Between A and Z 9781609403706, 9781609403676

Citation preview

Z

Between A and poems

Mo H Saidi

San Antonio, Texas 2014

Other works by Mo H Saidi

The Garden of Milk and Wine: A Collection of Short Stories The Color of Faith Art in the City: A Book of Poetry Persian Marchers: A Novel Female Sterilization: A Handbook for Women

Z

Between A and

Between A and Z © 2014 by Mo H Saidi Cover: “Keynote” © 2013 by Maria Oddo Saidi. First Edition Print Edition ISBN: 978-1-60940-367-6 ePub ISBN: 978-1-60940-368-3 Kindle ISBN: 978-1-60940-369-0 PDF ISBN: 978-1-60940-370-6 Wings Press 627 E. Guenther San Antonio, Texas 78210 On-line catalog and ordering: www.wingspress.com All Wings Press titles are distributed to the trade by Independent Publishers Group www.ipgbook.com Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data: Saidi, Mo H. [Poems. Selections] Between A and Z : poems / Mo H Saidi. -- First Edition. pages cm “All Wings Press titles are distributed to the trade by Independent Publishers Group”--T.p. verso. ISBN 978-1-60940-367-6 (paperback : alk. paper) -- ISBN 978-1-60940-368-3 (ePub ebook) -- ISBN 978-1-60940-369-0 (Mobipocket ebook)-- ISBN 978-160940-370-6 (pdf) I. Title. PS3619.A394A6 2014 811’.6--dc23 2013043118 Except for fair use in reviews and/or scholarly considerations, no portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without the written permission of the author or the publisher.

Contents Prologue: The Mansion ix I. The Mansion of My Childhood The Mansion of My Childhood 2 The Courtyard 5 Lost Near the Mosque 6 Reciting the Holy Book 7 The Songs of Sorrow 8 Green Marchers 10 Armed Mullah on the Roof 12 On the Day I Die 14 Flashes of Reality 15 Reunion 17 The First Glow 18 Retirement 19 Beneath a Stone 20 II. Of Man and Ice Of Man and Ice 22 Haleakala Peak 23 Chautauqua 24 The Dominion Swan 26 Summer Retreat 28 The Lighthouse 29 Jerusalem Menu 30 Red Sand Beach 31 III. San Antonio Summer Loss of a Bard 34 Fifty-Five Percent 35 Southern Sun 37 San Antonio Summer 38

A Pair of Pecan Trees 39 The Cellist in the Blue Shirt 40 The Birds of the Rio Grande 41 Massive Relief 44 We the Wanderers 45 IV. Between A and Z Between A and Z 48 Passion Fruit and Pizza 49 Life Lessons 50 Midnighters 51 At the Western Wall 52 Nonbelievers 53 Chaos 55 The Girl Almost Makes It 58 The Wedding 59 Funambulism 60 V. In the Piano Bar In the Piano Bar 62 Birth 63 Before Five 64 The Night Glowed 65 The Taste of Red 66 The Long Feverish Night 68 Winter’s Last Breeze 70 Quiet George 73 Your Birthday 74 Love is Not a Mirage 75 Anniversary 77 Death Is Only the Beginning 78

VI. Tomorrow Tomorrow 80 The Gold of Lhasa 84 Narrow Streams 85 Soft Rain 88 Daybreak 89 Blooming Tree 90 The Green Light 91 Sea of Air 92 African Sojourn 93 Count to Ten 98 Epilogue: Rendezvous 99 About the Author 100

Prologue The Mansion

I thought my childhood home at the end of a narrow alley was a mansion. A single story house with a flat roof, its heart was the fountain in the square courtyard surrounded by rooms and niches; its soul, the vibes of our mother’s utterances during her weekly sermons. Four triangular flower beds encircled the small pool with the fountain in the center; an old oak towered over the courtyard, rising above the house. I remember the girl next door, the only person in the neighborhood with blue eyes. From the time I knew how to count coins until I left town to finish high school in Tehran, my early morning chore was to get fresh bread for the family breakfast. On that fateful day, I was already awake when the alarm went off at five. In the dark, I left our house and turned the corner towards the bakery two blocks away. The blue stucco house at the corner and the high window of Shirin’s room were still dark. I paused below the window to hear her, perhaps to see her face, but all was mute. Returning from the bakery with steaming loaves of bread, I saw the window was now ajar, the lights on. I could hear her movements; I imagined her lifting the sheer nightgown over her body and moving like a butterfly airing its wings. My heart was racing. I knew it would be the last time I might see her. Suddenly, she appeared at the window. The morning light was spreading in the skies, framing her face, we stretched our hands towards each other and formed a chain that connected our hearts and souls. The scent of the freshly baked bread, her waving long hair, and her warm, smooth hands drowned me in bliss. For a moment, we were united. I could feel her pulse, her heartbeat. The energy of love elevated my soul. But our ecstasy was shortlived. She was called in and I had to deliver the bread to the family, yet the image of that moment has been inscribed forever in my brain.

• ix •

for Tristan, Sofia, and Aria

One:

The Mansion of My Childhood

The Mansion of My Childhood for Tristan

I My father was tall, plump, old and cruel. When he was late returning home, we’d joke that he’d been taken to the morgue. A story teller, he often would say, God loves good tales with happy endings: The Holy Book’s stories, Layla and Majnun. II My grandfather was a bearded man. He looked like the Sistine God his face gleamed with candor. An ayatollah, he believed Allah is afflicted with insomnia no angel can cure—He’s a riddle, a challenge for mankind, God’s grace can be purchased in every bazaar. He’d say, “Don’t pray for me, do it for Him. When He’s jaded, He may stage a deluge.” III My father would visit my grandfather once a month—the city was an hour’s drive away. Grandfather had strong arms but his legs were paralyzed. He had fully memorized the Book of Kings and the Koran. For a good tip, I’d listen

• 2 •

to him for hours and follow the lines. Only rarely did he err. He let me correct the slips because I was his favorite grandson. IV My childhood house was a mansion I was the shortest kid on the block. They all knew my name; I only the teacher’s. When grandfather would visit us, he’d bring us softballs, candies, silver coins. Even before his stroke, he was always weak in his legs, would limp along and tire quickly. On his last visit, he struggled and wrote Icannotcontrolmyhand, and he dropped the pen. V I would look at my father in awe. He was tall, strong and voracious too old to live to see my diploma. Loud and uncouth, he was a lamb under Mother’s shadow. To leave more time for prayer, they both had forbidden chess, reading or writing poetry in our house. I always dreamed to be a writer. They preached that I should become a mullah. We made peace: they burned the chess board and the pieces; I buried the Holy Book. As I prepared to leave town, a call shook the house.

• 3 •

VI I heard the unbearable news—my hero was dead—we rushed to his hometown. The city was confused. A black holiday. The waves of men in black marched in the streets. His house teemed with mourners waiting for the feast. The servants served bread, rice, and cheese. High on the roof the muezzin was hard at work with booming calls. In the chaos of the funeral procession, I muttered his favorite line as I looked at his open casket. Life is a mansion of ice, how could I avoid the sun?

• 4 •

The Courtyard

I still recall scenes from my childhood: My father taking me to see the doctor for the swollen throat and throbbing pain in the ear—the doctor scolding him for bringing me to him a few days late. .

And the whistling train which I could barely hear, climbing the Zagros Mountains, entering the long dark tunnel, the diesel fumes filling up the cabin—the incessant coughs then the green plateau, watching the sun rise and chase the train, breaking through the fast-moving trees. At the next station, my mother buys a basket of sweet-purple-figs from a farmer’s girl with rosy cheeks. And the deep silence at the grandfather’s house. His mute face void of his ineffable charm the doctor’s lips moving, uttering, he died in peace, exhausted from congested lungs swollen heart, shallow breaths, paralyzed limbs. And the fishing trip, my uncle dropping the wide net in the whispering stream below the dam, pulling out trout, and the delicious aroma of the grilled fish in the courtyard.

• 5 •

Lost Near the Mosque

When I was five, I followed two black-veiled women, my mother and my sister. They were going side by side, in front of me, to a nearby bazaar to buy me a pair of soccer shoes. Passing many stores, the black pair walked away from me. Other women in black veils were also strolling side by side. The women entered and exited shops and two of them moved on. They proceeded toward the opposite side of town. Afraid of being lost and terrified—such a long time ago it was—I called, Mother, please stop but got no response; I pulled on their veils and saw two strange faces staring at me, aghast. Deeply frightened, I ran around and tugged on more veils and found more unfriendly people—tired, I squatted near a mosque and sobbed. I saw people ignoring me, leaving the mosque. How can I paint the horrors of that dark night, the loneliness of a child surrounded by women draped in solemn black shrouds? I stumbled and turned and ran and finally found the store where my worried women were waiting for me anxiously to buy me shoes. I chose a pair: bright and very white.

• 6 •

Reciting the Holy Book

Mother recited the Koran every night. None of us knew what those words meant. She persuaded us to pray every day. She would frighten us, “You’ll go to Hell otherwise.” Near the mosque I was born. Reciting aloud the muezzin kept us awake all night. Mother said, this was God’s call, and we would suffer forever if we didn’t respond. She paid us to recite the Holy Book, “So you’ll go to Heaven,” she’d cry out. When she saw that we ran away instead she prayed for us every night. She brought a mullah who called us pagans because we read Hugo and Hemingway, played chess and listened to Mozart. We kicked a ball and played soccer in the courtyard. Our father dismissed the bigot quietly told us, “That is an ignorant fool; go to school and read Hedayat and Ferdowsi.” That mullah is now the Grand Ayatollah who resides in the Shah’s palace.

