A Room of My Own

A World Behind

2010-03-04T16:18:00.006+03:30

This is a story that goes back a while, to an earlier time in a person’s life, a time that you and I may still be experiencing. Nevertheless – and I might as well say that – I have intended to give you a bit of the great sense of nostalgia that is very likely to, sooner or later, come to us in our lives, regardless of who we are or how good we have been to people and things around us.

A World Behind

My childhood memories are no better shaped by anywhere than a mansion where I used to live with my family in Mashhad for some time. We still own that mansion, though we moved away some thirty years ago. The idea of a revisit to the house came to that part of my brain which is mysteriously controlled by my unconscious. I never asked myself why I tended to go there now, after three decades, just as I never asked myself why I never felt like doing so during this time. To me, it seems like some appalling enigma, some call from the underworld.
The mansion is in an old area of the city then called Darvazeh-e Ghoochan (The Gate of Ghoochan), now renamed Tohid St. The premises in the neighborhood have always been alike; they intertwine at every turn of the old dead-end alleys in the whole area. It is a hot summer afternoon when I find myself there again, back to rediscover the time, to give way to some unknown urge from within me.
Things seem the same, as if some spell has kept them still. The narrow path leading to the main entrance of the house is accompanied by a long narrow lawn along the wall of our house on one side and the wall of the neighboring house on the other. I can’t recall much of the neighbors, for I was still a kid when we left. The green grass is still there, and its fresh scent is first to take me back in time to the days when I roamed around playfully, ignorantly. And the crows; I notice they still live in the vicinity.
Standing straight but tired, the mansion is in mere harmony with the memories I hold. A few more steps and I am in front of the big white door, patched brown by particles of rust.
My hand is stretched, out of control, to touch the doorbell. On the spot, I remember how I waited those days for the time I was tall enough to reach the bell, how I wished to be a man.
The key turns in the latch and I find myself at a staircase that surges up. How I feared the dark staircase late at nights! Now it is light, due to the colored beams flooding in from the red and yellow and blue and green window panes on the high walls. The windows open onto the yard of the neighboring house, and they were always kept closed.
The rooms are now empty, except for some drapes, outworn, still hanging from some of the large windows. I head for my room. It is in a corner at the back of the house. I need to go past the dining room, the big living room, the TV room, my parents’ room, and my sister’s room. The polished wooden doors now look old and stained. Along the way to my room, there is an aura of nostalgia. The hall is bare and the walls are exposed. There it is. My room.
The doorknob breaks the spell cast on old memories, happy and sad, and vague. The door creaks open and I squint as rays of sunlight lying on the naked room now turn, interrupted, in anger and distrust, to see the intruder. Upon stepping in the three-by-four room, I quickly recognize the proportions of the place where I lived fully. As I turn around in the deserted room, I catch a glimpse of the ceiling in a corner where it meets the walls. Brown with moist, now.
The closet in the room always had in store a whole lot of mysteries. It was big and reached high. My mother used to hide my toys somewhere up there when I was being naughty. And I could never reach them, in my own room! I open it now and look carefully in. And I feel relieved.
The windows are still there. The curtains float with a warm breeze, but soon fall silent as the door behind me snaps shut with the currency of air. The large window opens to the garden. My next sure destination.
Stepping down the few stairs, I enter a world that I so much tended to associate with heaven itself. Three figs rising to the sky, having dropped their fruits on the cold wet ground, are parts of the tableau. From the many-hued flowers that once used to live around the trees, there is nothing left. But can’t I see them? The soil in the flowerbeds is bare and dry. Does it still bear the dead chickens I buried in it? How I wish to dig in and see!
The brick walls of the garden look heated, covered by the ivory leaves mounting them. The ground was once colored red by the pelargonium buds in vases in a row. And as I remember that, I sense an enchanting scent of the buds with another soft warm breeze.
On the far corner of the garden, there is a pathway that leads to a door. We always kept that door locked and used the main entrance. Just before the door – I reminisce – was a pile of unwanted ware, a wooden ladder, a wheel-barrow, a watering can, a rake, and other gardening tools that a young gardener who came to our house those days used to employ. That pile was like a reservoir of mysteries to me. I always felt an urge to fumble through the odds and ends and find something – I never knew what. I take a peep to find out they are all gone.
On a corner of the staircase to the yard, I sit, leaning against the bricks, staring at some blank point on the ground. A few minutes go by, and I start to feel a mixture of satisfaction and dissatisfaction. And then, I decide to leave. I seek to get back to the present life, smooth, though hard and cruel, and indifferent. I have already chosen the present.
The memories – I know – will always stay there, as well as somewhere unreachable within my own heart.
And it is so that the mansion gets smaller and smaller in the front mirror as I drive away. There is a world that I leave behind. Gradually, I choose not to see.
(Written April 27, 2008)

Empirical

2010-01-26T20:23:00.000+03:30

There,
it was absolutely normal that
sparrows chirped.
Here,
it goes without notice that
crows sit silently.

