بایزید گفت: من میگویم که مرید من آن است که بر کناره دوزخ بایستند و هرکه را به دوزخ برند دست او بگیرد و به بهشت فرستد و به جای او خود به دوزخ رود
تذکره الاولیا، عطار نیشابوری
Bayazid said: I say that my true follower is the one who stands at the edge of Hell, and, when someone is taken to Hell, they take their hand and sends them to Heaven, taking their place in Hell themself.
Tazkirat al-Awliya, Attar Neishaburi
To look at the narrow and long road which leads the world to the slaughter-house.
To Be In A Time Of War, Etel Adnan
بیقراری
unease
so, tell me.
when do we mourn the living dead that we are,
the muted throats that we occupy,
the stones we pick and leave behind,
the lives we exploit and live beside,
the graves we enter, armed fully—with limbs, with pride—
—the dead are dead, do not bother.
—the dead are dead, no one expects them to rise, do not bother.
so, tell me.
where is your fire? whose flame is this? whom are you burning?
of the witches, of the whores, of the bitches, of the shores,
this time, the roaches that endure, this time,
the survivors of the shores, this time,
a tulip, grown on her own, alone, this time,
on the cracks of the shores.
so, tell me.
when did you declare a war? and which coffin is mine?
whose god might I argue with? which wreckage is mine? what should I pick? what shall I throw? whom do I attack? Where do I go?
—the dead are dead, do not bother
mourned too many times.
so, tell me.
is the frontier your lips or your hands?
which one should I kiss? of the throats you choke,
which one should I be? of my many names,
which one do you remember? which one do you pick?
the sentiments of wartime, despair haunting the dew of mourning, cold sweat, blues fading, reds burning,
night ending on no ending note, enough is never enough.
the breaking news of today: it is never enough.
when will be my time?
بوی زهم
the smell of raw meat
these days, the extension of me is death. it has no smell, only a shifting shape. it pours from my fingers and eyes. I cannot hold it. like a fish, it exists only to jump out. I walk, and it weeps out. I do not walk, and it weeps out. I mostly stay at home, containing it, at least I try.
these days, my loneliness feels political. as does yours, you, the aching heart. we hold the same rage but barely meet each other’s eyes. they call it community, but, hmmmm, we ain’t one. death has consumed us. we let it do its job, thinking we could master it. instead, it mastered us. I fear what I write. I fear the damage already done. I fear my heart learning a game that isn’t her own. I fear arguing in the language of the world against this heart. this heart. I hold it tight. but, no matter how. it pours herself out.
I am my own heart. I am a liquid spilling from room to room, evaporating into dew, clinging only to the walls. these days, the extension of my existence clings to every door I pass, every room I enter. hours circle me like a revolving door, dragging me in and out. the floor of my room. I look at it. I see the blood piling up to my knees, weeds twisting through it. I try to move, but the blood becomes a hurricane. angry waves slam against still walls—the lovemaking of fists and faces, all against walls.
the limit of what is yet to be undone. it presses, all against my heart.
they rarely ask, “how are you?” when they do, I cry. inside. “fine, Alhamdulillah,” I reply.
سکون
stillness
we are on the brink. the brink is something made of bricks, brick by brick, ancient ruins are built on the brink.
retaliation for the previous retaliation of the previous retaliation of another, of another century. preparation for retaliating against the retaliation that has not yet happened, might never happen.
their war cabinet is a small room, their table too small for the number of chairs gathered around it, their chairs too small for their hands, their hands too small to hold the smallest birds’ beaks they have bombed, so far. the room makes decisions about the fate of birds, of me making love tonight, of friendships ending on disagreements about “how” to decolonize, on how many fingers a Palestinian child might need for his life.
the sky is no longer God’s. it never was. the war cabinet owns it. The New Order emerges from the sky they have divided and defined, and on earth, only things drop: a piece of lip, two or three beaks. the war cabinet teaches me new words: Terminal High Altitude Area Defense. my English improves: MK-84 Bombs with SPICE-2000 GUIDANCE KITS. I understand new distinctions—no god takes responsibility for creating the occupants of that room.
we are on the brink, falling on the ground, brick by brick.