• 7 •

The Songs of Sorrow I Yesterday, my neighbor, a 25-year-old man a member of the Islamic revolutionary guard killed his unmarried, pregnant sister, walked away from the carnage with a broad smile. He was greeted at the mosque, honored to perform the evening prayer at the front row behind the Imam. Later he went home and raped his frightened wife. The man who fathered the child received forty lashes, went to the south to be away for a while, to train youth for the long war. Yet no one remembered the unborn child. II The sandy beach is reserved for men. Covered from head to toe, women can swim in a remote rocky beach next to the heaps of garbage where a sewage line defines their desolation. They must cover their sultry skin with the black veil, to be protected from the swans and sea-gulls, from the naked sun, its myriads arrows which may penetrate their skin, chest, and groin.

• 8 •

III Men—the only gender who may enter the stadium—fill the bleachers to watch the stoning of three hungry homeless women who were caught selling themselves in the city’s park. The three women are half buried in dirt near a pile of stones, their mouths dry, faces ashen; they are mute and confused. Guarded by the armed mullahs they hear a loud command and now they close their eyes waiting for the stones.

• 9 •

Green Marchers

They marched in the streets en masse. They rallied under the blazing sun. They filled roads and squares in Tehran, marched all day and all night. Like the hero Kaveh* they waved green aprons. They roused in fury from deep slumber, shook off the thirty-year old oppression suffocating dust, and tore off their barbed fetters, their faces red, bodies thrashed. They clenched fists, sang patriotic songs. They had endured the long winter of torment survived misery, injuries, and insults the women were veiled in black; they covered the scars of the past; now they marched in unison wearing green scarfs. Wave after wave, they flooded the meydans young and old, women and men, with bare hands. They ignored the mosques, their audacious calls. They rejected the lies and the falsified canvass across the rooftops. They shouted Allah-o-Akbar.

* Kaveh the Blacksmith is a mythical figure in Persian mythology who leads a popular and successful uprising against ruthless Zahhāk, who was an evil and tyrannical king from Mesopotamia. The epic poem Shahnameh written by Persian poet Ferdowsi in the tenth century recounts the struggle. As a symbol of resistance and unity, Kaveh raised his leather apron on a lance, and this has become the symbol of Persian independence, resistance and resilience, and especially the people’s fight against despotic rulers.

• 10 •

In the sea of tumult they surged ahead, myriad Rustams†, hoisting their separs‡ recalling Ferdowsi, Mosadegh, and Khayam they made the imposters tremble with fear. They marched all day and all night.

† In Shahnameh, Rustam is an Iranian national hero who saves the kingdom. ‡ Separ is an ancient Iranian armored shield. 

• 11 •

Armed Mullah on the Roof I The young woman lies on the ground, clotted blood her pillow. Her wide eyes blink no more, her lips gray and cold. A few people dare the snipers frantically yelling, calling for a doctor, an ambulance for Neda. All is painless and blank. She knew nothing about the armed mullah on the roof, the bearded man who aimed at her chest—the one who targets the young women, the one with devious fancy. In the realm of fervent tyranny, she is a suitable victim, example. She stood alone in the street like a fawn unaware of the lion in the den. Standing firm, following a column of marchers who reject the turbaned bandits. The voice of reason succumbs to the cowardly assault —a green shawl covers her young torso. The loathsome words from a nearby minaret frustrate the people’s mind. Like bitter venom, they incite their anger, their resolve.

• 12 •

The preacher who promises eternal life, pails of gold, streams of milk, honey and wine and a path to absolute salvation is an imposter, seeks exotic trophies, fortune. False prophets beguile the youth create anger and chaos. God is merely a pretext for their self-indulgence. II The young doctor stops resuscitation, for there is no heartbeat. A truck takes the dead to a nearby hospital. Mobile phones are the witnesses. The doctor is chased by the plainclothes Guards, but he runs faster and disappears. The mullahs are in denial—the whole episode is a myth—it never happened. Mullahs raven the doctor’s home, search for his camera, his life is at stake, but he’s in the air, now over Turkey now he’s entering Greek airspace.



The Grand Mullah shouts, in these chaotic times, Almighty is with us. His silence is the evidence, He’s protecting us. Like Allah, Neda is mute. The streets are dark.

• 13 •

On the Day I Die

The unkempt room, dusty and disused the exiguous perfume concealed in the books the blinking of the alarm clock, jammed printer the cell-phone, the incessant deep sleep the dated OED flashing on the screen the desk, cluttered with stacks of old prints. The black cat lies between my cold feet the long blank night, mute mind. After the chirp of the cuckoo clock an eerie silence fills the still room. The cat stares at my mute face her paws pressing the fallen ballpoint. My wife comes in, looks at a piece, the last line, the scribbled words and searches in vain for a clue; she walks over a dossier of unfinished work, a chapbook. The clotted arteries bring no life to the brain. Thoughtless and cold, it is held taut in a bony box; totally vanished are the stored images past memories, phrases and metaphors. On the day I die my incomplete works are my orphans; forlorn, they are lifeless, never to be redacted or groomed, lacking the author, they are squashed in the files. The cat circles the room, rubs my cold feet, pauses, stares at the chair, at drooping hands wants some nibbles, waits to hear my response, voice, mesmerized by my ashen face.

• 14 •

Flashes of Reality I Memories, train of floating thoughts disturbing cargo in clanking cars tilting, squeaking, echoing in my skull. Morpheus unbound, keep out the displeasing sights, blind my eyes, mesmerize my fortitude veil the scenes of war, lest in solitude I expire. From the cluttered labyrinths, faces march out. I follow the throngs of people on their cold path herded by black turbaned monsters, crowded between rough brick walls, guarded from the minarets. Subjugated with viewless shackles, their faces forlorn they are pulled away and packed into hollow cars. Chains of loaded trucks gyrate over frozen rails, pouncing ahead in eternal night; they carry my neighbors, my beloved and my friends. II A jolt, the havoc of thunderstorm awakes me, lightning flashes and strikes repeatedly, heavy downpour rattles the window. I look out. The stupendous storm punishes the sea, piercing its convulsing mass. A mountain of agitated seawater unleashes its might, crashes against the cliffs, falters on the red sand beach. I hide behind the concrete wall and wait for another blow.

• 15 •

III Passengers sit tightly in the cabins boarded-up windows block the vistas of demonic cold mountains and streams flowing in hostile valleys. In the cabin, a bearded devil mutters words in my beloved’s ear. She sobs. The train squeaks loudly and lurches forward. I draw her close, pull her away from the devil in the chaos. We scramble out and run away holding hands. We dart into the misty wood. IV The road to the narrow bridge is closed the detour runs along a bumpy trail. The storm has gouged deep potholes. I drive slowly, following other cars; the island disappears behind—its fallen trees, smashed roofs, shattered homes and fallen poles. The news is bleak: bloated corpses are floating in flooded streets; a blizzard ramming the Northwest a dearth of acorns, and vanishing squirrels in the East. V On the sandy shore, the clouds recede, seagulls glide low and gawk at routed dunes. Rolls of tired waves come ashore and leave fizzling froth. The midday sun warms up the garden. Twittering sparrows hop around the daffodils I shut the door and leave the isolated island.

• 16 •

Reunion

I look at this forty-fourth reunion photo and still recognize a few faces. Some are bald and plump, many were absent, some too embarrassed to show up and be compared to their young selves. One frail and fatigued leans on his cane waiting for the shutter to click. Many are retired. Some bedridden. One like Gilgamesh seeks eternal life, explores the Amazon; deep in the rain forest, he searches for a plant that may prolong life lest he be deaf and blind. One hoards roots and extracts, consumes an elixir, yet bears his aged body bound to a cold wheelchair in a nursing home. I hold a grandson’s small hand amble towards the nearby park sit on a bench while the child runs towards the pond and counts the goslings.

• 17 •

The First Glow

My mother said God has one hundred names. Ninety-nine are written in the Holy Book but I’m only interested in the hidden one. My forefather in Africa said God is a tree He comes to life every spring and lasts until fall. I’m interested in His roots. The priest said God is tall and beautiful rich and powerful; I want to know His whereabouts, His castle in paradise. My muse said God is the sun that emits the light; I see His first glow at dawn and if I look at His blazing face, I go blind.

• 18 •

Retirement for Bruce

I I still receive a few greeting cards from the accountant, the insurance agent and from patients who remember me for a while. Today’s card is from a seven-year-old boy; he is missing me, wants me to fly to his town, walk him to school, and play chess with him at night. He writes that I do not have patients to visit meetings to attend, or surgeries to perform. I have ample time to read, write, and to travel. I cough and remember I need to refill my pills. Leaning on my cane I lumber to the phone and call. They will deliver the medicine in 24 hours. II I pre-board and wait for the plane to take off. The speaker announces a glitch and a short delay and later some more. Unhappy faces abound. A passenger says, “No one can afford to wait but you, you have neither patients to see nor meetings to attend.” Yet, I think about the boy who is now waiting to greet me at the airport.

• 19 •

Beneath a Stone

In the dark hole under a stone I was groomed to receive the archangel. The army of worms crawled out from the wet soil. Some infiltrated my shell and climbed up the white sheet. A few were turned off by the stink. Through narrow cracks, an army of ants rushed in; they penetrated the breaks between the planks and marched on my anointed skin; a few stubborn flies crossed through a petite chink. I lost all track of time, the date, day and night, and in the stygian darkness that filled the place there came a waft of air, a whisper. I was shrinking, becoming lean. It was neither the beginning nor the end of the world when a hiss, an jumbled call came. I was summoned to court. With no strength to move my limbs with blank brain, blind eyes, and deaf ears and in deepest insentience, I failed to obey the call; the flies, ants and worms ignored it too, and they continued their chores. Sharing the space, they feasted on my flesh celebrating my generous stockpile. Beneath the stone, I painlessly declined, disintegrated bit by bit, morphed and slipped into the wet soil.  

