A Respectable Woman
There I was, a woman of my kind
ambitious, with beliefs and destinations
in the pockets of my mind.
My thoughts ran wild and my wishes
weighed heavy in my brain
Suddenly a black tornado of Revolution
twisted in front of me and sucked me
into its violent force with all my values.
I was turned upside down
and was covered with a dusty black veil
which gradually dried the roots of my hair.
I looked as small as a black bird
whose wings were tied tight.
My voice sank into my throat
and my eyes, once burning flames
lost their sparkles
yet, I was called a respectable woman
who was wearing the veil of chastity
and free from sinister sins and passions.
I was called the preserver of traditions,
a messenger of ancient rulers, and a source
of birth and holy love.
I was like standing high
above my body like a shadow
watching the vultures of stale rules
chewing my flesh cheerfully
and swallowing my respectable remains.
Yet, somehow I groped through
the dark tunnel of obedience
and found a sun-lit oracle on the other side
poetryrepairs #245 18.02:022
FERESHTEH SHOLEVAR Somewhere in West Philly
Somewhere In West Philly.
Twelve noon, on a breezy summer day
I took a stroll up and down a Street
when the sun burst into orange hues and
leaves sang green hymns to the trees.
Two crows were pecking at the guts
of a squirrel smashed and dispersed
in the middle of the road and reduced him
to a bundle of bones and bloody skin.
Two blocks up, sounds of foreign melodies
and scents of exotic spices filled the air and
a racist, leaning on the rails of his porch shouted:
“These God-damn foreigners and their strange food’
One block farther, around the corner, an old man was watering
two lonely flowers, standing tall, in the middle of broken
beer glasses, combs, cigarette- butts and Crack.
On 51st, in a Park, children of all nations
were laughing heartily and playing carefree while their
parents of different faiths were talking about peace and love.
One block up, a few men with shaved heads and swastika
on their arms entered an ethnic restaurant saying loudly
“Let’s kick some butts here”
On 52nd, a caravan of funeral cars
and an ambulance, carrying an expecting mother,
were crossing the intersection simultaneously.
Across from the street, a few old men
were playing Backgammon and talking about
health insurance, politics and their homelands.
A few blocks farther down, a big –busted woman
threw a wig and a broken denture out of the car, lit a cigarette
looked at her four children with runny noses
and shouted: “How the hell am I going to feed you?”
Going back, a homeless man, mentally challenged, too,
curled in on himself like a snail,
begged tediously for his crack money, dreaming of fresh linen
poetryrepairs #245 18.02:022
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