Poetry

Beyond the Clouds

Beyond the transient clouds at 12 O’clock
Beyond ephemeral hint of overcast
All morning and afternoon
Eyes are focused
On the Sunshine that is distancing
On the horizon

Beyond this hejraan, separation
Is our lasting bond

Memories
Unconfined to a life-time
Are not fleeting
Yet we have - on occasions -
To remain steadfast
Continue our devotion to our pledge
To stay put as custodians of time
When bodies are holy
But nonetheless live forgivingly short

You are my ‘body’ beyond this body
Like clouds
That in the last instance
Have no prerogative
Have no say
On the issue of
Time-continuous presence of the overwhelming sun

The sun!
So distant and so close like a Satan-friendly God
And becoming part of everyone like a tan!

Clouds do not cloud
And love between us
Is permanently present, past and future.

By Homa Tarzi
New York
April, 2002

Translated from Farsi into English by Ahmad Ebrahimi

Friendship is a mountain with no peak to climb
Friendship is not a diet food To be served on Wedgwood plates On a table made of exquisite Jarrah wood Decorated with all the accessories and paraphernalia of Aristocratic three-course meal And dinner to be served exactly at 8 When the gong is strike ten minutes earlier Friendship is hardly a federation of two When voices around are hostile And you have inadvertently landed in exile And your family is distant As if you are dead Friendship is no second best option Friendship is a mountain with no peak to climb Friendship is by definition Never reaching the peak When a peak indicates a turning point, And an inevitable descent Friendship is going beyond The point of no return In the real world We scarcely climb together Sometimes we have the privilege to Cross each other's path And that is all In the real world Between two people Open or close to love Often comes a point When there is this frantic sympathy Like air needed to breath Hands often are tied Rarely open Friendship cannot be embraced or constructed Friendship only evolves Love can be improvised Harpooned upon beloved On the first sight And then this very beloved Catapulted out of sight Friendship defies strategy and purpose Makes us children as children play Friendship is play – not foreplay Achieved not too often and not too easy And it always takes time Like a good whisky or wine…. Friendship, when it is there Cannot be put on hold Kept at bay Friendship whatever it may be Is never interchangeable with the expression "I don't fancy sleeping with you!" Friendship these days lives on paper A whole list of Names and contact numbers A list of options evidently with no commitment: Dial a ride When one has nothing better to do In the real world Everybody is so busy With putting up the façade With work, With after work Tuesday yoga class With Thursday evening self-assertion session And Monday salsa or tai-chi 24 hour fitness special bonus course And on Saturday evenings of course We all have to go out and have fun To come equal with the world Keep it going you! Experience the experience Pursue hobbies, Keep meeting new people Keep going forward you! Plan exotic holidays Try to improve at work Keep moving up! In the real world We keep busy - at all cost! As if we cannot cope With having the time On our hand On our hand extending friendship As if we cannot cope With having nothing in particular to do Outside work And having practically nothing to say to “dear diary” We all keep busy At the cost of spending time with ourselves So that we rarely learn how we can truly befriend A, B, C, and X, Y, Z It takes a second to die It takes half a minute to exchange a phone number It takes six months to fall in love and fall out of love It takes a lifetime to know another person How many friends do you plan to have? Before eating our rationed calories Out of the Wedgwood plate! Let us pray! Let us pray to ourselves! Forgive us Lord! We are all Gods With filling cabinets Contents copied on to organizers, iPods and Gateway notebooks Friendship standing for The miscellaneous folder or category And a lonely God Rather than God alone Is a true image of us? By Homa Tarzi New York June , 2004
Translated from Farsi into English by Ahmad Ebrahimi

