Idea

I turned on TV
And found the same debates,
That I was watching,
Well, I don't exactly remember,
Since when ?
Suited in blacks, with serious faces,
bald, greyhead, clean-shaved, beard,
With all sorts of appearances,
But with same topics, they wrestle hard,
With open-ended confusions,
I changed the channel,
To go to world of animals,
Or may be to world of arts,
I thought, may be
I have grown above these debates
Then paused for a while, and asked myself,
Do you really?
Have you done with all those concepts,
That you have wrestled before with?
I realized, no actually, no
I have never done with any idea,
When I run out of explanations for one,
I just go after the next concept
Even the most basic things
Like dress, home, food
That most may not take serious
As an idea, worth to think about
Have no been easy for me
I am still wrestling
With concept of dress, for example
I do remember, my favorite dress
It was a dark brown,
A little loose but light and silky
I was keep wearing it
Even when it was worn out
Sometimes, I was hearing comments,
It is a little loose on you
The dark brown doesn't look good on you
But these comments
Never shook my affection for it
In late teenage, I was introduced
To a new concept of dress
The real friends are like dress
They cover your shortcomings
And make you comfortable
I took this concept by heart
But still struggling to understand it
In behaviors, in arguments
I am not different from the people on TV
May be, it is in nature of concepts
That they want us to think them
Again, and again and again
But never done with them
So they keep growing
I got sympathetic to those people
Engaged with same old concepts
And switched back the channel

Feel it while it is forming

Like all naive students
Who enter college with a hope,
That they will replace their careless childhood,
With rational scholars,
Who will be able to understand the world,
Like their way home from college,
They will leave their marks on earth,
As volcanoes leave craters behind,
I entered college with such a naive head
I was in rush in consuming information
As a bear who gets ready for coming winter,
By looking greedily for food and preys to put on fat,
Just to find out that college alone doesn't make you ready,
Understanding is more of a personal quest,
It is the way one process information
And the way one treat the ideas,
While they are forming,
It is like the concept of God,
It is in you, but you can't see Him,
You just have to feel it,
And God answers you back,
The way you feels Him
No wonder, those who seek
Shortest route to God by suicide bombing
Have formed a violent concept of God in them
And those who seek repentance all the time
Have formed a school master concept of God
And those who try to understand the world
With rationality,
Have formed the concept of omniscient God
I have learnt all these years
That feeling an idea while it is forming
Makes the difference of being genuine
Or living with borrowed senses
And I have experienced
That with borrowed senses
You can't see the reality
But just what others
Want you to see
You can't feel, how others feel
Unless, you start feeling yourself
All have to grow
To replace their careless childhood
With a caring adult who either
Care with feelings or care they way
Others suggest to them

Transition

The first time,
Yes, the first time,
That I was turned down,
For the job because of my height,
I realized that I have ceased,
That I have ceased to grow anymore
Worry? Yes, I was worried to death,
How could I supposed to live?
To live a stagnant life without growth?
I was worried and looking for ways
Reading, asking and experimenting,
To grow half an inch more,
To become fit again for the job,
That I loved and prepared for so long
Like an alchemist, I found a perfect formula
That took my ambition from half an inch
To a space for an infinite growth
The space was in me
And the formula was imagination,
My griefs turned into triumph
Mother Nature truly loves us
By stopping our outward growth
She tells us to turn in
To turn in for growing in
In a space where even God
Wants a place in it
In a space where those who care about you
Want their places to be permanent
And it was a big transition

Yes, I am a man

Humans are those weird beings that judges each of its societal part through its historical lenses. There are a lot of cry for women and a lists of crimes have listed to the name of men that they are supposedly have done over human history. Now, every man is looked upon through these historical lenses and men to a large extent have accepted them. Although, I am sympathetic to feminine voices, but I don't agree with notion that men are looked upon as "all the same". Each human (gender doesn't matter) is unique and deserves to be looked upon that way: 

Yes, I am a man
But I don't want to be seen,
By my body parts,
Or to be expected from a part of my body,
To speak for me, as a whole
Yes, I am a man
Not beard, not mustache,
Not wide shoulders,
Not Prominent chests,
Not heavy arms,
Yes, I am a man
But I don't want to be seen
In frame of tradition,
Yes, I am a man,
Not greedy eyes,
That look at things with temptation,
Not a territorial being,
Whose all pride is his territory,
Not the trader of inherited identity,
Who judges others by his inherited values
Yes, I am a man,
With a curious eyes,
For everything visible,
Yes, it is susceptible to beauty,
And at times get tired,
Shines with sparking lights,
And blurred with rolling tears,
Needs the helps of lenses to corrects its sights,
Still, it can see through a soul,
Through the eyes that look into them
Yes, I am a man,
With a starved soul,
For every bit of affection,
Yes, at times, it feels down,
It wanders for its other part,
It grieves for its helplessness,
Still, it holds no grudges,
It doesn't walk back,
And readily trust assurances
Yes, I am a man
With a restless mind,
All the time ready, for all sparks,
Yes, at times, it get confused,
It misjudges and misinterpret things,
get noisy and unsatisfied,
doubts and questions,
Still, it listen to reasons,
To soft voices even if they are bitter,
Yes, I am a man
With eager hands,
To hold tight open hands,
Yes, at time it shakes,
Still, it is always ready,
to get dusty, muddy, greasy and dirty,
To create and to help
Yes, I am a man
With thin shanks,
Firm to walk unknown paths,
And to places, it is welcomed