• 20 •

Two :

Of Man and Ice

Of Man and Ice

Is there poetry in ice?—To make ice palatable and sweet, says the emperor of ice-cream, add sugar, vanilla, and cream. You need ropes and gloves to climb on ice. Lovers do not sit on ice to write valentines. Take heed, the prophet warned: The world may end in ice. Beware! When the ice melts, the sea will rise, flood the shores, sink your fishing shack. Kids gobble the cone to defy melted ice-cream. Save polar bears floating on ice. Let the angels skate under the beams of light—alas, insatiable Salome carries John’s head, as if she were dancing on ice. Write it. Ice has no appeal (a Gulag between Heaven and Hell). God excludes it from paradise. He only serves ice when it’s mixed with cream. Yet files of penguins trek many frosty miles to oceans afar, feed/return/and nurse the chicks. Life is victorious: countless extremophiles thrive in ice. Love is sweet, lest it be deprived of sugar, ice and cream.

• 22 •

Haleakala Peak

We climbed to the edge of the volcano before dawn. The stars were near above. The cold eastern wind was strong and we waited for the sun to rise. Imperceptibly, rolling patiently, Earth knelt below the advancing sun. Awesome light of day overwhelmed night, abruptly the eastern horizon turned blue purple, then flaming red. The distant clouds caught fire, their edges ablaze, burning bright into eternal space, igniting a halo that radiated across the vast skies. An enormous crater appeared below our feet, its mouth wide open in wonder.

• 23 •

Chautauqua

When you ride a bike, you’re surrounded by blue and yellow wildflowers along the narrow country roads among blueberries and sweet corn. You inhale the cool air before dawn pull the thin blanket to keep warm at night watch the soft rain in the early morning hours the quiet walkers on the cobblestone road. You house the old and the young, a boy who swims a mile daily in the lake a bard who recites Elizabeth Bishop’s “The Fish” during the brown bag luncheon. You’re the voice of Joyce in the prose workshop; you’re life drawing before noon, young musicians and plein-air painters in odd corners; you’re white, brown, black, and oriental. You’re paved roads for the junior bikers dim light for musicians and dancers. You seat 5,000 on your wooden benches to listen to Rumi, Rushdie, Beethoven or McCullough. You attract a ballerina from Moscow a writer from Boston, a pianist from South Korea. You feed trees, birds, and bats. You disdain wars and declare that Love is God. You attract Yankees and people from the Deep South who escape the brutal heat; you investigate the origin of God, write about the Irish in the Civil War, house colonies of bats in your dark vaults.

• 24 •

You speak of lost promises, Grand Migration going north, play music in Detroit and dance on the stage in Chicago; you march for peace in the Mall and praise life.

• 25 •

The Dominion Swan for Billie-Kite

The cool afternoon breeze brushes the greens, the fairways. The lone swan in the shallow pond glides to the grassy edge, squats under the sun. A gleaming delight to frustrated golfers, she eyes a spot. Away from the glaring sun in the nineteenth hole the eager audience hears a tale told by Billie-Kite. Closely guarded cygnets nibble near the pond. The sun sinks slowly behind the live oak trees, the rolling meadows fill the gaps between the hills and the dry creeks. In the cool of the hall under the golden dome, Billie-Kite recites the story of a pair of swans. Lethargic from the afternoon sun, the swan plods toward a shady patch under the mesquite tree looks at the silent pond, fancying her mate. The retreating sun sets the low clouds aflame. A book in her lap, Billie-Kite whispers the chant of the lonely white swan of the Dominion pond. It comes down like a rock, the stray ball rockets over the trees, swoops down on its prey. The tumult scares a covey of quail, a herd of deer. The swan couldn’t duck its head under feathery wings.

• 26 •

A mic in her hand, she strolls around the podium, stunned and in awe when the window suddenly cracks. The male swan receives a deadly blow, collapses with a regal bow; the female swan glides timidly to the floating white mound left flat over yonder. In the ball’s wake, she circles the fatal scene thrice. She mourns and waits on the shore night and day chirps the same pitiful note time and again.

Months goes by. No cloud visits the fair skies, no rain, only the glaring sun scorching the meadows the shallow pond now a mud flat; a lonesome swan once in curvaceous splendor lumbers to the gray patch. Billie-Kite looks at the angry clouds that close in, veil the sun, darken the parched land. Sheaths of rain pour down over the hills deluge the land, flood the creeks, the lakes and bury the pair of swans once feathery and white, once gliding over the pond. Billie-Kite wipes her eyes and recalls the day when a V-shape of geese flew away seeking a new haven.

• 27 •

Summer Retreat

A boat leaves a frothy wake. The waves retreat harmoniously fade out on the shore. In the portico of the cottage a lone poet glances at the shallow waves and scribbles a short verse. Shiny flickers rise from the cool, clear lake. The morning breeze ruffles its grooved face. The sun rises above the wood, daylilies open their lips, smile along the gravel road. White clouds glide leisurely in the skies. In the garden beside the wooden deck the red and yellow flowers bloom, absorb the heat; the breeze rustles the leaves. A man moors the boat to its berth loops the cord tightly around an old pine and climbs the road to the Hall of Philosophy. Along the narrow path close to the lake a woman in yellow pants holds the leash. The old dog follows its master obediently. In the hall one lectures about myths, another about faith, the third about religious wars. A lonely loon screeches, seeks a mate.

• 28 •

The Lighthouse

The miracle of love needs no explanation. It is in your flesh and bones, skin and joints. It fills your chest, flows in your heart circulates in your body, exhilarates your mind. When you kiss your beloved inhale her warm breath, absorb the energy that radiates between your beings your souls celebrate unity, the passion of love. Wander through valleys and over hills. Crawl, climb up the highest mountain, drink from the pristine spring that flows from the cracks of stones. Barter your town to be in love even for a day. Longing gravitates you to your beloved. Seek love’s kingdom, succumb to the spell of her gaze, her gleaming eyes, her scent. The beacon of love blinks at you incessantly. Swim the treacherous waters in quest of love. Its magic will pull you ashore where your beloved awaits you with open arms.

• 29 •

Jerusalem Menu for Aziz Shihab, author of A Taste of Palestine

He walks to school through the Jewish Quarter. He hears the church bells and the calls of muezzins, returns the greetings of the shopkeepers in the souq: some Arab, some Jews. From the edge of the Christian Quarter he buys sweet hot milk where a Christian Arab stirs the bowl with a long wooden spoon; a bibliophile Jew sells Bibles and Korans in the bookstore. Christians live in Bethlehem; Jews in the village north; Moslems in East Jerusalem. To find his friend, he walks to the church after school. The boys dribble the ball in the open field. His mother skins eggplants and slices them thin adds two cups of yogurt, two cloves of garlic and some olive oil; she fries the dish golden brown, sends a portion to a Jewish friend. The winds of war ravage the hills, Allied tanks rumble in and stop in the dusty field. Escaping the terror, the homeless itinerant Jews settle in the Promised Land. The old woman marinates lamb in onion juice rolls the cubes of meat, tomatoes, and bell peppers over the fire. She wipes her eyes, inhales the air filled with perfume of herbs and grilled garlic. Delicious smoke fills the narrow alley, rises, dissipates over armored vehicles and tents of soldiers doesn’t reach the Jewish Quarter. Yet the smell of hot sweet milk is embedded in the ancient walls.

• 30 •

Red Sand Beach

Climbing the winding road immersed in the reek of rotting guavas approaching tricky single-lane bridges you stop to yield, and wait, inhaling the mist, on the right you hear a waterfall roar down a steep gulch, slam into glistening lava boulders—a mild wind plays harp music with the bamboo forest, the twigs. The endless ocean lies on the left under itinerant clouds and light mauka showers a rainbow arches across, fades over rippled waters, into green hills. Now it’s your turn to cross the narrow bridge. You fill your lungs with green air of the rain forest. You see the doves flap away, the nenes dart and amakihis fly into the dense wood. You stop on a rocky cliff—some hundred feet down, you see the black lava beach—you hear incessant high waves smash into the black shore; you catch a chill from the fine-rain. Miles away you park the car and walk, search for a hidden beach, trek a less trodden trail towards the ocean, climb down a razor-edged cliff and wade in shallow water over submerged reefs. Grasping exposed roots, you scramble up the steep slick rocky shore; a sudden turn on a slippery trail brings you to the outlook, a volcano sliced in half walling a red cove.

• 31 •

A red sand beach at the foot of the wedge flaunts fine gravel against ferocious waves. The ocean carries its might, slamming against lava boulders which armor the cove. Powerful waves fall flat, find the narrow breaks between rising rocks through which the Pacific waves enter the cove, dissipate on the smooth red gravel beach. You sit on the cool sand and watch a kama’aina couple and their two toddlers float gently on the ebbing waves in the shallow water. They are holding hands.

• 32 •

Three :

San Antonio Summer

Loss of a Bard for Trinidad Sanchez

When he was born—he was plump with a puffy face—no one prophesied he would become a poet and speak of justice, color, and love and write, How great it is to be brown. Before he died, he was the Barrio Poet who had spoken out loud about equal rights, liberty for all and had proudly uttered how unique it is to be brown! When his body failed him he didn’t vanish; his voice resonated in the cantinas down south, and in San Antonio taquerías where he saluted Texans for being white, black, and brown.