$I am a Woman and Still Young I am still young Like the chameleon ocean you live side by side Ocean that is old and still Yet waving to us all colors and looking so gloriously young! Winter has set in earnest The Prairie Province is in white And there is not even Satan present When the blizzards are God send To dampen my spirits Words I mince But my heart is pumping in Red in noses And pumping out Red in roses Tam tam tam …. Here I come Soon you may be able to catch me on a bridge Not too far to go Though fractured by multiple selerouces! I am still young Full of urges and desires and love potions kept at hand My hands curving towards you like leafless twigs Trying to capture the winter sun and grow the fallen leaves I am still young I can still walk without a stick Though I get stuck from time to time Not knowing where else I can walk to without love My thighs are to carry the Diaspora in me And no longer to carry away men Who always wanted to adventure with me Rather than Venturing falling in the sea, Cut the rope and be free In the ocean of mutative Love I am still young By the look of my breasts Defying tubular probes Tender like virginal puberty glands Displaying probity and resting along my exhausted body Rather than being swollen by endoscopic assisted breast augmentation Or swallowed up by surgery to remove all So that I herby to declare no breasts of cancer I am still young And my body is a temple I adore Courtesy to all those men that I kept it from And even the rest can see - with their glasses on How sought-after I was in my days And my periods, yes - but my days are not yet over Some sheikdoms may have fared better Without their abundant and squandered oil Though, I have to say, the allegory does not extend I was seldom a prisoner of my beauty Or relieved of freedom In a harem kept as a sheik’s concubine I am a woman approaching her golden jubilee and still young In body and soul My hair on my elated shoulders Is red at sunset and night-color at dawn I am still young and invincible Though mythology is concerned with invincible men And even those invincible men Had to face or cover A breach of contract, A vulnerable eye, a vulnerable heel; …. Alas! One little breach of invincibility was their downfall at last! I am an invincible woman That is going to set alight so many candles tonight As it is once again my birthday today I am still young and invincible Only one vulnerability to bear Only one lingering wound to be spared - Wishing the same wish (every New Year After which soon came my birthday): Wishing the same wish That you were here And now I have to realize at last That you can’t help it You can’t help it My love! My lover! My beloved! My friend! I have to come there! I ….. have to come there! By Homa Tarzi New York March 2004 Translated from Farsi into English$

I Promise You Tomorrow Barren is time Pain lowering the ceiling of your abode Disenchanted with your capsized world More at home with death than living Yet looking at your sign My heart vividly sees that You are missing the point That despite your readiness to give up Tomorrow is pledged to you I urge you To look forward to the unexpected I urge you Not to dismiss untraceable terms of endearment And not to discount kindness unforeseen I urge you to stay on To safeguard all that you stand for You think you have been short-changed But the coins left to you inadvertently Are unique and rare Constituting the undiminished capital To invest in future of the ‘kind Man’ And to collateral Against undiminished pain and personal deprivation In your little room for maneuver You are not alone In this quest for carrying on With a fatigued body that wants to rest Even if mind is defying cancer from within I urge you to Plant hope this very day When everyday is a blessing And your plants are jesting growth and health In colour and stealth I urge you to Light that candle tonight Candidly In “heart of darkness”* When you are looking into the abyss And to read the testimony of tomorrow That unravels your twisted path into serenity I urge you to consider Because Kouchi, the maiden lass from Kabul Is standing with me Is standing with you At all times Discharging the bounty of her unconditional love Displaying the generosity That is anchored in pure blue waters of Rajistaan lakes Kouchi’s voice coming from deep like a fountain Reaching you when you are at the threshold and almost gone beyond Telling you to have faith In yourself Listen to her at this 11th hour! She is telling you: “YOU ARE A CHILD OF THE UNIVERSE! BE GENTLE WITH YOURSELF” By Homa Tarzi New York September , 2004 Translated from Farsi into English by Ahmad Ebrahimi *“Heart of Darkness” is the title of the short masterpiece written by Joseph Conrad

My son We came a long way together We have come so far We came to this spot for a reason Yes my dear son! We came a long way together I lost you on the way for a season But I found you back for a reason You are my only love You are my only life You are my little boy That I still care for a reason You just keep going toward your goal You just try your best You just hang on You will see the light at the end of the season I kept my promise I did my part You just do yours And we both will see the light By Homa Tarzi New York January 12, 2004

Manhattan Rain A sudden percussion on the Manhattan roof Invading the sky Heart-beat synchronized to rain drops: Rain drumming and heart dropping Umbrellas bloom in black Growing out of the asphalt Rain is no hindrance to the metropolitan hustle and bustle Push and shove Now and always to be negotiated On a slippery ground Yet this is a downpour And those on foot Have to stand each others’ company For a few minutes or so Under apartment entrances and shops’ folding screens I as usual, corned by work In the space of my cold room I welcome the rain Granting myself a short break I open the window’s sealing And head-shower my feelings Every drop of rain Is a non-bursting bubble That encapsulates my rainbow of recollection Every drop of rain A messengers-like gol-e ghassedak, ovary of the dandelion The raindrops that descended on you - Evaporated centuries ago - Are re-incarnated in the atmosphere Of global weather recycle The raindrops that kissed your lips and chicks And curled in your hair Are dropping now on me! The butterfly is flapping its wing again It is effective It smells of you! By Homa Tarzi New York October 2000 Translated from Farsi into English by Ahmad Ebrahimi

