Peyman | پیمان

After all these years And still y e a r s later I don’t know what to do when the yearning for home grabs a hold of my heart, so I carry with me, under the blue smoke of a cigarette, a few short songs of friendship, in a small flower pot. First Draft, 5.3.26 San Juan, PR. Translation: they turned your grave to a cypress grove. My dear tell me, Which cypress are you? Amir Hushang Ebtehaj (Persian: امیر هوشنگ ابتهاج;‎ 25 February 1928 – 10 August 2022), also known by his pen name H. E. Sayeh (Persian: ه.ا.سایه, lit. Shadow). Sayeh wrote this poem to Puri Soltani, Morteza Keyvan’s wife after they demolish his grave and turned it to a grove, and then later the new regime turned it to an apartment complex. He was Sayeh’s friend. Morteza was executed by firing squad in 1953 after the 1953 Iranian coup d'état AKA Operation Ajax. Seven decades later, A few war, a few regimes, a few dictators later, Executions continue.

Who is praying for us? They took our Evil Eye and pinned it on their doors, and asked us to pray for them. They took our words and pinned them on their menus and hats and instagrams, Yalla, Inshallah, Azizam, Habibi, Bi Tanem, because we’ve always said things better, like telling someone you love them in so many ways we can’t even keep track of. They paid their tax and ran their tanks and rockets to our land, Then they drank our tea and looked at the Evil Eye in the kitchen and asked us to pray for them, and we did, because we always pray for others. Yet no one prayed for us but our mothers, And they want to take that away too. First Draft, 3.12.26 San Juan, PR

Beethoven’s 5th “I never thought I’d say this but I’m sick of Beethoven’s 5th symphony” She said after our 18-month-old son’s obsession with the piece. Now I can’t tell which I like more, Her comical disgruntlement, Our son’s musical obsession, Or the 5th, Or her. I think all of them.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​ First Draft 3.4.26 San Juan, PR

Untitled Love Poem Someone Somewhere Said something and I thought “I should tell her about this!” … I’m sorry, I forgot all about it when I started to think about you. First Draft 3.2.26 San Juan, PR

On Change I’ve had, at one time or another, people ask me, among other questions, if fatherhood has changed me. And I usually give some version of a no-answer-answer to the question, or a plain old “I don’t know. It’s too soon to know. It’s been only a few months.” I knew it would—and has—changed my brain elasticity to an extent, my relationship with mortality, as in I am more (more than I already was) inclined to live a healthy and reasonably long life, and finances. But I don’t think of these things as changing Me, hence the answer “I don’t know.” Me (with a capital M, and what a silly thing that is to say) is perhaps more about my ethics and approach to morality, my politics, my conscience, my habits, style, time, solitude, etc., and I haven’t experienced a change in these things that felt like it was because of fatherhood. These things are somewhat evolving, but that was the case before I became a father too. Now, a year and a half in, I know it has changed me in some ways, and perhaps in some important ways. I experienced something close to an attachment. I was cleaning my windows, and I intentionally left a section of window untouched. It was my son’s greasy handprint on my window. My window with a beautiful view of the Atlantic Ocean. The not-father me would have never let a single mark on his windows, but the father me wanted to keep that mark a bit longer so I can stare at it longer, so I can remember the time my son was visiting me during my stay on the island. His little hands, his excitement when looking out of the window. He’s storm and chaos. So yes, perhaps I have changed in some ways, and probably will continue to. About the hand mark, I will clean it in a few days, partly because being attached to a handprint of someone who is not riddled with attachment feels silly, and partly because I still like my windows clean. But not just now. Not yet. 3.28.26 San Juan, PR

Coulda Been Spring is finally here, and I’m letting it roll over me, and not like a freshly washed linen, but more like a truck running over a possum. I talk to you and you tell me everything you touch turns to ash, which is a problem and I tell nothing I touch, touches me back, which is also a problem. And here I was, thinking I was easy to love not realizing how hard I’ve made it to love myself. Heavens, I can’t stand the mirrors in the morning. These days I wake up and even making my bed doesn’t give me the same joy it used to, and believe me I used to think no matter what happens I can always find a little bit of peace when I make my bed. Instead I make my bed and we stare at each other and no one ever wins, it’s always a draw, and then we give up. This is all to say: We all could have been beautiful or superstars, If we were not so drunk and not bleeding so much. First Draft 3.26.26 San Juan, PR