بهجوشآمدن
boiling
today, I realized the world has no edge. I leaned. I felt. today, I aged ten years—and a day. and that one day was the hardest to digest. I blame it on words losing their meaning, bread crumbling, the poison absorbed deeply. squeezed—just one drop. words. drops. cheap.
today, anger chewed my flesh. it did not soften, only hardened. tightened my muscles. tight. today, I became very Fanonian. stiff. the evil’s feet entered my mouth, deep into my throat. I missed the chance to throw it up. mistake. I swallowed him. mistake. today, terror knocked the door open. I approached the door. mistake. who is it? who is terrorizing me? a friend. a dear comrade. mistake.
today, I became anger. I became rage. I became wrath. I ate my own flesh like a rat. today, my mouth swallowed my tail. tail. I became a tail. I banged the water, ripping its surface—bang, bang, bang. I became the head of the snake.
hit me. hit me, now. bang, bang, bang.
the poison is not mine. I won’t take that shit. no. not me. not my mother. not her garden. today, I searched for an edge to bang my head—against the sharpest of edges: you, your court, your hammer, your execution order stamped on my hands.
bang, bang, bang.
the rope, its slow, very slow extension. its shadow, persistent, very persistent. its firing squad, persistent. oh God, so persistent. and all your hammers, knocking on my head, your care, your repair, knocking on my hands.
bang, bang, bang.
no. I won’t take this shit. not mine. no. I won’t touch this corpse. I won’t bury it. I won’t be that dead. no. not me. not my mother. not her garden.
not again.
today, I realized the world has no edge. no corner. today, I felt.
نفس
NAFS
these days, my thighs long to make love, perhaps, to a living thing other than my own thighs. I rarely remember that I live in a body, that there is at least one thing in this world that is mine. fully mine. every day, I declare war against it. very determined.
still and still. I yearn for touch—black, curly hair, hairy, dark, sad eyes, deep brown, strong nipples, ones that are not only mine. I send many hugs to many, an emoji repeated three times, returned in kind, another hug, dark blue, superior vena cava. emojis are clumsy prophets of delivering arms. arms. I stretch mine, I make a fist, the size of my heart. it never pumps. the miracle never arrives—only the punishment.
I am Lot’s people. I walk with him. I do look back. I am stone. I am all the stones bombed into smaller stones. scattered. my body. the ruins. the ruined history. only one missile. exploding the body that was supposed to be mine. I am stone. I am all the stones bombed into smaller stones. pick me. put me in your pocket. fist your hand around me. hold me as you hold your rage—close, warm, deep, dangerously. you will need me if you ever walk by the ruins of Palmyra. leave me there. I will be all that remains—fragmented, forgotten, faded.
I will remain.
تقلا
trying
I live in Switzerland. for now. they say they are neutral. they say they make knives—practical, conclusive, cutting, opening, closing, punching, piercing—all in one act, like neutrality: clean, clear, cut. I am from Zanjan. we do not say we are neutral. we do say we make knives, daggers, ghame. they have names carved into them, or an eye, a peacock, a heart, a flower. they are not practical. they are forged for battle. they need stone or oil to stay sharp. like love, they need tough touch. they play rituals difficult to watch, of mourning, of boredom, of desperation, of love. they are passed between lovers or murderers. remember me, or, kill her, remember this dagger, or bury her. oh, heart, the wounded one. oh, heart, the bleeding one. oh, love, the sweet God.