• 34 •

Fifty-Five Percent Most Texans believe we were created in historical time. — ­ San Antonio Express-News

On a tumultuous day, Adam landed softly on a patch of quaggy land, and in the wee hours of the next morning, Eve descended abruptly with a flimsy parachute. The First Couple attended the march of the creatures. Using the OED they named fauna and flora. They harvested golden fields of wheat, captured and slaughtered a young sheep and grilled its meat. They filled their jugs from a cool spring, opened the fridge and added ice to their drinks, drove a new Silverado to the nearby shore; wearing masks and fins, they snorkeled and filmed the colorful fish. Anointed with sunscreen, they bathed on white sand listening to samba. They danced, hugged, kissed, made love and reproduced. In 930 long years they created a flock of 10,000 offspring. Soon they joined the progeny of Homo Sapiens from East Africa, Indo-Europeans, sea-wanderers, the natives of remote continents, and the builders of ziggurats, ships, spacecraft, and pyramids. They traded packages of virulent germs, religions, contrasting myths, and arms. Their houses filled with stuff, the planet with their mounting garbage, scrap metal, the air with pollutants, toxic gases, smog.

• 35 •

When man arrived, he brought thousands of words, knew how to write, read, play piano sing arias, recite poetry and love songs he had composed; and he resided in a mansion with a heated pool, wines galore in the cellar.

• 36 •

Southern Sun

Last night the wilted plants and roses were stunned by a strong gale. The rumble made the lean cows moo wildly, the emaciated deer squatted under dormant live oaks. The news of the storm traveled faster than the expanding clouds. The piercing thunder shook the brittle mesquites, wind upended trees. The abrupt tempest ripped off roofs twisted the walls, massacred the plants and swept through the empty lakes, now craters. Night enveloped the frightened owls. The sun began its daily tour, scorched parched meadows, their cracked skin. The raucous night left behind the wounded hills. Street dogs panted, bowed to the Texas heat.

• 37 •

San Antonio Summer

It’s the end of August. The kids are swimming in the warm pool or resting, cooling off in the breezy tepid shade of the umbrellas, shunning the roasting sun. The starving deer are lethargic. They’re waiting for the night. The withered roses are dormant. Medina Lake is a bare basin. Summer in San Antonio is long and dry.

• 38 •

A Pair of Pecan Trees

for Jeri Weaver

She drives a rented car pauses at the end of the cul-de-sac and stares at the blue door, the house. The brick walls have been replaced with beige stucco, the tin roof with synthetic red tiles, the cobblestone walkway with crushed granite, the Asiatic jasmine with St. Augustine grass, Texas roses with common lantanas, French doors with double-paned sliding glass, the herb garden in the sunny corner with concrete tiles bordered with red lava rock the old home into a plastic cubicle surrounded by a dry garden. Yet in the front yard the pair of pecan trees stands tall. They are poised to bear a large load in fall. In the left corner, the century plant is still growing, ignoring the passage of time, bathing in the brazen sun, hesitating to sprout and hoist the white flag. The young woman in the passenger seat once a toddler, had played in that yard. The driver looks at the crushed granite where long ago she had grown purple basil and chives.

• 39 •

The Cellist in the Blue Shirt

for Stephanie

The cellist in a blue shirt plays in the trio, the violist in a long red dress sits upright, and the pianist in the back follows the score. The tall ceiling absorbs the echoes. Like a sailboat in a summer breeze the cellist’s bow glides; the violist glows with a subtle smile, the pianist’s long fingers comb across keys in the dim light. Music rolls through the hall like an interminable flow of words, mesmerizing even those who had stayed aloof. The violist is masterful, the pianist felicitous, the cellist in the bliss of love abandons his soul in Mendelssohn’s passionate sentiment.

• 40 •

The Birds of the Rio Grande I The Suburban stops at the red post. The agent looks at the giddy faces and leafs through their passports. They are coming to deliver wheelchairs. He nods and pulls up the barrier. The car crosses the bridge over the muddy river that flows underneath. It enters the dusty road with colorful signs but needs a permit to drive in the countryside. The queue heads toward a window. The young clerk is worn out. She is studying the rental document and notes a typo: the “I” in the middle of the VIN is typed “1.” She smiles this is a bogus document. This could be a stolen car. Looking through tall-glassed walls she sees the line of used cars entering south; a flock of geese flies low toward the north:

• 41 •

The wall, the jammed traffic, the border, the exhausted patrols, the red posts and the dusty cars are none of their concern. They fly over the river ignoring the signs. The water is low, its flow meager. Two youths cross the shallow river. Wet and muddy, they climb the north bank and walk through back alleys avoiding the patrol. The faxed document redacted the erratum. The clerk issues the permit, the sticker. The car moves away from the border, two nations’ divide. Relieved, the travelers breathe the windy air. Toll Road 85 snakes through the desert scrub passing prickly pears, jojobas, yuccas the wild goats grazing, munching on succulent cacti the windows are down, the Rotarians cluck, utterly in awe. II The lunar eclipse darkens the Sierra Madre Oriental. Gulping tequila with the local Rotarians lightens our fears, alleviates superstition. The moon breaks away from the earth’s umbra. Night glows in the crowded valley. Laser beams rise from the commerce tower pierce the massive air over the restive city outshine the dim building lights. III The Suburban crosses the green boulevard. Miles of stucco wall conceal the fairways, the club; its membership fees could feed the ghetto for weeks.

• 42 •

In the slum clinic, the plaques on the wall note people’s goodwill from the clubs of the north and south for the beds and wheelchairs made in China. There behind the curtain a woman gives birth. Here a child struggles to breathe; a man’s broken arm is fixed; a girl cries for help, remembers the horrid night. IV The petite old woman wiggles to fit in the wheelchair; she nods and kisses the hand that arranges her feet; her eyes well with tears, and she touches the Rotarian’s cheek. The old man smiles; he can’t walk. He rolls the new wheelchair forward! A poet, he recites two lines but struggles for more. After a long pause, he remembers another line.

• 43 •

Massive Relief

The clouds prowl behind the Rockies. Roses and lilies wilt under the blatant sun. South Texas displays its fractured chest, cracked lips, rocky creeks and parched ponds. Emaciated deer, lethargic, long for flowing Streams. Flora needs a behemoth relief. A pair of swallows soars over the dry field. Sun’s blazing beams, myriads of missiles Fiery arrows crucify anguished fauna. Remedy for paradise lost, the angry wind changes its course, brings a rainstorm to the terrain mires the desolate land—a big flood terminates the longest drought, to quench Texas’ thirst and replenish her depleted aquifers. Yes, sweet rain penetrates anabiotic earth, the clumps of dirt, rejuvenates buried seeds, reopens menageries and rescues the plants and trees, paradise anew, nature rebounds from the dust. Life rises and endures.

• 44 •

We the Wanderers

Locke believed in people’s natural rights that nature’s children are equal. Blake said they are born pure, free of sin. Jefferson fancied a dream, a land where people embrace different faiths, amass material wealth, live contentedly in peace. To long for freedom and happiness is the universe’s rule, it’s in our genes to fall in love—yes, love is the engine of the universe. To find utopia, abandon your gloomy town, sail the high seas, cross the dangerous borders and search for a pristine valley, a land where nobody’s king, or like the sailor who discovered the wooded archipelago, find a new continent. Like the Norwegian farmer who sold his plot, boarded the vessel with his pregnant bride, survived the storm and climbed on the new shore, you may built a log house and cultivate corn, or like the alien who gambled with his life, climbed the barbed wire fence and perished in the desolate desert from thirst and heat leaving behind your his hungry child. Yes, we the wanderers

• 45 •

have heard of Jefferson. We arrived aboard ships and planes or on foot and joined the first and second peoples. We long for freedom, fall in love and seek work. We build warm abodes, read and write. Yes, we are farmers, tool makers, musicians and writers. We sing and work; unhindered we speak, vote, and express our voice.  

• 46 •

Four :

Between A and

Z

Between A and Z for Brigitte

It’s really crazy, we get to live, then we have to die, said Radner. A bittersweet life laughter, and then tears, sunrise, high noon, and then the twilight. Yet death does not close the chapter words, music, sound, and light wander around, traverse the universe. In a distant corner of the cosmos a behemoth chip stores all the names, faces, voices and genes, samples from every creature: bees, birds, fish, humans, and dinosaurs. The clue to the riddle of immortality is not found in sacred vaults or catacombs. It’s in our hearts. It lies between A and Z. Say it: life endures, persists and survives because of L, O, V, and E.

• 48 •

Passion Fruit and Pizza

Adam was starving. Tired of eating roots and nuts, he was searching for real food under a palm. His disheveled mate drew up a list: harvest wild wheat, thresh and mill the grains. Leave the flour unbleached, knead the dough fire up the oven and bake two flat loaves. Fill the bucket with milk and make cheese. Harvest some tomatoes and garlic prepare the sauce for the pizza. In a red wheelbarrow, Adam brought a pile of apples, white chickens, a slaughtered goat wild barley, and bucket of milk, but no tomatoes. The Devil was smirking at the First Couple holding a bowl of pasta. In paradise, he sneered, there are neither passion fruits nor potatoes.