One Everlasting Thing plus a Poem from Tagore's Gitanjali

2009-12-20T15:42:00.011+03:30

One Everlasting Thing

I am the happiest person in the world. And that is because of you. You know this, and I know I don’t have to repeat it, but you know, too, that I need to say it over and over again; and you know that I need to tell everyone about it. I am the happiest person in the world because of you. Even before we met, I had been the happiest person in the world, because I was destined to meet you one day. Who can explain the day we met, the days that came afterward, and the days that are still to come? I can’t do that. I mean the day we met was a normal day, and we were normal people, but what was happening was extraordinary, and I couldn’t realize that. And on the day that we met, I had no idea what was about to happen at all. I had no idea how happy a person I was. I didn’t know, because I was dull. You could say that I still am. I mean I still do not know the true extent of it. Perhaps that is true. But now, I know one thing, I know that, because of you, I am the happiest person in the world. I know I am. Even now that you are gone.

I came upon this poem by Rabindranath Tagore very recently. I find it amazing, and relevant. So I put it here. I have taken it from Gitanjali, a collection of English prose translations made by Tagore himself from the original Bengali manuscript, published by UBS Publishers’ Distributors Pvt. Ltd., 2003, p. 9. The brackets are added by me.

Life of my life, I shall ever try
to keep my body pure, knowing that thy living touch
is upon all my limbs.
I shall ever try to keep all untruths out from my thoughts,
knowing that thou art that truth which has kindled
the light of reason in my mind.
I shall ever try to drive all evils away from my heart
and keep my love in flower[s], knowing that thou hast thy seat
in the inmost shrine of my heart.
And it shall be my endeavor to reveal thee in my actions,
knowing it is thy power [that] gives me strength to act.
(Rabindranath Tagore)

So the Story Goes

2009-11-09T12:14:00.002+03:30

The rising action
is quite a ride!
And before too long,
we’re at the climax.
but things are complicated.
So,
we fly down.
Actually,
I do.
(Her story is being … I don’t know … miraculously rewritten.)
The falling action
is fast.
The mysteries solve.
The secrets become known.
The story unravels itself.
And,
I reach The End.
A “hero”.
Wow!
(But oh! I must remember to add
that I die
somewhere just before the end.)

Like Someone I’d Never Known

2009-10-17T16:24:00.001+03:30

One thing led to another. And I called her. I couldn’t believe that I did. But I did. The world stopped, letting me take in every single moment. When I thought of it, everything seemed inevitable, and – let me say that – this made me feel a bit relieved. I called her, after a year, and I told her that I only wanted to know how she was doing. I tried best to say that in a tone of self-control and rather distantly. She said she was doing fine, in an equally distant tone, a stranger’s tone. Then I remained silent. Perhaps, she felt pity for me. Perhaps she realized how hard things were for me. Because she grew kinder after that silence. Or I thought she did. She asked how I was doing. I hesitated, and said that nobody really cared. She hesitated, and said she only wanted to know. Only. What did I have to say? What did she have to say? Why had I called her in the first place after what she had done to me? A year after she’d married. What would she think I had called her for? A few moments passed and she said, “You don’t wanna talk?” And then the kindness went away. It vanished. Tough and distant. The stranger’s tone again. “I gotta go. But I hope things are okay with you, too.” She had uttered her last words. Too. That word was meant to convey things were okay with her. Meant to signal that the “only” reason I had to call her was now responded to. That I didn’t – or she didn’t – have more to say. She disconnected. Once again before I said anything. Just as she did a year ago. Just as then. Except for that she sounded like a real stranger this time. Like someone I’d never known.

Emotions plus Quotes from Reza Barāheni

2009-09-04T12:20:00.006+04:30

Emotions

I can
chain my emotions
if they overflow.
If they refrain,
I’ll whip them to death.

(Hossein Jelveh
September 4, 2009)

Quotes from Reza Barāheni

From:
Barāheni, Reza. To the Butterflies. 2nd Ed. Tehran: Nashr-e Markaz Publishing Co., 2009.
Translated into English by me.