I stole my father’s. I decided what my inheritance is. of him. of his pocket Zanjani knife, with rusty steel, still smelling like his hands—gasoline, oil, dirt, smoke, dearth, silence, shame. it opens so slowly, it resists being closed, it is slow, like death, it hesitates to cut, like patience. it remains only a trace, a line, a shallow scratch—like him, a troubled existence, disappearing.
love is the practice of opening and closing a Zanjani knife, going to war with a butter-cutting knife, with a heart made of butter, carving the mountain, melting.
I live in Switzerland. for now. it is wartime, and they have mountains. many. chained. around me. they do not carve them for love. the dagger is not in the war with stone here. never. there is no Farhad* dying between the Alps. Zahhak** might only go for a hike, fully equipped, later return home, watch Netflix, chill.
the evil is unbound. my father’s knife does not cut.
کشتن نفس
KILLING NAF
I have no intention of invading your earth more than my grave, Ya Allah. At 164.45 centimetres, or less, depending on what remains, if any. let me occupy as little land as possible, like those who came before me, like those who will come after—arrested, beaten, executed, raped, tortured, stolen from, burnt, bombed. let me deliver this body back to you at home, ya Allah, over the hands of those who might, probably, perhaps, resemble my people. Ya Allah, Ya Rahman, Ya Latif, “let go of my hand, grant me freedom,”*** allow me to die at home, leave me alone.
make me weightless.
صعود
ascending
bitterness, my sister says, is a drop of evil. leave it to the colourless waters, she says, the evil you never solve, but only dissolve in your own hands. leave it to the sea, she says, and the sea is always the sea, always willing to receive the rage, swallowing the pain.
I have long been water, my dearest sister, and I have many times turned into many stones. to be the edge is to be the meeting point of water and stone—not shapeless, not already shaped, but the gradual becoming of a movement, of the touch between two impossibilities. the weeping willow tree, mad, still, counting her every leaf, on the edge of the cliff, still, stiff.
فرود
descending
all my lovers live in Qaf Mount****, and what is the difference between me and a bird? I would fail in my attempt to fly.
نمردن
not-dying
I remember all the lines of my mother’s forehead: one line, revolution, one line, war, some lines, sewing and weaving, a few, squeezing and feeding, many more, praying and paying.
lines—interruption, discontinuity. lines—the continuation of disruptions, discontinuities.
I see my mom growing different lines. correction: I do not see, I guess. through haze, fog, through the frames continuously interrupted. reconnecting. now, I know her as I know fading squares. I see the world I left behind. now, I am dead, for some years now. continuously dead. I watch the life I left behind through pixels. no one truly returns from the dead to live again. no one would be interested in that to happen. what is gone is dead. I am gone. I am dead. Still. I persist. I want to come back to life. I do. I call. I just call. the everydayness of the terrible. reconnecting.
“they hit?”“did they hit?”“not yet.”“no sirens?”“I just woke up, taking wudu.” “I am still awake, refreshing the feed.” “go to sleep.” “call me later.”
I want to come back to life. I do. I call. I just call.
“they hit?”“there too?” “how many?”“it sounded like a lightless storm, and a close-by park is filled now, with runners.”
the unfinished business of moving away, floating within. I do. I want to run, move back, float. reconnecting. the everydayness of the terrible. connection is interrupted.
I am gone. I am dead. and ears hear after death.
تعارض
contradiction
my country is falling, in my hands, like Ophelia falling, over my hands. I am a defence site, failing with my own hands. in the meantime, I make a phone call to you. in Cairo, I am in love. in Tehran, only I am confused. you want to escape. you say. I tell you I can change the weather for you, the shapes of clouds if you want, or the endless greyness of skies. I own two boxing gloves, I say, have never tried them even once. you laugh, only, sweetly. you want to disappear soon, somewhere—me too, in you. my passport is not made for love. the problem is not walls, you say, they are easy to jump. wall is nothing, you say, it won’t go into us. the problem is the world, getting into us, you say, we get hard, hardened. I can be the wall, I say, jump over me, so the world escapes us, crosses between us. you laugh, over the phone, sweetly, and I think of tasting you, tasting the Mediterranean Sea in between us. my country has lost its defence system, they say, like me, in front of you.
love makes us porous, and we only fill our holes with lead.