• 49 •

Life Lessons

The lesson is not about chemistry, philosophy the origin of life and God, or the suffering of Job, his resolute faith, his unwavering obedience. Sue is not speaking about conceited pro-lifers, doomsday prophets, wicked priests, or arguing about the flatness of the earth, the abysmal oceans. She is not bloviating clichés about peace and war natives and colonists, Germans and Jews, Sunnis and Shiites, liturgical monks, or combative Hindus. She decries the war that should have ended all wars spurious saviors who promise to rescue Jews, Moslems, Christians, and to bring ever-elusive joy. She leads us through narrow alleys till we reach John Keats’s backyard and below the old window she recites: . . . I will fly to thee, / Not charioted by Bacchus and his pards / But on the viewless wings of Poesy. Oh, she loves scarves: red, yellow, green and crimson; a sip of good wine, a good bite. She speaks about the plays, A View from the Bridge The Pitmen Painters, and about dodgy King Lear.

• 50 •

Midnighters

When I drink coffee in the evening I am awake until after midnight. I can hear the flies buzz, see the moon and the stars cross the clouds. I listen to this beautiful conversant breathing calmly. I wiggle and toss, she opens her eyes, surprised I’m still awake. I walk to the living room and listen to an audiobook, eventually fall asleep on the sofa—a shallow sleep—, but I hear, the old man sings in my ears What a Wonderful World It Is even at midnight.

• 51 •

At the Western Wall

I love you, God, and I know you can do anything. I pray and beg for mercy. Please save my children make them saints of God. Oh, almighty God please do something about my spouse. Help him recover his bright mind regain his humor, become active again make him a saint of God. Oh, my loving God, be kind to my daughter. Her fiancé returned from a bloody war impaired from the roadside bomb. Please restore his body. Enable him to walk, make him a saint of God. God, I’m lonely and irrelevant and confused—I long for love. Please redeem my sanity and award me happiness. Make me a saint of God.

• 52 •

Nonbelievers

The contradictory triumvirate brothers majoring in theology medicine and literature sit around a wooden table with cups of bitter tea, a few hors d’oeuvres, and caucus every night. Exhausted and bruised with desiccated feelings, caught between the rough waves of their endless squabbles, red-eyed with dry mouths and weary minds they seek but fail to complete the punch line and as in the frame story, they defer the argument to the next night and to the next nights yet as before, they accede to the heated debate, challenge each other’s suppositions, shout and bicker for hours, and annoy the neighbor’s hysterical wife. They go to bed with bitter thoughts fuming, astonished how after three years neither of them has given up, conceded, or changed his mind about politics, God, creation, or the afterlife. In the quiet alley in the crepuscular air of dawn a bearded old man walks alone. A dusting of snow lies quietly on the road. He sees the window, looks into the room and shakes His head amused by the unrelenting arguments; the one hundred names given to God in the Holy Book; the miracles He is credited with; the ephemeral peace after every horrific religious war; and the cathedrals, synagogues temples, the blue domed mosques, and the 72 hooris pledged to each suicide bomber in paradise. He pushes His cart loaded with rags, leftover meals

• 53 •

squashed fruit taken from garbage cans. He takes refuge under a bridge decorated with graffiti among discarded beer cans next to a patch of stinking sludge. He pulls out a piece of scrap paper and reads the president’s speech, We are a nation of Christians and Muslims, Jews and Hindus, and Nonbelievers.

• 54 •

Chaos —A Reverie at Fourteen

On a clear summer night, I lie on a thin mattress on the flat roof. I gaze at the myriads of stars the enormous universes and climb the ladder of imagination in search of an answer. In the Milky Way, the prophet drags his son—a gift to God. The dagger floats above the sacrificial child. The booming voice shakes the nebula. The dagger slips away, disappears. I depart the quicksand of reverie open my eyes to the abating glow of the stars, breathe the morning air, the breeze brushing my face. The sun warms up my space. —The World Cup

I’m seventeen; I walk to the nearby mosque to wash my feet where fourteen teenagers are being flogged for watching the World Cup. The mullah shouts verses of the Koran, denounces the infidels in the nearby street. Neda bleeds from neck mouth and ears; the sniper climbs down from the roof murmuring Allah-o-Akbar and dreams of landing in Behesht to sleep

• 55 •

with virgins, drink wine mixed with milk, visit the prophet who slaughtered the lamb, the saints who raped the king’s daughters. —Green Shore

I’m twenty-six, sailing the high seas. A ship brings people to the rocky shore. The mossy trail runs for miles the towers rise between two rivers. A hummingbird soars in the air. Its eyes discern bright colors from afar. It hovers above a band of day lilies sucking nectar; its heart beats rapidly its blood hurries to its minute brain its wings invisible. —Evolution

I’m in the lab, looking at the human genome—the 23 pairs of chromosomes, the bundles of genes—the six-foot strand loaded with commands and instructions of how to obtain data and store them in the brain, determine the color of the eyes my faith, my gait, my instincts, the labyrinths that house words, musical tunes, the flow of thoughts, the banks of memories, longing for love the chambers for myths, faith, truth. In the maze of the furled strands No Exit signs abound, block the shortcuts.

• 56 •

—Chaotic Love

Is it all designed for us to traverse a circuitous path, to wander and dance to nature’s chaotic tunes? Are we fettered by the thin blue air and bound to slippery ground, shackled and confined to the bony skull? Or are we the itinerant creature that fills only a dash in the book of nature, tormented by the blinking stars stupefied by the bees, ants and kept away from distant universes? We need miles of DNA strands to decipher truth—nature is not curious about our fate. The sun rises and sets and warms up our planet; we walk the green pasture and look for a nest, a mate watch the flight of the hummingbirds.

• 57 •

The Girl Almost Makes It

Behind the thick glass, morning wind rustles the branches. Live oak leaves fall and settle in the courtyard. Through the slight scrim of windows dim light oozes into the sleepy room faintly illuminating the hall and the walls. The clock ticks and glows 7:46 a.m. The cat jumps onto the bed and walks over the cool sheet; pauses, sits on my naked chest. BB snores quietly. The clock is ticking, ticking, ticking. The roar of engines severs the quiet of the house; distant sirens grow louder as they turn the corner, fade away towards the hospital. The tumult awakens Mom. The first tower is crumbling, the second one about to follow. Enormous dust fills the streets, and pulverized dragons of heat chase the girl. She almost makes it to the corner. A slant of light breaks through the window, illuminates the empty bed, the girl’s picture wobbling; it is about to fall.

• 58 •

The Wedding for Allison

There were twelve people in the church the parents, four relatives and four family friends witnessing the joyful event, hearing the simple wows. The two drove to the shore. They carried: two books, laptops and two bottles of wine. A week later, one enrolled in a master’s program, the other in law school at Princeton. There were four people living in the house two parents, a ten year old son small for his age, and a daughter of sixteen a gymnast, swimmer, chess player who usually won most of her matches. The boy was a slow reader, a calm and frugal talker. He collected butterflies and wrote poems recited them only to his sister. They became adults. They lived apart: the girl has become a pediatrician, the boy a writer teaching literature. Their parents have lived their lives, their immortal genes marching on.

• 59 •

Funambulism for Sofia

While a group of PhDs struggles to spell the word, she at six listens to phonemes and slowly begins, F, then pauses for u whereas the music major says, ew, she utters, u; quickly decides n, a, m. She struggles awhile with the second u, then flow the other letters, l, i, s, and m. Her agile mind an ocean ready to absorb and store words, sound, and music scores, she threads the vocables slowly, logically—wrestles with “know.” She says, “I knowed it.” Her brain grapples with the challenge of irregular verbs.

• 60 •

Five:

In the Piano Bar

In the Piano Bar

In the dim light, she was radiant and bright sitting among her friends, tasting pinot noir. Lonely and despondent, I was mending my thoughts munching black olives, listening to a song Strangers in the Night. We exchanged glances. I noticed her face, her fleeting gaze saw a gentle demeanor, a pleasing smile. It was so inviting, it triggered a surge in my fluttering heart, tempted my soul. Strangers in the Night, we exchanged glances. I was a lonely dove sipping single malt. So splendid it was when I met her eyes it energized my core, brought me hope. I took my chances, walked to her side. Strangers in the Night, we exchanged glances. She beamed, while I pondered my options. Lumbering like Bacchus, I offered my hand. Responding to my call, she accepted my bid and I clasped her arm. She soared like a swan. Strangers in the Night, we exchanged glances. She landed in my arms, and we danced to the song Lovers at First Sight. Ever since that night for better or worse, we have lived together under that dim light. One fateful encounter Strangers in the Night, we exchanged glances.

• 62 •

Birth

A sudden whimper interrupts the awed expectation; in the dimly lit room, against all odds the air jolts with a fresh noise. The woman is in a trance, her euphoria unbound. She raises her head. Her eyes gloss through tears, search for the new face to see the limbs, to touch the pink skin, count the fingers, feel its weight. It’s alive. The long sleepless night, the sharp pangs of pain are only faint memories. She is overwhelmed by the frail breath, the tiny hand that reflexively clasps her thumb. The amazing creature sniffles, wiggles its head; its eyes squint, irritated by the light. The mother ignores the sweaty pillow, the odor of iodine, the clanking of carts, the muttering of nurses; a quiet doctor dutifully sutures the numbed tears. She cuddles the softly wrapped newborn and hears a euphony, a petite whisper; she taps the chin and sees the open mouth, the little tongue. She places the infant’s lips against her swollen breast and feels the new life, a spark that ignites a wondrous sensation through her spine.  

• 63 •

Before Five for Jim Brandenburg

It’s three minutes before five. The image flashes on the walls, her face glows on the chambers of your heart. You open your eyes and feel the lithe air, see the gray window. The day takes you to the noisy highway, the third cup spills in the car—the city, the fallen leaves the garrulous calls, and the texts—the night rescues you from the routine world. Tonight the moon is behind the window. It moves over the scattered clouds. You fall into an oblivious realm, you hear a whisper, the image floats in the room crosses the open window and flies out. The moon is hidden behind a dark cloud. the breeze brings air and the noise from the highway. The radio broadcasts yesterday’s news: chaos and war. It’s three minutes past five.