Hate Connects Us

I hate limits,
I hate boundaries,
I hate restrictions,
I hate conditions,
And, I believe,
Not just believe,
But see it repeatedly,
That this hate is universal,
It connects me to all those,
Who rebel against control,
By breaking lines,
By pouring colores,
By tearing up rhymes,
By subduing meaning,
By challenging sense,
By facing their fears,
By expressing their feelings,
Without accepting peer-pressures,
By being true to their selves,
By embracing fantasy,
By listening to their dreams,
By letting their imaginations,
Create alternate worlds
worlds, where they could breathe,
And mold, the way they want to mold,
Values that they value most
Hate connects me to all
Even to those who unconsciously
Accepted the peer-pressures
And see the world with borrowed eyes,
Kill their feelings everyday
And think of themselves as good humans
Just to keep happy those,
Who take pride of encouraging others
To sacrifice themselves for them
I know, they have the desire
To be themselves
And those unexpressed desires
Connect me to them

My Soulmate

As I got up, I was blank
As if I don't remember anything
No feelings, no idea
I wondered, what happened to me?
But any expressions without feelings,
is like wandering without purpose
So I stopped wondering and went out
to see in from outside, to find out the reason
And there was the sky, up there
With dark stagnant clouds,
With expressionless face,
No feelings, No idea,
So, I said, it is again you,
Wake up, wake me up
Wonder, why I ask the sky
To wake me up?
I feel, sky is my soulmate
Holding the string of my soul in its hand
And stir my feelings at its will
I feel, sky is a window to my soul
Sometimes, I forget that sky is up there
And it reminds me of its existence
By bright sun that makes my head boil
And I know, it is angry
By a large white moon
And I know, it is in romantic mood
By dark stagnant clouds
And I know, it is bored
By bright clear sky
And I know, it is happy without any reason
By rapidly changing clouds,
Painting and erasing them
And I know, it is in creative mood
By low dark clouds and then suddenly,
Lightening, shouting and pouring
And I know, it is in childish mood,
Trying to scare me, make me hide
And when I look miserable, it enjoys the looks
By soft rains, interrupted by its silence
And then raining again
And I know, it is sad
And having difficulty to tell me
How does it feel
All it needs is solitude
So it could wash out slowly
With soft rains all those sandy
Misunderstandings that is scratching
its delicate soul
By countless little stars
That twinkle, with different strengths,
And I know, this is story time,
And all these stories are about us,
About the origin of our souls
And their journey
And our future,
That we are destined to,
Though, the story line is the same,
It amuses me, surprises me and expands me
Every time, that I listen it
Hey, wake up, wake me up

It is going to rain again

When I closed my eyes,
There was a giant butterfly
Its wings had small rounded mirrors,
I thought Nature is suggestive
not imaginative, like what I was seeing,
I wanted to open my eyes,
but may be something stopped me,
And I let it free to flow as it wishes
The butterfly was falling, not flying
I let it come down,
As it neared, I didn't see the mirrors
They were rain droplets
Now, I could see those suggestive drawings
So detailed and charming,
No doubt, only Nature could drew them
I cleared the droplets from its wings,
But just to add to my agony,
All the drawings washed away,
Butterfly was light again and flew away,
And I saw the dark clouds,
Through its trasnparent wings,
And I knew, it is going to rain again
 

دیوارھا را دوست ندارم

افسانہ سیمرغ و لیوان

آیا می دانی؟

چیزی نفھیدم

The leaves grow green

to worship the Sun

and turn yellow

to return to roots

But some buds

They never open

and No one cares about them

Farsi and English

Today, I had a lengthy conversation on Skype with my uncle and younger brother about poetry. Although I had pressed on realism but when I put my own pen on paper to doodle, I felt like poetry has its own ecosystem that do not match much with realism and each language has its own environments. Specially, Farsi has a strange strength in dragging one into a different arena that is more sweet and lively. When I put my English and Farsi together,  it becomes visible to me that each language personify different environments. English is a light and flexible language and is more fitted for describing things, events and analyzing them than expressing the inner-self that asks for a poetic language. 

I don't know....

I don't know, if there is magic

But I know, there is magic-square

I don't know, if there are fairies

But I know, "the fairy" my Dear

I don't know, if love overthrows life

But I know, it overthrows the lover

I don't know, if there is life after death

But I know, "my spirit" is with me forever

I don't know, if there is truth

But I know, "the truth" I adhere

What is the point?