1. Taking poetry seriously means taking seriously the tools and the artifice of poetry. (p.125)

2. Saying that your theory must be the precise accounting of your poetry or, contrarily, your performance of every poem must be adapted to your theoretical data is insisting on this dogma that you have to turn everything that is performed subconsciously in poetry, like a throw from the inside to the outside, into something conscious, stripped of its throwing strength. (p. 126)

3. Every poet in our age is that “the other” who has emerged. (p.124)

Ordinary Urban People

2009-06-13T02:23:00.003+04:30

Through the big window, I can see the town, a rather smaller city than where I come from, only as crowded. Several tall buildings rise above all others. The sky is colored dark blue, with strips of orange at the farthest end, at the horizon. The phone rings. It is mom. She wants to check if everything is OK. I tell her everything is fine. We hang up.
*
I turn around and look at the pile of books on the desk. Here, there is a pile of books almost everywhere. I remember I once read, in a commentary at the back of a book, that the writer has written about the lives of ordinary urban people who walk past us in the streets everyday, people we try not to hit when we walk past each other.
I think that, one day, I am going to read all these books.
*
My roommate comes back. He throws his book bag on his bed, at the corner of the room. My bed is at the opposite corner. He has just come. He is a freshman. I am a junior. He looks so determined, so ready to do something. His mind is always full of ideas, full of things he wants to do. So is mine. I think about the things in my mind. Many of them are things I was determined I was going to do some time in the future. Things I never did.
*
Mom calls. She says I sound kinda depressed. I think I do. But I tell her everything is fine. And that maybe I am just a bit homesick. We hang up.
*
I get up early. As days go by, I get up earlier and earlier. I get dressed and get out. During the first months, I remember, I never ventured beyond the confines of the dormitory neighborhood. Now I try more places.
I keep walking for a couple of hours. Little by little, the streets get more crowded. I look at passersby as I walk. I even stare at some of them until we finally walk past each other. Ordinary urban people. Several times, I have to draw myself out of the way so we don’t hit.
*
I look out of the window. Mom calls. I tell her everything is fine. We hang up.

When We Speak of Love, What do We Speak of?

2009-03-27T16:43:00.013+04:30

“You guys have been together eighteen months and you love each other. It shows all over you. You glow with it. But you both loved other people before you met each other. You’ve both been married before, just like us. And you probably loved other people before that too, even. Terri and I have been together five years, been married for four. And the terrible thing, the terrible thing is, but the good thing, too, the saving grace, you might say, is that if something happened to one of us—excuse me for saying this—but if something happened to one of us tomorrow, I think the other one, the other person, would grieve for a while, you know, but then the surviving party would go out and love again, have someone else soon enough. All this, all of this love we’re talking about, it would just be a memory. Maybe not even a memory. Am I wrong? Am I way off base? Because I want you to set me straight if you think I’m wrong. I want to know. I mean, I don’t know anything, and I’m the first one to admit it.”
*
These are lines from Raymond Carver’s What We Talk About, When We Talk About Love, a short story. Mel McGinnis, one character, is speaking to another couple and his own wife at a table, where they are sitting to drink (Is he drunk yet? It really doesn’t matter.).
*

Human conduct, it seems to me, is like routes we take every day, routes we do not wish to draw a map for.

[Excerpt from Raymond Carver’s story from: http://www.newyorker.com/online/2007/12/24/071224on_onlineonly_carver?currentPage=all
March 26, 2009 – 12:48 am]

Two good Persian translations of Raymond Carver's story can be found in:
1. کارور، ریموند. کلیسای جامع و چند داستان دیگر. ترجمه ی فرزانه طاهری. چاپ پنجم. تهران: انتشارات نیلوفر: 1386
2. کارور، ریموند. وقتی از عشق حرف می زنیم: برگزیده ی داستان های ریموند کارور. ترجمه ی پریسا سلیمان زاده – زیبا گنجی.تهران: انتشارات مروارید: 1384

Tongue-in-cheek Doggerel

2008-11-19T16:08:00.002+03:30

I know many a poet
Who should stop to be so.
Don’t they really know it?
Someone’s gotta let them know!

Oh, only because it rhymes
Doesn’t mean it should be told!
Not everything that glitters –
As you know, my friend – is gold.

The Big Cat on Human Feet

2008-10-15T00:52:00.003+03:30

The big cat, on human feet,
Was hungry, needed to eat.
Came close, sniffed the bag.
“Piece of bread! Wow! Eating jag!”
Ate it all. It looked … OK!
“Special! That is what’s today.
Thank you! Dear God and all!”
His words – y’know?! – were actual.
Time again for the “social role”,
After lunch, with a begging bowl.