• 64 •

The Night Glowed

I shall remember the night: the crowds; the throngs of people converging in the park the thundering applause in Kogelo, in Madrid on the boulevards of Paris and across from the lawn of the White House. I shall remember when the young star glowed and brightened the vast skies when the stalwart shed tears and when Ann Nixon Cooper an old woman of 106 voted and cried. I shall remember when America stood tall, the fields of hope produced a massive crop, the joie de vivre of youth and it rewarded whites and black, natives and browns. I shall remember when the tired white hero bowed to a discerning young black man a new captain who climbed up and stood at the helm of the mighty ship guiding its rudder, pondering the storm. Oh, not the Tuesday of the fall of the towers but the night of solemn tears from enthralled eyes; the sea of arms a bedrock for a gleaming pillar, one among many in the night of the starry heavens.

• 65 •

The Taste of Red

The first sip brings a gentle, mild, and fruity taste. The red glows like your lips and warms my heart. A cool and refreshing aftertaste mesmerizes my tongue, slightly bitter, like a touch of lemon peel, rosy, surprisingly perfumed, bold like a spring breeze. The second sip rolls friendlier over my alerted taste buds. It offers a sedating flavor, calming my heart; natural, it incites curious thoughts, reminds me of Brahms lieder a mystery of the lyrical notion of mortal life, immortal love. The third sip initiates a new phase: colorful, jazzy and glamorous, a walk along the maze of vines in the misty dusk, in a foggy wood, in autumn the ocean’s undulating face in the background the lost moon hiding behind the clouds. Colorful fall leaves cover the ground and bright faces abound. The thin stems loosely hold their last stand; deep rooted tall trees whisper a lullaby; my hiking boots clump down the uneasy path. A young vintage arrives, imbibes my tongue—lively, sweet, and exhilarating like a baby’s first cry. The first sip brings an oaken taste; then the roughness fades away. The second sip is velvety, lush. Green cypress turrets wave in Shiraz.

• 66 •

The third sip is harmoniously bitter-sweet. It brings ephemeral, wispy clouds from clear Persian skies, Hafiz’s melodious ghazal describing the taunting slim delight dancing on soft moss, the mole above her lips that he will kiss and cherish, barter for two cities’ keys.  

• 67 •

The Long Feverish Night for Maria

You are dozing; you are going to bed late after bathing the kids, reading poems to the fourand to the seven-year old until they fall asleep. You are twitching with pain that rolls below your navel you are feeling feverish and cold sweaty sheets wrap your limbs, face. Yellow glow of the alarm clock noxiously enters your eyes; you hear the tick-tocks for a long while; the rambling pushes up; bitter saliva fills your mouth. You force the pillow against your tummy with no avail. Snow falls quietly during the night. You twist and turn, hear your own breathing. The thin ice over the windshield breaks apart, you drive out. The kids, fastened in their seats, wave their wet mittens. They wish they were still throwing snowballs. You follow the wintery road, drive them to school; you are alone behind the wheel. The pangs of pain stab you again you stop and make a feverish call.

• 68 •

You park somewhere near the hospital, drag your feet to the ER, to the triage. The surgeon knows how to cut, how to remove an inflamed appendix. The surgeon is not certain and waits for the MRI. Yours still lies intact beneath the cecum, the radiologist says. He notes its innocuous appearance, its thin airless shadow; you are given a slip; you stop at the pharmacy and then drive to the quiet home. You watch the snow fall quietly take a few pills and rest awhile and wait to hit the road again.  

• 69 •

Winter’s Last Breeze I In the dark room, the girl hears whispers from the vent. From the doorknobs they convey horrid news of shipwrecks, her folks drowning in the cold sea. She stares at their vanishing hands. It’s late March and winter’s reluctant to leave. The window panes tremble and gusts lash about in the brown field nothing in the trees, their limbs bare. Cold winds whip the naked twigs. The vacant nest in the live oak tree awaits its habitués. The winter sun wrestles with clouds, regains its strength, plays a game of hide and seek. II The scent of star jasmine revives old memories, wounds. Warblers hang on to the empty feeder sock, a hazy shadow. An apparition whispers in the attic. A pair of swallows scouts a niche in the branches of the redbud trees. Pink knobs emerge. The last of winter’s cold water flows under the bridge.

• 70 •

The invigorated sun rises. The thin predawn frost melts rapidly and shimmering grass covers the meadows; the morning wind rustles the fallen pink petals, old oak leaves. Clusters of bluebonnets, black-eyed susans and buttercups appear in the land between the road and the stone fences, itinerant butterflies draw traces on budding plants. III Two swans find a yellow patch in the tall grass. The quiet one is ready to spawn. The other is alert, deliberate; he towers over his mate, stretches his long neck, bobs his head. The roses along the walkway, the rows of daylilies in the backyard, the files of daffodils behind the fence welcome the warm sun. A hummingbird darts around. The girl sees the garden through the porthole, the florescent grass that rises from ground; the scattered flowers which are yellow, blue and pink; a dove that coos and flaps its wings. A male cardinal visits the garden looking for his mate. A squirrel wags its tail, waits for dropped seeds. Sparrows dart around the fountain. The girl sees all that and wonders why she’s been confined

• 71 •

for the last many weeks. Why she isn’t free to touch the leaves. Exhausted, she looks at the vent; she hears no dreadful whispers, only a distant chirping of birds behind the window.

• 72 •

Quiet George for Stewart

George stares at the row of red stockings above the hearth; George with his blank smile is sitting in his wheelchair, bells and candles galore. In the hall a chorus of children sings “Silent Night” and other Christmas tunes. The seniors and their visitors have filled the tables in the crowded hall. George sits with a family. He is well dressed but looks distraught wiggles black shoes, jiggles tight red tie. He doesn’t remember the first son who never returned from Vietnam, his daughter who now lives in Japan, his high school sweetheart, his wife— their honeymoon in Cancun—her recent funeral. George is wheeled back to his quiet room. To the blinking blue and red lights of the minute tree, and he wonders where before did he see these lights, where did he smell the roasted chestnuts. In bed he stares at the ceiling for a while, bitterly confused.

• 73 •

Your Birthday for your 64 years of virtuous life

The inveterate sun rises conducts its daily tour, warming up the rocks, the bay, morning breeze and scattered clouds and signal the arrival of another epoch. At noon it shines brightly its beams brush the wild-flowers. At sunset its golden face glowing radiates warmth, reminds me of your thrilling smile. This morning I heard the songs of the birds that you fed all winter: a small family of cardinals, a mockingbird that echoed their song, the sparrows, the titmouse and the four golden finches clinging to the empty feeding sock. The sun has warmed up their feathers. They are flocking to the garden, waiting to greet you in the backyard.

• 74 •

Love is Not a Mirage

Insanely in love, Majnoon would hike rough trails to find his beloved Leila, chase her shadow in the moonlit nights. When you dream of your beloved your heart teems with delight, warms your chest floods your mind, remedies your solitude. When you’re thirsty for love your longing awakens you and moves you onward. When you are lost in the web of despair love is the theriac for your illness, a remedy for your weakness, uncertainty. In the stygian night, a star rises and shines in the bleak field of loneliness. The iridescent image of your beloved is your lighthouse. You sleep and wake; you consume your flesh and bone and you walk breathe and live because of love. Love is the engine of the universe, God its magic, power. The river that flows in your flesh comes from the spring of love. Love is not a mirage; it is the warm stream that flows beneath your skin. Death is a life without love.

• 75 •

Majnoon was consumed by love. He ascended to heaven when he kissed Leila’s lips, united with her body and soul.

• 76 •

Anniversary for Maria and James

Soft rain falls on the unfinished patio. Piled-up dirt and splintered planks cover the backyard. A row of old pines divides the misty air. A narrow stream meanders through the vale. He pours fresh, strong coffee, arranges a vase with eleven roses, a greeting card, two soft-boiled eggs, slices of toasted bread, and the daily paper on the table. He looks at the drops of rain streaking down the misty panes; he remembers last night’s patient, a bloated man unable to pee, his bladder filled with clotted blood. How little did they know when he proposed, when she repeated the vow that someday she would drive two pupils to the nearby school, that he’d come home at dawn from the long night to light up the candles and wait to begin the holiday. They will jog in the misty park for some miles, cherry blossom petals on their path, budding azaleas along the freshly paved road. They sweat as they approach the house. The sun penetrates the clouds and they touch each other’s faces, feel each other’s warm breath; they rest near the window while the sun runs its daily course.

• 77 •

Death Is Only the Beginning

Look closely at the clump of soil: in the lump of dirt diminutive creatures abound, crawling in the runnels and vaults. In life all paths are circuitous; you end your journey where you started. From water and dust you rise, live, and fall. Like the walking trees of the Amazon you seek the beams of light in the forest of life. You roll, float and settle like a grain of sand. Exhausted and frail, you plunge into the bosom of the earth—your cradle, your grave. After long repose you begin the next journey. Do not fear the cold lips of death, for it heralds a new course for your flesh and bones. In the drama of life you will take part and share love again.