وزیدن
blowing
not the scarcity of words, not your claws, gently, on my throat, not your decorum, and never your missiles and drones. it is only me, unwilling to sell it to you, my right-to-left writing world. there are many words. and I know more, more words. it is only me, unwilling to sit by your well, not willing to weep my words, into that void. and only to escape this void, I turn into the moon. I go behind the clouds. no. not silence. I only take my light away. it is not the scarcity of words. it is me not willing to write. I am Leila. I know only wind. close. I do poetry, only to the wind. closer to her ear. I whisper. I do not write. I blow. persist. insist. to the stone that is to be your heart. to that. I give. one stroke at a time. word by word. I do not write. I dig. deeper. I do not write. I have an army of ants, rebel ones. I let them open the page, go against your punctuating order of lines, invade the paragraph, close the line.
I do not write. I am Vatan. I dig. I go deep. like the wind, I insist. I never heal. I never leave. I am home. from right to left. from the river to the sea. I do not write. I am the wind. I persist.
مرهم
healer
the one who must die, are resisting, and the one who will never die, are very busy, committing a suicide in the depth of their heart. some keywords are dropped too soon: repairing, renewing, reshaping, rebirthing—re, re, re, relentlessly. the problem is vague, the pain rarely gets named, the terms are dropped, coined too soon, too much. the story starts and ends with conclusions. the champagne is opened, a sudden sound, some kind of explosion, glasses shattering—for a different reason: healing. the healers get busy with deadlines. ghosts invade the chat. no response. no reply. everyone cares, but no one really does. no one has capacity. the champagnes are filled to the edge, but for a different reason: healing.
I hear healing I only see a brick. a brick. soaked in period blood, fully. ready to be thrown out, away, while still dripping blood. in my past life, there used to be a monster living in my utters, his head stretched up until my lips, his tail lingering on the fringe of my bones, and I bleeding the remnants of his teeth. out, away. I had no intention of healing. an impossible co-existence of the flesh and the sword. take that monster away. my mother would say. sit on this brick. my mother would say, warm the brick over the fire, wrap it in a towel, sit bare-skinned over it. let the heated soil absorb the wetness of the flesh, the coldness of the blood. let the earth meet the blood. my mother would say. we are from the blood and we will return to the blood. let the earth taste your pain. and, when the brick is soaked with blood. keep it. keep it. for later. throw it directly at the head of one who detests the land. who detests you. who mocks the blood. my mother would say. her mother would say. and the earth as well.
healing: a bloody brick.
healing: relieving the pain, revealing the rage.
healing: absorbing, exploding.
decolonise healing: hold on to the blood.
قلب
Heart
yes, everything flows through the blood. mathematics of liquids as well as life. the miracles of waves and floods. and yes, everything is blood. and perhaps a bit of water as well. I fight tooth and nail for the heart to remain in the blood. I wish the same for you. I might even be a prophet. rasool. guide you back to the heart. free her from the torment of “ifs,” let her suffer if she must, as she pleases. let her taste her own blood—the warmth, the essence of one who did not to die.
you tell me, how is your heart? with which fire do you cleanse your heart?
you tell me:
is agony the dignity of a heart still beating amidst the wartime?
september-december 2024
*Farhad is a literary figure in Persian poetry and mythology, who carved the mountain out of his love for Shirin.
**Zahhak, the snake-shouldered figure in Persian mythology, represents evil. He is chained and bound in Mount Damavand, implying that evil, at best, can be restrained on Earth but never truly vanishes.
***I am referring to the way Omm Kalthum sang this line in the song Al-Atlal.
****Qaf Mount is the mysterious and mythical mountain, standing for the farthest place on the earth, and in Sufi trajectory, for the final point of reaching the truth.