Theme for the Blog Action Day this year is “poverty”, and I hope The Big Cat on Human Feet serves.

A Visit

2008-05-28T16:17:00.001+04:30

It is 5 pm.
There is only one more step, and you’ll find yourself in front of the door. It’s a big house with a big brown wooden door. You ring. She opens the door, only partly. You can only see half of her face as she tries to stay behind the door. “Hi.” She sounds polite and thoughtful. You return her hi, and it sounds surprisingly the same. “Come in,” she almost whispers, “or everybody would see you here.” You go in. You see she’s wearing a loose-fitting white gown and is in white fantasy slippers. You notice her short boyish black hair for the first time out of scarves, uncovered. She takes your hand, slowly, hesitantly, as both of you walk very slowly through the entrance and hall. You look at her. Her lips shine. Her eyes, too. You smile at her, a faint soft smile. She smiles back, a faint soft smile. You stare into her eyes. They flash, staring back at you.
You draw your hand out of hers – trying to do it kindly –, turn back, and quietly, slowly leave, feeling not fine on the way to… you’re not sure where, at least not now. You turn off your cell phone. And before the screen goes off, you notice it’s 5:07.

A Life of Myths

2008-05-11T14:11:00.001+04:30

In a physical world, where we can almost never determine the certainty of events, the honesty of favors, the altruism of charities, and the good will of visitors, I seek to dwell in the realm of fiction, where things did happen at least somewhere between the covers of a book.

Masterpiece

2008-04-30T16:24:00.006+04:30

Palette, paints, brushes,
On the floor,
Beside the blank canvas.

Deconstruction of Dreams

2008-04-29T13:55:00.002+04:30

Dreams play with us
and
when we play with dreams

the nightly world looks fair
though far from reach,
it seems.

“When the Night Had Veiled the Pole”

2008-03-29T18:00:00.004+04:30

The “town drunkard”*,
Under the “city roofs”**,
Snoozing?

[Notes: Title from A Poison Tree.
*From A Young Boy’s Ambition.
**From City Roofs.]

Be Cool!

2008-03-28T00:52:00.001+04:30

Since I have paid all my dues,
Now, it’s time for you to lose.

Overflow

2008-02-21T14:41:00.005+03:30

Into a room, small as a pond,
The world, big as an ocean,
Pours itself from day to passing day:

Through the tense winter clouds, the escape of a ray
Is simple as a Quantum Physics notion,
That keeps busy the eager student’s mind.

Romance

2008-02-04T15:35:00.000+03:30

The Winter and I met again tonight.
She greeted me first,
And as usual,
Didn’t get a reply.
For she had, once more,
Taken my breath
Instantly away
With her cold beauty.

(On a first snowy night this year.)

Camus’ View of the “Writer”

2008-01-06T23:11:00.000+03:30

“He [the writer] has no other claims but those which he shares with his comrades in arms: vulnerable but obstinate, unjust but impassioned for justice, doing his work without shame or pride in view of everybody, not ceasing to be divided between sorrow and beauty, and devoted finally to drawing from his double existence the creations that he obstinately tries to erect in the destructive movement of history.”

From Albert Camus' speech at the Nobel Banquet at the City Hall in Stockholm, December 10, 1957.

Source in MLA format:
Camus, Albert. “Albert Camus' speech at the Nobel Banquet at the City Hall in Stockholm, December 10, 1957.” The Nobel Foundation. ?. 28 December 2007 <http://nobelprize.org/nobel_prizes/literature/laureates/1957/camus-speech-e.html>

More Likōs

2007-12-27T16:52:00.000+03:30

Here I put more likōs from Mr. Mansoor Mo’meni’s “Sad Liko: Soroodehaye Ballochi”
For information on likōs, please see my post Likōs: These Marvelous Songs on Tuesday, October 30, 2007.

1:
How long will you
Get along with the elders of Sarhad playing coy?
How will you treat the kid of your life?
How?
(likō 9)

2:
For the sake of memories
I shave this beard.
I spill this Kuwaiti perfume on your head
For the sake of memories.
(likō 72)

3:
Take out my Colt
Take it out of its blue sheath!
I can’t forget that night of joy,
I can’t.
(likō 78)

4:
Years go
Months come
Pains abound
And don’t bother.
(likō 22)

5:
Draw the curtain
Whatever you wish
It’s 11:15
See!
(likō 97)

façaDe

2007-12-21T15:28:00.001+03:30

Nothing
seemS
tHe wAy
iT shoUld

Due to the Speed

2007-12-16T00:14:00.000+03:30

The cars were passing by
that night on the street,
and I knew that due
to their speed being high,
they couldn’t see that I
was taking my time to
watch an old man who,
bending over them,
was searching bags of trash
for something he could eat.