Reverence Unashamedly hot Inferno of the sun is blazing Those accused are to cuddle the rays As if to prove their innocence Is this day so hot to remember and revere “Siyaavosh”? The self-exiled prince that galloped his horse Into the man-made fire of a trial Where the verdict came after the punishment – And the trial was the judgment Or is there simply an equal hero or heroin in every sunflower Embracing the sun constantly Tracing it in the mirage of the sky? Two bony salamanders by my hoisted neck! Like the stem and bloom of Sunflower My neck and face Hugs the inferno of the sun So that perhaps my tired body Stands up for the galloping prince To walk in By Homa Tarzi New York July ,2006 Translated from Farsi into English by Ahmad Ebrahimi

Poverty Capriciousness engulfs Walking poor alleys of this rich country The rat race Of money slaves is a Recurrent “deaths of a salesmen”* And that loaf of bread Acquired at a high price Alas! is not blessed Made into sandwiches of swallowed dignity! Yet the poverty is not The material poverty that is conspicuous People seem to be dispossessed of feelings, Deprived of readiness to offer their true thanks-giving Made insolvent when it comes to Love And the mass of agony is paraded Behind the constant smile By Homa Tarzi New York September 2004 Translated from Farsi into English by Ahmad Ebrahimi * “Death of a Salesman” is a play written by Arthur Miller”

The Promise Land (1) I am from the land of Zarathustra’s Avesta I am from the land of Bamian I am from the land of Balkh I am from the land of Jalalabad I am from the land of Buddha I am from the Promise land And I am the Phoenix, the Osprey Yours sincerely, Homa, the bird of good omen Born this time in Kabul, Afghanistan I have found God’s Love in Buddha I have found Man’s love in Zoroaster I have found serenity of worship in Ghulghuleh I have found purity and health in “Nou-bahaar” temple in Bactria I have found hope in orange blossoms, narcissus, and dame’s violets grown by the Khayber pass I am from the land of pilgrims turned crusaders I am Baptized in the Zoroastrian atashkadeh, Temple of Fire I am the Daughter of God In the trinity of Man, Ahriman and Ahur Mazda I am from the land of Koran I am from the land of Mazari Sharif I am from the land of Harat I am from the land of Khazneh I am from the land of Rājasthān I am from the land of Siddhartha I am from the promise land And I am the Phoenix, the Osprey Yours sincerely, Homa, the bird of good omen Born this time in Kabul, Afghanistan I am chastised by white doves Flying from minarets and cleavages of Ali’s mausoleum To welcome the pilgrims I am the Odyssey of the ‘long walk” negotiating mountain crosses To arrive at valleys carpeted with tulips and corn poppies And I am the Phoenix, the Osprey Yours sincerely, Homa, the bird of good omen Born this time in Kabul, Afghanistan I am to be re-buried finally In my own modest Bagh-e Babur By Homa Tarzi Los Angelis September, 2006 Translated from Farsi into English by Ahmad Ebrahimi

The Promise Land (2)
I am from the land of Zarathustra’s Avesta I am from the land of Bamian I am from the land of Balkh I am from the land of Jalalabad I am from the land of Buddha I am from the Promise land And I am the Phoenix, the Osprey Yours sincerely, Homa, the bird of good omen Born this time in Kabul, Afghanistan I am dream echoe Of a captive queen From the land of kings –Rajasthan With majestic forts, intricately carved temples and ornamental havelis A stranger who recieves little hospitality In Manhattan Yet in her turn tries to be a steadfast gharibnavaaz, protector of aliens My cheeks have the pink of Jaipur And my body is of White exquisite marble of (brotherhood), Baradari On the Anasagar lake at Ajmer I am hearing the verses of Ferdowsi, Manuchehri, Onsori, Farrokhi and Rudaki, Five most accomplished poets of all times Gathered at the same time in Ghazneh at the Ghaznavid Court: All under the patronage of the Sultan, Mahmoud Ghaznavi Who rewarded then generously with gold, silver and treasured gems Plundered from Indian Hindu temples And I am the Phoenix, the Osprey Yours sincerely, Homa, the bird of good omen Born this time in Kabul, Afghanistan I am to be re-buried finally In my own modest Bagh-e Babur By Homa Tarzi Los Angelis September, 2006 Translated from Farsi into English by Ahmad Ebrahimi

