December 2004 - July 2005

July 11, 2005:
Lavender leaks into orange twilight
i inhale, YOU, like the smoke of this cigarette
drawing you in until my lungs are awash,
with you
seeping into my blood,
coursing through my veins,
bathing every cell of my being
until each overflows with
YOU

leaving no distinction between
the sinuous smoke escaping my lips and
the dewy halo of a crescent crowning weeping willows
clove scented red embers, sparkling green fireflies, and coy Venus winking blue

under the silver shadow of graceful poplar limbs grazing midnight
i inhale

Now, there remains only
YOU

4-23-2005
In your sultry garden of mist and haze
Tender wings spread white into the deepening inkwell of evening
To feel the silky whisper of the midnight breeze
And the secrets of time ripple silently through feathers
To soar beyond all that "is"

Sharp thorns penetrate soft flesh
Cut deep
Wounded, they bleed, these wings
Red splattered agony over snowy feathers
Broken, they graze the dust on the cold ground of your garden of mist and haze

Bleeding and Limp
But this bird will
FLY
SOAR
GLIDE....

February 17, 2005
Scent of time
Etched into memory of rock and sand
Infiltrating recollections preceding existence
On wings of seamless gold
Traversing the then new, now old moments
The reflection of your face, a stranger before today, now in all my past forever

December 2, 2004
I was prepared to go the ends of the earth for you, to taste the last drop of time. My heart, an endless field unfolding before you. You permeated the deepest crevices of my soul, like drops of water seeping into the coils of smoldering desert sand.

One yawning winter night I was walking down this road and you opened your door…
inside, luminous and enchanting.
I was timid, but your silent invite beckoned invisible. I approached your door, bold and brave. And you faded into darkness.
Standing at the steps of your house, I peered in for you. But I could not see you, hear you.
I called your name, first a whisper, then louder. The only reply was the silent echo of my voice resonating from unseen walls inside. So …
I waited as the night sunk into itself and silence blanketed the earth.
I waited ...
The stars ducked behind thick clouds and the gentle breeze morphed into a gusty wind, whipping the night open.
I waited …
A shard of light pierced through the viscous black and
I waited …
Her majesty raised a rosy face coyly from behind endlessness, soft and demure at first. Then her unbridled radiance flooded the banks of night.
I waited …
and I waited as the cool rain mixed with my hot tears.
I waited at your open door which you neither closed nor attended to.
Hope was my dearest friend and most unforgiving foe. She would not let me go.
But each drop from the spring of my eyes was a drop of your memory, your hope, your promise expunged from my soul … floods and torrents … I thought it would never end … the bottomless ocean.
But there is an end. Ay, there is a change disguised as an end.
Now in the bashful red and orange waves of the autumn sea the leaves of hope fall crimson gold to the ground giving way for the blossoms that shall steal in the lacey twilight of Bahar.


December 5, 2004
My mother is always telling me splendid stories of her childhood and youth. Each imbued with rich tradition.

Just this afternoon as my mom, dad, and I were sitting at the table digging our teeth into succulent, ruby kernels of pomegranate she told us how in the winters of her youth they used to eat pomegranate at the Turkish Bath. It was a tradition, like so many others, lost. No one ever goes to the Turkish Bath these days. They are left for the tourists who wonder wide eyed into an exotified, not to mention sexualized, place of forgotten history. I could go on and on about the Turkish Bath, Hamam: about it's splendid arches and pillars, about the marble fountains, and the light filtering through the perforations of its magnificent dome mingling with the mist of hot water to create an exquisite chiffon wrapping itself around you. I could go on, but I won’t. This is not about the Hamam, it’s about traditions. The winter Hamam expeditions marked with pomegranate feasts have been replaced by short, urgent showers taken in small, efficient, stoic modern bathrooms. Now, I’m not rejecting change and progress. Nor, am I clinging on to the past. But I am lamenting. Lamenting, beauty lost. Beauty dethroned by pragmatism. Where are the traditions? The traditions of the past are like fine lace: delicate, intricate, time consuming and subtle. How does one characterize the traditions of today? Now we eat pomegranate on a Sunday afternoons in December in our kitchen. One could argue that this is a tradition in itself. My parents eat pomegranate not simply for the taste of it, but for the memory of it … what will my memories be? What will I tell my children about pomegranates? I will most likely tell them how I used to eat pomegranates during winter and how their grandmother used to eat them at the Hamam as a child. Call it nostalgia for a past I never experienced. Call it what you may … but I sense those traditions of the past, those patient, reflective, unhurried traditions are endangered.