• 78 •

S ix:

Tomorrow

Tomorrow —Dystopia

To get to Heaven you must travel through a desolate land; you survive the valley of dystopia where men grow beards build minarets and domes, bloviate on podiums and recite myths, arm children set towers afire, stage internecine warfare. Deep in the desert lies a walled settlement where petrified women covered in black veils cultivate the lands. They tend the oasis in summer, and in fall carry harvested wheat to the sacred site, a place with black granite, and sacrifice lambs. —Primal Time

You’re walking along a narrow stream. The sign warns Do Not Drink the Water. A middle-aged man is fishing, drinking beer. He has caught one rainbow trout and tries for more to feed 5,000 starving people, the prisoners of myth in a nearby castle. He remembers the streets with bombed-out buildings, crumbled homes, fallen icons, dismantled gates, and scorched trees. He recalls the hellish day when for a loaf of bread and a rotten fish, he’d bartered his faith and his sanity. For a warm room

• 80 •

he’d kill his neighbor; to stay alive, he’d torture and slay his brother, to satisfy the prophet, he’d bury his young daughter. —Utopia

You arrive with a light backpack, ogle the tall glass and gold towers. Streaks of smoke pollute the gray skies. In Times Square the throngs of multinationals trudge on the sidewalk seeking happiness, searching for careers; you land a job, light up a cigar, sip wine, and read The NYT. In the clear air the stars blink, man lands and walks on the moon and plants the flag. The Mets are champions. —Ground Zero

In a cryptic sanctuary, a furtive hermit charts the world, recites from an old book the chapters, Cow, and, The Merciful God and murmurs, The Rock is the Epicenter of the Universe. I have deciphered the riddle. He dreams of the Third Medieval Empire built on the heaps of the dead; indulged by his concubines, he speaks of past calamities of God’s wrath: the plagues, the thirty floods. “Anno Domini,” he mumbles, “The end is in sight.” Down with Darwin, Freud, Einstein, Lincoln He doesn’t know John Locke and the raison d’être.

• 81 •

I’m the last prophet, the shadow of God. He watches the crash of the planes, flames the plumes of fire, and the fall of the Twin Towers—he shouts, “Yes, the end is in sight.” —Burial at Sea In the quietude of a stark night, four winged machines shake the compound, hover above the roof—the world spins above his citadel as he recollects his nine-eleven memories. He reckons Hurricane Katrina, the 2011 quake, the tsunami, the heat waves in Greenland, tornados in Alabama, the Spring Revolution, the tanks of Damascus, the Green Massacre in Tehran. He dreams of major mayhem, rivers clotted with algae and mud, high seas thick with massive sea-weed, air rancid with noxious smoke. He yelps, “God is on my side.” With lightning speed a few daring men break into the citadel, upend the unholy kingdom. No chance to flee, Satan falls. Now wrapped in canvas, the corpse plunges into the deep. —Earth The valley awakes from a long night. Gray snow falls, dusts the streets trees absorb the cold air. The twigs are laden with ashy icicles, squeak like frozen fingers.

• 82 •

At the summit of scientists, old prophets are barred; the agenda is to draft new commandments to save the ailing planet, reverse the demise of bees, birds and plants, to clear the air of noxious smog, stop the melting of icecaps, the decline of glaciers, rise of oceans, save native creatures. If all fails, discover a planet and find refuge. —Tomorrow It is May. Green leaves are glowing in the glorious sun. Young branches wave in the breeze. A monorail car stops at the station drops a mother and a girl with a pony tail. The mother carries a bouquet, the girl a tablet. The boulevard is divided by a wide median with strips of grass petunias, roses, and shrubs. Rows of tall trees shade the sidewalks. A slim woman in blue jeans crosses the green boulevard. She carries a solar sign: I’m from the planet of earth, I give vaccines to the children, free remote notepad coupons. The Marathon is packed with the thousands. The alleys are reserved for the walkers, bikers ride in their lanes. The glass windows store the sun; the faces glow in the open windows.

• 83 •

The Gold of Lhasa

Golden images of Buddha rest against the walls. Yak-butter candles burn slowly in Potala Palace. Smoke rises and mixes with the stink of sweat. Floating motes darken the thin air. Young Tibetan girls in the market expose their rosy cheeks, sell trinkets, fake jade and gold necklaces; pilgrims prostrate on the dirt crawl towards the white palace. Mummified lamas are secure in their gold sarcophagi. In the square a group of tourists rests on the benches behind the White Palace; the nuns chant their remonstration songs. One monk washes his robe. The other one talks on his cell phone.

• 84 •

Narrow Streams I The narrow streams of red wine flow freely. There is plenty of milk, wild barley and honey. Late afternoon rain cools the land at dusk. A flattened sun dives into the western ocean and soon the stars shine in numerous constellations. the moon glows, glides through the heavens. The creator looks down at earth, pleased with fauna, flora, the rivers, the mountains, and the hospitable high seas in sync with this peaceful and tranquil world: lions grooming their cubs birds hatching their chicks and whales tending their offspring. The air is clean, lakes unsoiled, rain forests crowded with living things. The leaves of the canopy dance in the breeze. High summits are covered with snow. White clouds waltz through the deep blue skies.

• 85 •

II God, intoxicated with fermented nectar, hears the devil’s macabre song and dreams of a new adventure; looking in the mirror, He maps out a new species. He piles up a mound of clay, blood, and crushed marble, and makes a thick brown paste. Not yet congealed, a pair of sculptures lies on the moss. Their faces gleam in the moonlight. Cicadas roar, the hawks anxiously wait for fresh flesh, and the angels prophesy: Beware the dawn of a gloomy epoch, the end of tranquility, the birth of tribes, myths, religions, and wars.

III God stares at the distant horizon. Once blue, now gray skies cover the moonscape. Desolate flats are studded with scorched trunks, fallen towers, demolished towns, polluted rivers, oceans filled with toxic sludge, heat waves and fires creating havoc. The angels weep, the devil smirks at God, the archangel plays his harp and God sobs, He murmurs

• 86 •

a recantation for creating man, for inciting such a destructive course: I shall never create such a mortal again.

IV God and His entourage depart on the wings of a giant Simurgh* to the outermost edge of the universe, to a pristine planet in a nebula. Music rises and angels dance and sing: Mistakes were made; no one comes back from the dead to tell the legend. The blue planet glows in starry infinitude. The devil serves fermented nectar. Intoxicated with music and wine, God forgets the past and begins to create a new mortal. The devil rejoices. The music is shrill and the angels dance.

* Simurgh or simorgh, also known as Angha, is the modern Persian name for a benevolent, mythical flying creature.

Soft Rain

In the early morning hours it is raining softly in paradise its music a smooth euphony. The roses are yellow and red and fragrant. A pair of rabbits under the spruce tree is waiting for sunshine. The radio plays Beethoven’s Ode to Joy. Further down the calm lake is tickled by raindrops.

• 88 •

Daybreak

You are half awake and the last dream still lingers in your mind. Hamlet loses the image in the mist. Plath inhales gas in the oven and goes blank; Poe hears the black cat behind the damp wall. You’re standing in a shallow stream. The water rises to your knees; a fish bites your skin and drops of blood invite crabs. You hear the screech of a grackle you are awakening. Morning light brightens the trees, reinvents the garden, the patio, dry fountain, flowers, the day lilies. The day overwhelms you, overtakes your ruminating mind and the chaotic stream of memories. You jot down the images, leave the sea of the past, stare at the blank ceiling and move your limbs. The fragrance of brewing coffee the sugar cube in your mouth takes away the bitter taste of the nightmare. The rays of the sun ignite the colors of the wallpaper, the flying birds. The cat rubs your feet. She needs food. You follow her, fill her cup pick up the backpack and turn on the car.

• 89 •

Blooming Tree for Lori

This morning I saw a pair of doves return to the blooming redbud tree they spied for their new nest, bridal suite. Their arrival foretells spring. The golden finches have returned. Do they know today is Valentine’s Day? We celebrate anniversaries, birthdays, but today belongs to the lovers. As the sun climbs the eastern skies and brightens the fields, the gentle morning breeze brings a message: soon cherry trees will blossom again.

• 90 •

The Green Light

The morning sun peers through scattered clouds. In the valley the long night retreats. Light brings melodious birdsong—a pair of swallows leaves the nest, soars over the fairway. A red-crested cardinal bathes in the fountain—cool morning shower— a pair of golfers walks towards the green, the gusty wind their excuse for erratic balls. Near the green, under the feeder, a titmouse flies away. Sparrows hop nervously, and a squirrel wags its tail and chases the falling sunflower seeds. A golfer makes the long eagle putt but she misses a short birdie at the next hole.

• 91 •

Sea of Air

From the Blue Ridge Mountains to the Western shores, the mass of air like a giant sea fills endless skies for myriads miles, covers the rolling meadows, winding roads. In the twilight of one epoch and the rise of a new one, the miasma shelters the continent from the Eastern shores to the Western firs. The ethereal sea protects the hamlets and towns. From the Everglades to the Olympic Peninsula it tends native lands, new colonies, majestic canyons and red Cathedral Rock, and it guards the Shenandoah Valley and ancient, green mounds. Smoky torches illuminate the wooden faces of the totem poles. Wisps of smoke billow and dissipate in the gossamer air, fade in the deep night. At the bottom of the valley, trees spread like green coral, sway like floating seaweeds in the calm breeze. Lights blink like fireflies. Passing clouds float like the wings of time. A pair of bikers pedals on Skyline Drive to the peak. They pause at an overlook —the sea of air fills the world—in a trance, they embark on a free ride and land on a green plain. Watching the moon and the stars, they swim in a cool spring and camp for the night. At sunrise, they ride anew across the land from the Eastern seas to the golden shores.