The Unconscious

2007-12-11T00:31:00.000+03:30

In a world
That looks duly fine,
Giant insects and creepy bats
Are respectfully looking for a chance
To polish me off.

On Memories Sweet: Jubilation

2007-12-09T13:59:00.000+03:30

There is joy in memories only because the events are past.

Jouissance

2007-12-01T13:56:00.000+03:30

The man was so happy on his 40th birthday. He thought if he was going to die, he wanted to die feeling as he was feeling that night.
*
“Suicide” The homicide detective had finally resolved the case of the 40-year-old man. He was very happy he could leave early that night. It was his birthday.

The World Enchanted

2007-11-25T23:06:00.000+03:30

The ticking clock on the wall
And the cold howling wind,
Out at the window,
Will hum.

The sun will not run,
(Still fearing John Donne),
And so,
Morning will not come.

*
Silence has swept the sighs
That, not long ago,
Were long and deep.
Two lovers have fallen asleep.

Theater of the Absurd

2007-11-23T14:29:00.000+03:30

Theater of the Absurd:
A: I love you.
B: So what?!

City Pulse

2007-11-19T11:07:00.000+03:30

High on an antenna,
In the snowy sky of the etherized night,
Flashing red light.

The Ambition Paradox

2007-11-13T14:46:00.000+03:30

Even the most ambitious people need a shelter. When a dear friend of mine and I used to talk about our ambitions together, I used to say, in a language game then very meaningful to the two of us, “You’re a take-risks kinda guy! What you should do is settle down!” And he used to say, “And you’re a settle-down kinda guy! What you should do is take risks!”
This friend is now overseas, after his ambitions. Having occupied my mind recently, our memories together made me think of both past and present, and of future. I have grown older, perhaps more mature, too. And I still think of my ambitions, those of my very own, some of which are of the “settle-down” kind, others of the “take-risks” sort. I have probably revised them my own way. I am still the same person, though.
What I now know, better than any other time, is that man needs the kind of ambitions that take him to many places, as well as the ones that keep him where he is. And that is the sense of paradox within each of us, clinging, forever, onto things we already have, as well as longing for things we have never had (and may never have).
Nevertheless, amid this disarray of ideologizing, life goes on, leaving us behind (ourselves and our dear friends).

To Mehrdad, with due respect and love.

Temptation

2007-11-08T23:51:00.000+03:30

How human
to start things
all over again,
when you’re almost sure
things will go just the same.

A Page from My Life

2007-11-06T13:10:00.000+03:30

First Published 1986
2007 © No rights reserved.

Any part of this book may be reproduced in any form, by Photostat, microfilm, xerography, or any other means, or incorporated into any information retrieval / not-only-retrieval system, electronic or human, without the prior permission of the author.

All inquiries should be addressed to anyone but the author.

National Library
ISBN: 000-000-000-0

Printed Here

Dream Interrupted II

2007-11-05T13:26:00.000+03:30

I dreamed
I slipped on something;
I woke up,
falling.

A Change of Mood

2007-11-01T01:44:00.000+03:30

To Khatereh; humbly, respectfully.

A change of mood in a tired man,
whose darkened gloomy day
literally seems to have no end,
and who is filled with every dismay,
is sometimes possible only if he can
see the smile and the flow of joy
run on the face of a similar friend.

Likōs: These Marvelous Songs

2007-10-30T12:43:00.000+03:30

I regret that, only until now, I never knew they existed.
Likōs are Balloochi songs, native of members of the Ballooch tribe, in a region in Iran called Baloochestān. We especially know Balloochi men, dark-skinned, brash people, by their special costumes, white loose dresses with a (usually black) vest, turbaned. Their setārs are other distinguishing marks, accompanying their songs in their own dialect, whose words are perhaps unknown to the Persian ears; their sounds are, nevertheless, pleasing.
The information below is from “Sad Liko: Soroodehaye Balloochi” compiled and translated by Mr. Mansoor Mo’meni.
In the introduction to the book we read, “likōs are couplets with syllabic meter, sung, accompanied by the instrument … (=Gheichak). They are unwritten poetry conveyed generation down to generation among members of the Ballooch tribe. Likōs’ diction is not literary; their words are those used in everyday speech” (13), and that (with adaptations) “love is the main motif in likōs,” and (still with adaptations) “their attributes to love are so explicit” (15). These characteristics are vivid in this example (the English translations are by me):

جمعه
هر جمعه می آیم
نیست مادرت.
آدامس لبان ات را پیش آر
جست و جو کن مرا.