Sharm* We catch-up And the rain catches us Soaking my tight dress and his white shirt We run in Taking refuge under the roof As the real storm arrives Rain under the roof is the poison on the dagger of the wind Of the wind – so solid yet hollow The roof sounds as if to cave in on us From the wind’s blows Furious and unbecoming thunderstorm Wants us vanquished Where we have taken refuge The roof stands the fury of the storm Yet it has no way to respond To the wind That seems to know not What direction it wants to go The wind blows and pounds the roof Yet the roof in a manner of speaking Is silent Like a mute little creature That has a silent cry Membranes that have formed from rainwater In our ears Loud speak our hearts pulsation We hear it inside And from outside we hear the thunderstorm and The swing that warns the collapse of the roof We are two youngsters Haraam, forbidden to each other Our skins, our bodies half-transparent From under the dress and the shirt Thoroughly soaked This is our haram, stronghold of privacy and our sacred place The moment we can in secret In the uniform apparel of pilgrims to Mecca, Glance each other in the ehraam of nakedness And the roof of our stormy world is collapsing Any moment There is overwhelming sharm, shame In our eyes that look almost sideways Not to see The forbidden fruit So that the storm inside subsides But the storm outside is so scary And the swing of the roof caving in on us So terrifying that I am nothing except a scared little girl And he is nothing except A frightened little boy Both of us wishing that We were allowed each other Mahram, as we say, to each other Like a sister and a brother So that we could embrace Take refuge In each other arms And stop trembling. By Homa Tarzi Kabul April 1972 Translated from Farsi into English by Ahmad Ebrahimi * Sharm happens to be the title of a novel by Salman Rushie, where the meaning of the word in contrast to ‘shame’ is explored. Sharm is probably more inner, cultural concept and requires sometimes complicity of close relatives, etc in confronting a society that never takes away the stigma once it bestows upon a person

The Black Tulip (1) Red roses, I suppose Would have given us up - too conspicuous and ordinary you might have presumed - The message was, nevertheless, too clear When you sent me all those eye-catching black tulips –so rare in those days and no Interflora – Those black tulips that traveled by air All the way from Netherlands to Kabul International Airport Arrived so fresh as a token of your magic I was mesmerized like a virgin made love to But every other pilgrim was too Nobody had seen tulips in black Such an air and resonance, complete presence in the crystal jar No maiden in my class has received such gift of a jewel That was alive That presently alive was enshrined I was a seed Hidden, undeveloped, petrified in the dark -I was juvenile ambushed by puberty- You made me grow You made me come You made me grow into a woman You made me come Out of the soil A few drops of downpour -Maybe tears from the sigh You clouded and hurled into the sky In Netherlands - And I germinated and sprouted As if from a fertile Never-land Into that rare black tulip of Kabul The tulip was black But not the magic! By Homa Tarzi Kabul April 6, 1973 Translated from Farsi into English by Ahmad Ebrahimi

The Black Tulip (2) I was a seed Hidden underneath, undeveloped, petrified in the dark You made me grow You made the soil fertile With a few drops of rainwater And I germinated and sprouted out of the soil I looked around me I didn’t know I was called a tulip But I knew the color I was wearing was black And I felt mediocre and inferior Compared to all those wild, gardenia and exotic flowers In blue, red, crimson, pink, yellow, green and white I grew with ignorance and pain Then I saw men’s eyes looking at me I saw men’s eyes In magnificent hues like flowers around me In grey blue, hazel, and even green I realized I was receiving differential treatment And then I was looked at by the very man with black pupils And I fell for those black eyes And I saw in the mirror of those pupils How beautiful and rare I was And then later on when I re-rooted in USA I heard them saying “I am black and beautiful” By Homa Tarzi Kabul April 6, 1973 Translated from Farsi into English by Ahmad Ebrahimi