HAIKU

By G. Samigorganroodi


In the garden
The wind reminds
The fallen leaves to dance


The cat
Next to the chimney pipe
It is white everywhere


The tuberoses
At my desk
Lighten up my day


I am not afraid of the cacoon around me;
I will soon emerge out of it.
I am a butterfly.

































TO THE STONECUTTER WHO ASPIRED TO BECOME A SCHOLAR
By G. Samigorganroodi


He wrote many letters to academics,
Aspiring to become a scholar,
To read the humanity of the Greeks;
The fundamental language of love.
He had forgotten his humble origin.
He didnt know that working-class intellectual
Is an oxymoron.
Finally, he had to abandon his ambitions.
He recovered from this blow.
He poured his energy into his stones.
He made a statue of a nonagenarian
Classical scholar
Filled with weeds and straws,
Locking culture in his skull,
Trampling on the memories of our enslaved ancestors
Outside the locked gates of academia.






























AMOR SOCRATICUS
By G. Samigorganroodi


The young Aphrodite and Eros
Are fast asleep in my memory.
The old Aphrodite is smiling at Beauty
Which is climbing a tree
The Kibla of love is visible
Ficino is translating the mind of God
Abu Nuwas is dead.
The old Eros is watching the soul
Dance in rain.
Blake, Shelley, and Wordsworth
Are reading Dante, Petrarch and Spenser.
Avecina is embracing Symposium.
Within the sight of heaven
Spirit has been set free
From bodys snare.
Amor Socraticus is flying on affections wings
Amor Platonicus is reaching up to heaven.



































MY NEW DEGREE
By G. Samigorganroodi

Yesterday I received my highest academic degree
By reading Omar Khayyma
Sitting by the orchards of Neishapur
Next to the flute player and the bard,
Whirling a wild dance of the Rubaiyyat
Questioning the sustainer of the world
Asking why he has made me love wine and music
And why he is going to cast me in hell for whet he has done
By pondering on the nothingness of the end and the end of nothingness
I was tired of the dots and commas and semi-colons of life
When Khayyams sparrows came to save me.





































THE PAIN OF YEARS
By G. Samigorganroodi


Its a winter morning
You walk along the narrow streets
You hear the pigs
Calling you a gook, Paki, and a fiend.
You see the skinheads kicking a black lamb
In the back alley
And a gang of youth screaming: Ship them back; They come from the devil.
And you yell at them and say:
Yes, I come from the devil.
I am Heathcliff
I am dark.
I am mysterious
A gypsy man
My eyes are full of black fire
But Im no longer in rags
I no longer speak gibberish
Ive learned your language
And I can curse you now.
No longer starving and homeless
No longer stand to be laughed at
No longer living in the servants quarter
No longer degraded by the Hindleys
I am solid, patient, full of vengeance
Ive come back from the abyss of darkness
To torment my noble torturers
To pay them back
Fear me little white goblins
My breast is pounding drums
I squeeze the pain of years in my hands.





















O HAPPY DOGS OF CANADA
By G. Samigorganroodi


O happy dogs of Canada
Bark as loud as you may
If you had lived anywhere else
We would have, for you, to pray
And you would not be so gay.

O happy dogs of Canada
Bark well at bonny girls and boys
If you lived anywhere else
They would eat you up with some kind of sauce
And you couldnt make such a noise.
(based on O Happy Dogs of England by Stevie Smith)



















Namaki
By G. Samigorganroodi


I will always remember dear Namaki,

I think he was treated like a lackey,

He had a nice and quiet donkey,

Though he himself looked like a monkey.



Oh yes, I remember when we were very young,

All those grassy fields, flowers and dung,

Everyday Namaki galloped through our street,

He beat his donkey with his feet,

He put on his saddle and rode slow,

and jolly well did he do so.



I remember Namaki was such a nice man,

He delivered salt by donkey, not van,

He rode his animal so fast and fast

I feared the poor donkey would not last.

But he had to deliver his goods on time,

He did this so people could dine,

If only they had "order in advance"

He would not lead this stupid dance.



One day I saw Namaki in a state,

I thought I'd better stay and wait,

It turned out to be something terrible, my friend,

Alas, his job was coming to an end.

He threw his arms around me and cried,

And wished that he had earlier died.



Poor Namaki,

What an unlucky man he was,

He was also infected with head louse.

How long he could carry on, I do not know,

At any minute, he had to go.

Now Namaki had to work for a new master,

To him, this was a real disaster,

In new streets he had to pass,

Namaki with that fat ass.

They finally brought in the van,
And he decided to work as the dust man.


















The Song of Persia
By G. Samigorganroodi


In the beginning,
In the crystal net of stars,
There was darkness,
There was light.

Over the face of the oceans,
Over the face of the earth,
Over the face of the moon,
There was darkness,
There was light.

In the beginning of our glory,
Over the face of the earth,
In the widening rise of fear,
My country,
was the captive of the night.

That crested flower of the world
Lay sleeping in the night,
Hate turned the key of our door,
She was raped and ripped off
by the forces of the night.

We
are the memories
that float on the face of Persia.
We live to tell the tale;
We blend with the tone of the earth;
We stretch out our breath in anger;
Our breasts keep pounding drums;
We squeeze the pain of centuries in our hands;
We live to sing the song,
of our country
Persia.














Joe Aabadani
Poem by G. Samigorganroodi
This poem is based on a story my father told us about a "fortunate" Abadani donkey
he saw in a public park in the U.S. It was dressed in a beautiful apparel and caressed
and photographed by tourists.

Joe Aabadani,
the donkey in the zoo,
lived in exile for a couple of years
with nothing much to do,
but chew and chew and chew.

He wondered who had brought him there
and what they kept him for;
Because he loved his native land
and moderate weather more.

And why the girls loved him so much
he did not understand.
He only wanted lots of hay
and lots and lots of sand.

He yearned to see his native land,
the native girls and boys;
The kind of noise he longed to hear
was a pure Iranian voice.

He kept dreaming all night long
of the sound of harness bells;
He longed for the scent of spice
the native peddler sells.

Before he lost his mind
they put him on a plane;
for a rich Iranian bought him
and sent him home again.