On Fridays,
Every Friday, I come,
Absent is your mom.
Draw close the chewing gum
Of your lips
Look for me. (likō 15)

The likōs in original Balloochi dialect are rhymed, too. Other examples (my favorites) are:

به کوهستان شده بر قله ای می نشینم
برگ نخلی کنده و
فالی می گیرم.

I go to the mountains and sit on a peak
A leaf from a palm tree I pick
And resort to divination. (likō 6)

And:

دخترک نشسته
برابر انبوه لحاف هاش
که می نهد بر هم.
رها شده چادرش
از دریچه می پایدم.

The damsel’s sitting
By the mass of sheets
She is piling each on each.
Her chador is hanging loose
She’s keeping an eye on me

Through the opening. (likō 19)

I have noticed that likōs, originally Iranian, are thematically very similar to haikus, originally Japanese. They are only different in rhythmic patterns and structure. Their names sound identical, too. I have no idea if they are in any way connected. Isn’t it probable?! It requires a bit of research.

[Reference: Mo’meni, Mansoor. Sad Liko: Soroodehaye Balloochi. Tehran: Meshki, 1384. (One interesting thing about the book is that [except for its cover] it is published on kraft paper!)]

2007-10-24T15:30:00.001+03:30

Late at Night

It’s late at night.
I want to cry…
I don’t know why.
Everything’s all right!

2007-10-23T13:29:00.000+03:30

You’re dead! Because of What You Said!

Shallow words –
assumed swords,
said out loud –
weave up shrouds,
take you tight
and put out light.

2007-10-15T13:27:00.001+03:30

At the Sunset

A flock of tired birds in the sky-
At the sunset, the other day-
Looked down and said:
“Is there a forest nearby?”
I was still thinking of a straight way
To the nearest 5-star hotel
When they left.

Today, October 15, is Blog Action Day, and the theme for 2007 is the environment. At the Sunset is my little contribution.

A Micro Play (Adam First ...)

2007-10-04T18:33:00.000+03:30

Adam First Meeting Eve (and the Rest of the Story)

Locale: Paradise
Time: Come on! It doesn’t really matter!

Adam (finally after an hour of thinking of something funny to say to introduce himself; steps up to Eve; stretches out his hand for a handshake; excited but embarrassed): “Madam, I’m Adam!”
Eve (THRILLED, after an hour of interminable expectancy, though shows no interest): “Uhuh?!” (shakes Adam’s hand as if there is nothing else to do) “Okay! Fancy a walk in the apple orchard, babe?” …

OK! Guess you know what happens next! … Right! Adam is in for a dog’s life! On earth!

The End

In Front of the Mirror

2007-09-21T14:07:00.000+03:30

The man – in front of the mirror –
straightened himself up,
looked at himself from toe to top,
then, tightened up his tie,
and told his wife a lie.

September 20, 2007

2007-09-07T14:52:00.000+03:30

When “I Summon up Remembrance of Things Past”

One of these days
there comes the time when
my small bookshelf
has no more room
for books,
when
my room
has no room
for me.
Then! Alas!
My small bookshelf!
My room!

September 7, 2007

[Note on the title: I have to thank Shakespeare. The story is: I had written this piece originally in Persian, with no title. But when I translated it into English, I realized William Shakespeare’s “I summon up remembrance of things past” (a line from his Ode XXX) plus a "When" would fit fine. So I picked it.
Now, I think William Wordsworth’s “Ode: Intimations of Immortality” (in his “Recollections of Early Childhood”) would also fit (except for the fact that, obviously, my piece is not an “ode”). You can pick a title of your own, one that – you think – fits even better!]

Nostalgia

2007-08-27T13:27:00.000+03:30

I take my time
to touch the dirt
on the books that
used to be read.
How I’m marked!

August 3, 2007

My Privacy Paradox Continued

2007-08-26T23:39:00.000+03:30

And isn't that why I'm here?!

My Privacy Paradox

2007-08-25T00:49:00.000+03:30

A little privacy is a good thing, but sometimes it’s better to wake up soon and make sure the boisterous world hasn’t lost its sun.