• 92 •

African Sojourn Elephant Crossing

The dry winter comes to an end and yellow grass prays for rain; the slow Chobe River rings a sodden island, keeps the lions away. Antelopes graze on the last of the green. A file of elephants crosses the river. The largest comes first, the rest follow. The vast island feeds cape buffalo, ubiquitous impalas, and blowing hippos; crocodiles rest on the shore after a bloody meal. On dry land, gangs follow the herds. Packs compete for the meat; nature remains neutral among leopards, hyenas, and vultures. The elephants walk as a team to defend their young, yet they are powerless against the men who kill the largest for ivory and sport. In Victoria Falls twenty people squeeze into one cottage; a policewoman’s salary barely covers her family’s rice and chicken for a week. A day of work goes for a can of corn—no flour or beans in the stores—the war hero turns paradise into hell, farmers to street beggars. Droves of people follow the misty paths. None believe in the empty promises. They cross the unmarked border looking for work.

• 93 •

Flights of birds cross the continent. Herds of elephants roam the park. Hunters disembark to collect gold, ivory and diamonds. The Best of Africa

The Mandela house in Soweto is raided again, bullet holes in the brick wall painted red. A flat granite marks the site where the pupils were felled. They never had a chance to speak their words. Apartheid police blocked the road and vile dogs and bullets replied to innocence. The best of Africa is her people: the sun-baked faces, the marchers of Soweto—the leopards, lions, elephants, buffalo, and rhinos their allies. The king’s lair lies in the shadow of acacias where herds and gangs roam free in the wild. They loathe being tethered in faraway fenced dens. Evolving Homo Sapiens crossed the continent, navigated high seas, settled the green valleys. Fully armed, he returned to usurp the fields. Yet resilient life survives the deluge, the drought, the raids of overseas men, the hunters of ivory, gold and diamonds. The best of Africa is the whole continent of sprouting life: fauna, flora and man— loss of one species is a loss for the universe.

• 94 •

African Tree

It came down to this: a lone baobab tree stood high on the rocky shore, the blue sky its canopy; the gigantic snake its master, its guardian. Many thousand years old it had survived the vacuous world, the chaos volcanic eruptions, fire, lightning and storms torrential rains, pounding waves, high tides, and punishingly cold gusts. Offspring of the twins that hatched the cosmic egg, it stood firm against the big uproar the deluge and guarded the young universe earth its bulwark. The tree is older than man. In its shadow the Leviathan snake created the nebula, stars, the earth from a rock, the skies its blanket, the ocean a pregnant queen; the tree a marker for whales and fish. Noah’s Ark was marooned here before the big storm—the prophet loaded the ship with the chosen pairs and sailed away, yet the tree stood high, survived the deluge, never submerged, saved life on earth. Its enormity guided men to climb up safely from the rough sea, a safe station for the herds of elephants and cape buffalos. Kruger Park

The baobab tree is older than the village. It stands wide and tall in its aged dark skin. Solid and strong, it’s dormant in the cold season leafy and green in the spring, yellow in the fall.

• 95 •

In the winter, it’s like an uprooted tree after a tornado (its wide trunk abruptly stops in midair). Branches comb the wind, brush the misty breeze. The sun warms its trunk; the moon weaves its twigs, spangles its young leaves; rain washes its rough chest. Under its shadow, the natives offer their bowls and Big Five statuettes for sale. Men are fishing in the river with bamboo poles. Women exchange tales about overseas gods, they ask for paper and pencils for their kids. Barefoot children write words on the sand. In Africa, Mother Earth is munificent; nature practical: weak and old, fallen trees and bones are salvaged. In Kruger Park, species are enduring. Only man breaks the rule with his gun. African Queen

In the dusty market, young salesmen offer to barter a week of work, a hand carved iron-wood cane, or a wooden bowl that took a mother of four three days to make, for a pen. Once a paradise for man, now fields of broken pipes, dilapidated shacks, and dry tanks, people dreaming of peace—meanwhile in the park the herds of buffalo, kudos and impalas graze gingerly. Lions and leopards repose in the shade assured of game, hyenas of bones; it’s a fair game, unless bandits break nature’s rules, pirate the tusks, the horns.

• 96 •

Beware of armed holy men, the false saints who usurp paradise and dig into the sacred earth. Look at the hills of dirt, dispossessed of their diamond and gold. The guide buys cow’s entrails—under his roof, the plate will serve twelve people. Yet on the waterfront, the African queen sells gems. Slim and pretty, she hums a forlorn song about the primal man who sailed away to an unknown land, evolved and returned with guns. Yet against all odds, the diverse fauna thrives.

• 97 •

Count to Ten

A dove hits the windowpane, falls. The bloody stain warns the next bird. The parched land absorbs brazen heat. The nearby lake is now a dry canyon. The woman collapses in the club. She breathes, able to count to ten moves her limbs, writhes with pain wriggles her left arm and shoulder. Her pulse is weak, face pallid. Dizzy, she gasps for air, murmurs her last will. Her husband is speechless. The loud ambulance closes in. They revive her faint heart, take her away. She counts to three and faints again. The siren roars on the long ride to the ER. The husband sits by her side, stunned.

• 98 •

Epilogue Rendezvous

I do not believe in miracles but what happened after New Year’s Day 1981 in a San Antonio restaurant changed the course of my life. That Tuesday night I took close friends of mine, an Iranian-American Jewish psychiatrist and his wife, out for dinner to a restaurant suitable for celebrating the visit by his worldly mother from Paris. A group of business women were dining at the table next to us, and a beautiful woman executive was seated near my friend’s mother. They eventually started chatting with each other in French and as soon as my friend’s mother found out the woman was single, she became interested in introducing her to me. The woman was a tennis player; I had a lighted tennis court in my backyard. She loved classical music; both of us had season subscriptions to the San Antonio Symphony. She was a bibliophile; I loved fiction and wrote poetry. On our first date, the children liked her a lot, though her tennis game was embarrassingly bad. Even my middle son who was only seven years old beat her. But the children had a good time. That night she cooked pasta with marinara sauce, I did the salad, and she instructed the children to set the table properly. The only person who was not happy that night was our housekeeper, who usually cooked our meals. Our next rendezvous was on my birthday which I thought I had kept quiet, for we only celebrate children’s birthdays in Iran. But when I arrived at her house, I found myself in the midst of a surprise birthday party, with my children as waiters, our housekeeper as the cook, and her as the hostess. She had invited some of my closest friends and colleagues with their wives and a few of her friends to celebrate my birthday. We have been celebrating together since.

• 99 •

About the Author Dr. Mo H Saidi was born in Iran, moved to the United States in 1969, and became a U.S. citizen in 1975. While teaching gynecological surgery at the University of Texas Health Science Center at San Antonio, he founded an OB/GYN group practice. He published over fifty scientific papers in American medical journals, as well as a well-regarded textbook, Female Sterilization: A Handbook for Women (Garland Publishing). Dr. Saidi’s first book of poetry, Art in the City, won the 2007 Eakin Memorial Book Publication Award of the Poetry Society of Texas. His second collection of poetry, The Color of Faith (2010), and a collection of short fiction, The Garden of Milk and Wine (2012), were published by Pecan Grove Press. He is the Managing Editor of Voices de la Luna: A Quarterly Poetry & Arts Magazine. A member of The Authors Guild, he has published numerous essays, short fiction pieces, and poems in local, state, and national journals and anthologies. Dr. Saidi is married and has three adult children and three grandchildren. Acknowledgments Some of the poems in this collection have been published before, in the San Antonio Express-News, The Poet Magazine, Inkwell Echoes (San Antonio Poets’ Association,) Sagebrush Review, the Dreamcatcher Anthology of the Awaken the Sleeping Poet Festival, Voices de la Luna: A Quarterly Poetry & Arts Magazine, Connective Tissue, The Current, and American Life in Poetry. I am obliged to Brigitte B. Saidi for her editorial skill and Carol Coffee Reposa for her enthusiasm for poetry; this manuscript would not have been completed without their assistance. I am grateful to James Brandenburg for his encouragement and his role in advancing the cause of poetry in San Antonio, and to Robert Flynn for his invaluable literary wisdom.

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W

ings Press was founded in 1975 by Joanie Whitebird and Joseph F. Lomax, both deceased, as “an informal association of artists and cultural mythologists dedicated to the preservation of the literature of the nation of Texas.” Publisher, editor and designer since 1995, Bryce Milligan is honored to carry on and expand that mission to include the finest in American writing—meaning all of the Americas, without commercial considerations clouding the decision to publish or not to publish. Wings Press intends to produce multicultural books, chapbooks, ebooks, recordings and broadsides that enlighten the human spirit and enliven the mind. Everyone ever associated with Wings has been or is a writer, and we know well that writing is a transformational art form capable of changing the world, primarily by allowing us to glimpse something of each other’s souls. We believe that good writing is innovative, insightful, and interesting. But most of all it is honest. Likewise, Wings Press is committed to treating the planet itself as a partner. Thus the press uses as much recycled material as possible, from the paper on which the books are printed to the boxes in which they are shipped. As Robert Dana wrote in Against the Grain, “Small press publishing is personal publishing. In essence, it’s a matter of personal vision, personal taste and courage, and personal friendships.” Welcome to our world.

Colophon This first edition of Between A and Z, by Mo H Saidi, has been printed on 55 pound Edwards Brothers Natural Paper containing a percentage of recycled fiber. Titles have been set in AquilineTwo and Cochin type, the text in Adobe Caslon type. All Wings Press books are designed and produced by Bryce Milligan.

On-line catalogue and ordering: www.wingspress.com Wings Press titles are distributed to the trade by the Independent Publishers Group www.ipgbook.com and in Europe by www.gazellebookservices.co.uk Also available as an ebook.