties

stopping to show off,
pointing at their trophies
radiant and chaste.

I say I saw but these,
impressions, in the fog
of youth and haste

melting to reappear
as drivers who scream
at the moment of impact.

Mayhem, around the corner,
soon taking for a ride
the new bourgeoisie.

Sangak is my symbol
of that lost luxury, of exile,
of the world that denies.

I impatiently bite
its female flesh
only to cuss and cries

to chip my tooth
on the hidden pebble
of forgotten dreams.



Recently by jamhCommentsDate
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by jamh on


Anahid Hojjati

Dear jamh, Hidden pebble of forgotten dreams

by Anahid Hojjati on

is more poetic.


Dear Anahid

by jamh on

That's a great idea! Please share. It's interesting that those are your favorite lines.  That last line, I thought, was a bit of a cop out. A little too easy. I toyed with the idea of changing it a couple of times.

on the hidden pebble / of the alternative.

But I thought it became harder to understand.


Anahid Hojjati

Dear jamh, thanks for the beautiful poem.

by Anahid Hojjati on

I liked your poem, additionally it inspires me to write about Americans and other foreigners who lived in Tehran in 1970s. I do have some memories that I like to share and your poem gives me the idea that perhaps there is something to be written about this subject in the form of short story or poem. My favorite part of your poem is:

I impatiently bite
its female flesh
only to cuss and cries

to chip my tooth
on the hidden pebble
of forgotten dreams.

Thanks for sharing. 



Thank you Mehrban,

by jamh on

If you think of the rhyme as the bass line, it's nice when something jumps out (and stands out) every now and then. I follow very loosely the tradition of Persian poetry, being a modernist at heart.

When I reread this poem, Everything stands out clearly: old cars with their curved windows, the heat of the day and the heat of the bread under my arm, the soft asphalt, the shouts of the bakers. The atmosphere of the Tehran of the 70s with all its imperfections and wonders. Well at least for me.. And hopefully for others.



Dear Jamh

by Mehrban on

you are a disciplined poet, I assume bourgeoisie is not rhyming with impact for a reason (?).   Of course not that it should.

Very nice poem, thanks for sharing.