Once upon a time he wore his soul
like a shiny button
but so many blows, so many words,
so many sticks and stones,
dented and tarnished it.
He hid it away, but can’t remember where.

He wears so many masks now
his face in the mirror is a stranger.

All he wants is to be known
and understood
and seen clearly by moonlight.

His masks, though, have grown
to his skin. Persona hopelessly
entangled with person,
til he’s dizzy with the paradox,
lost in a maze of reflections.

I recognize him, because once
I caught a glimpse of him in my mirror,
in a rain dazzled street, in a dream
about stags and secret agents,
his disguise so much like my own.

I showed him my heart, whispered his name.
He covered his eyes and his ears.
I threw myself at his feet
like flowers, like fallen stars, but
I have no social skills, no ability
to modulate or moderate.

Foiled again, by my own foibles.
Damaged again by my own damage.

Alone here in my hollow tree
I keep tearing up my roots, hoping
someday I’ll be free of masks
and my past and gravity. Hoping.
Someday someone will see me
in his mirror.

Once upon a time he wore his soul
like a shiny button
but so many blows, so many words,
so many sticks and stones,
dented and tarnished it.
He hid it away, but can’t remember where.

He wears so many masks now
his face in the mirror is a stranger.

All he wants is to be known
and understood
and seen clearly in moonlight.

His masks, though, have grown
to his skin. Persona hopelessly
entangled with person,
til he’s dizzy with the paradox,
lost in a maze of reflections.

I recognize him, because once
I caught a glimpse of him in my mirror,
in a rain dazzled street, in a dream
about stags and secret agents,
his disguise so much like my own.

He doesn’t see me here in my own shadows.
He covers his eyes and his ears.
I threw myself at his feet
like flowers or fallen stars, but
I have no social skills, no ability
to modulate or moderate.

Foiled again, by my own foibles.
Damaged again by my own damage.
Alone here in my hollow tree
I keep tearing up my roots, hoping
someday I’ll be free of masks
and my past and gravity.
Someday someone will see me
in his mirror.

Thanks to everyone's excellent input, here's the first revision of Briar Rose:

Briar Rose

Once when I was a child
I pricked my finger
on that mythical spinning wheel.

That’s the story I told myself,
that I was just sleeping here
and someday a prince would come
and kiss me awake.

I knew better, of course.
That shape bending over my bed
was no prince.

I was pricked, all right,
but there was no fairy godmother
to save me from that curse.
No christening banquet.
No gifts.
That secret kiss in the night
was not my savior.

Now, long years later,
maybe a hundred or so,
here I am in my armor of thorns.
I can’t bear the smell of roses
of honeysuckle
sweet and rancid like my father’s breath,
the reek of the satisfied monster.

I live awake,now,
dreading night,
dreading sleep,
that kiss in the darkness,
the prick.
The wound.
My blood on the sheets
red
as a briar rose.

Icarus

He could not accept the heaviness
of earth, of flesh.
The sun drew him like he was born for it.

Obedient to laws, ignorant
of the power of true flight,
the father chose safety. Chose weight.
Rejected the lure of immolation.
Gravid.

For the son, drawn to Sol,
to soul,
blinded by his own fires,
wings broken,
he sang as he fell.
The waves beckoned, tempering
the flames, covering him.

Knowing that a fall was inevitable, still
he rose.

This is just a first draft...if any of y'all have any suggestions or criticism, I welcome it.
xoxoxo

Briar Rose

Once when I was a child
I pricked my finger
on that mythical spinning wheel.
That’s the story I told myself,
that I was just sleeping here
and someday a prince would come
and kiss me awake.
I knew better, of course.
That shape bending over my bed
was no prince.
I was pricked, all right,
but there was no fairy godmother
to save me from that curse.
No christening banquet.
No gifts.
That secret kiss in the night
was not my savior.
Now, long years later,
maybe a hundred or so,
I live here in my armor of thorns.
I can’t bear the smell of roses
of honeysuckle
sweet and rancid like my father’s breath,
the reek of the satisfied monster.
I’m insomniac now,
dreading night,
dreading sleep,
that kiss in the darkness,
the prick.
The wound.
My blood on the sheets
red
as a briar rose.

Here's an oldie but a goodie. I wrote this back in the late 80s, I think. Hope you like it...

Poet as Chalice

I arch over the bed
like some marble triumph,
whimpering, blind, drunk on you.
I grip you with secret muscles
you can only know by proxy,
explored with fingers and tongue.
My hands know you,
every shape of you.
The taste of you is imprinted,
primitive,
on my every cell.
You make me sing...
syllables drawn from some ancient well.
I am deep water.
I am your Grail.
Drink your fill,
this wine is yours.

Another friend of mine in Iran, a poet whose words have been posted here many times just wrote this after hearing of Fayah's death.

For Fayah

a tragedy
another martyr
a senseless killing
the death of a nation

another martyr
adds her soul's water
to the well of souls
whose water condemns the damned

a green well could become red
were we to fill it with tears or with blood
but we have filled it with souls
to draw upon again and again

a well of souls
to make us thirst for freedom
to water the seeds planted by our ancestors
another martyr to fill a well of souls

when we are free
from the abuse and oppression
we will remember the souls
who have filled the well

when we are free
and lift ourselves from oppression
we will forget those
who will burn in hell

i am so very sorry for your loss, Gwyndyn, and all the losses and heart breakings suffered by this young woman's family. i pray there will be justice and peace for all of us soon

I asked an Iranian friend if he thinks Rafsanjani will truly help promote democracy in Iran, separating church and state, and whether Raf would be leading the Friday prayers.

My friend said this:

Rafsanjani understands Iranis simply will not tolerate any half measures.
on the roofs we are singing and dying,
on the streets we are walking and dying,
in the prisons we are screaming and dying
for the Iranian Republic, separate from Islam.

we will sing and walk and scream and die again. others will die as a result. Rafsanjani is not blind or stupid, and he is aware (to paraphrase Jefferson) when religion and politics are mixed, both institutions will suffer.

the IRG has much power, and they have nothing to lose. terrible accidents may begin to happen with alarming regularity to members of the regime and the opposition. similar to all the recent plane and train accidents in Iran. unless Raf is assured of his safety, (and the safety of protesters, he does care if they are shot in the streets when coming out to see him!) he will likely not be at FP this week.

and he has been known to 'drop in' for an unexpected guest appearance. it is his right and prerogative. if he does appear , we must listen closely again to what is said. much will have to happen in the next few days. this seems an exciting week for Iran.

please let me know if i may be of service again, my friend and sibling.

ps. if the rapings do not stop, if the stonings do not end, if the hangings do not cease- how much will Hell ask for payment? i have heard they are not big bargain-makers there. one's silence is taken for collusion.

I Am Neda


Leave the Basiji bullet in my heart,

fall to prayer in my blood,

and hush, father

– I am not dead.

More light than mass,

I flood through you,

breathe with your eyes,

stand in your shoes, on the rooftops,

in the streets, march with you

in the cities and villages of our country

shouting through you, with you.

I am Neda — thunder on your tongue.

– Sholeh Wolpé