New York
 Grandma in Santa Monica

by Majid Naficy

- Do you live alone?

- No

I am living with God

Up there: one, two, three

In a room filled with scents of spices

And the familiar sound of bubbling pottage.

In the morning, I go to the House of the Elderly

Where women draw pictures

And men play chess.

I sit at the samovar

And pour tea with cardamon

For everyone.

When my grandson is here

I cook rice with barberry chicken.

Then we go to the gym

He lifts weights upstairs

And I exercise in the water.

The sun that comes from the skylight

Takes me with it to Tehran, where

Every day from dawn to dusk

I worked in a carpet factory

Tying knots and pulling shuttles

And shedding tears for my children.

Fahimeh burned herself for love

Saeed was hit on the road

Taqi lost a leg in war

And Babak was seven years in Evin prison

With some bullets in his legs

Kept for mementos.

Wednesdays I go to the Farmers' market

After shopping, I sit in the shade

And watch people come and go

With their baskets in hand

Talking in a hundred tongues.

And then, came the day

When everything went red:

From Grandma Molook's basket

To the carriage of her grandson, Brandon,

From strawberries of Li

To Amigo's cherry tomatoes,

From the pagoda of a Chinese stand

To the Mexican orange bags,

From Azadeh's anti-war fliers

To the rage of a redneck Joe,

From the donation box of battered women

To the newsletters of homeless men,

From the tambourine of streetplayers

To the sandals of preschoolers

Gathering around their teacher

Like hungry chickens,

And death driving boldly

In a red car

With bodies of the Persian grandma

And her American grandson

Under its bloody wheels,

And the rain pouring incessantly

Over the vegetables and the injured

And a pair of woman's shoes

Left on top of a car.

Today is their anniversary

And I am offering noodle pottage.

Look! The neighbors are coming

They want to take the elevator

to reach the thirteenth floor

And sit on the rooftop

Where it is closer to God.

They'll eat pottage and take pottage home

And remember Grandma Molook

And her baby grandson Brandon. (*)

July 27, 2007

*- On July 16, 2003 an elderly driver ran over people at Santa Monica Farmers' Market which led to over 50 injuries and 11 deaths, including an Iranian grandmother and her infant grandson.

February 11, 2007
iranian.com

New York
Today
New York bent down
And cried
In the Atlantic waters

She suffered a wound 
To her spine

Then she remembered
The old wounds of her kids
From the Netherlands and Ireland
From black Africa
From Poland and the Ukraine
And the oases of the Holy Land

No! She will rise again
And let the sun
Shine on her face
And her children
Will hold hands
And come back to dance
Around her whirling skirt

September 11, 2001

Kabul
But Larks have not forgotten to fly
And grass still sprouts from the earth of Kabul
And rivers are replenished by the snows of Pamirs
And the groves of Samangan are filled with sounds of birds
Tahmineh will stand by the road
Unveiled, with gleams of joy in her eyes
And Rostam will dismount Rakhsh
He'll see no ordeal facing him
But love, love, only love.

Thus the cannons will go silent
and the tanks rust under the green moss
And the soldiers return to their garrisons
And the turbaned to their temples
And the children to their desks
And the country girls will come to the city
Shouting in the alleys:
"Flowers! Flowers! Flowers!"

And the old poet of the city of Toos*
Will look toward the east
From the balcony of his garden
And say in the sweet words of Dari:
"Ah, Kabul! Do not suffer any longer
Or shed your blood in vain
Roodabeh will untie her hair again
It falls from her high balcony
And Zal will rise to his love".

November 13, 2001
* Ferdowsi of Toos is the great Persian epic poet who wrote Shah Nameh a thousand years ago, in which Roodabeh, the daughter of the king of Kabul gives birth to Rostam, the greatest Iranian mythical warrior.

Iranian Panic
On the Greyhound bus
There is the empty place of a man
Who has gone to In-n-Out for lunch
The other passengers have all returned
The driver is looking behind
Through his side mirrors:
A man is biting his hamburger
A little boy is taking Cheetos
From a big puffy bag
With his saffron fingers
And a woman is speaking Spanish
on her cell phone
I ask myself:
Who will stand for him
Who will call his name?
This is not Iran
But I have an Iranian panic
His book of Rumi is on the ground
His khaki jacket is hanging behind the seat
The driver puts his hand on the horn
I hear within its sound
The moans of a man punched and kicked

November 6, 2006