That’s It For F.N.T I Met a witch once “curse me” I said “I hope you become a poet” she said. Then we talked about war “aren’t you grateful to be living in the United States?” She said. “That’s it” I thought First draft 3.14.26 San Juan, PR

In the arms of despair Guilty Guilty Guilty Guilty Guilty Guilty I am guilty You are guilty We are guilty Guilty Guilty Guilty Guilty Guilty Guilty Not the school children under the rubble Not the shepherd and his dead herd Not the mother of a soldier serving a compulsory service Not the merchant and his burned goods Not the parents and their shamefully empty tables Not the stray dogs and cats burning to ashes Not the the young athletes crying under the banner of oppression and bombs Not the women wanting to be free Not the men wanting love Not the artist with their words locked in their throat Not the sailors buried in the sea Not the burning trees older than the leaders of the free world Not the old buildings of thousand of years ago Not my son No, not guilty. I used to write poetry and now I write a laundry list of shame and pain. Guilty I am You are We are. First draft 3.7.26 San Juan, PR — Photo: first bombs fall - Tehran 2.28.26

Nazanin For Ahmad Shamlou “روزگارِ غریبی‌ست، نازنین” These are strange days, Nazanin They’ve set up checkpoints at every corner, tho I’m not sure if they ever left. They pull you over and smell your breath, they don’t ask questions no more they are looking for anyone Whose heart has given home to the hope that his home can be free. They know hope smells like sweet roses and fresh water, they know home smells like a grandmother’s stew. There are checkpoints at every corner And if they pull you over and if you’ve ever muttered the word freedom, they’ll tie you to a pole, and they’ll make you repeat their chants And they rain blows of steel toe boots on your body: “Long live the king” “Death to the king” “Long live the imam” “Death to the Imam” “Long live the Great Satan” “Death to the Great Satan” and then they’ll spin you a hundred times, and release your body to the night, and you’ll lose your way home. Strange days never ended for us, Nazanin. First Draft, 3.7.26 San Juan, PR.

Wrote this 6 years ago and here we are. Except now it’s war, and I can’t call people. You Tell Me “How are you feeling?” “Oh man, I am so sorry” “Ugh this is terrible” “Are your parents safe?” I was just sitting on the couch, and listening to some jazz solo then, suddenly, text messages started to pour in. It was a calm evening otherwise, and I haven’t read the news all day. Without even I asking anyone what they meant, I got up went online, and typed in: Iran. I knew it. how? I don’t know, but I knew it was something about those four letters. About home. and it was. Just a couple of days into the new decade, The U.S had assassinated one of the most powerful generals of Iran — near an airport, in Baghdad. Good riddance but… I froze on the spot. … and this is how I wanted to lie to myself “This is not a declaration of war”, but your hands shake, and you feel that drop in your heart, you call your parents, you think about your friends, you walk down the childhood streets your mind scatters to thousand images. So I called my mother. She says - trying to hide any worry in her voice: “No no, don’t worry, inshalla nothing will happen” after a pause she adds, “But this is not good” I know, I say. we sigh. “How are you feeling?” “Oh man, I am so sorry” “Ugh this is terrible” “Are your parents safe?” Text messages kept coming. I don’t respond for a few hours, then type up a few lines, that say nothing. When the war lurks around your home sharpening its claws, when you know governments will scarifies their people for power, When you are afraid to even let your mind wander toward the possible consequences, when you feel lost and scared, You ask yourself, How should I answer those questions? I don’t know. You tell me. 1.3.20 Washington, D.C

Thug-a-war She tells me “at least the sun is shining and the sky is blue, there’s so much to be grateful for,” no one tells me things can get worse, what do they know? I tear a piece of bread and think of how many people were killed under blue skies, I’d think many. In Iran, for example, they often execute people with the sunrise. one last prayer, i guess. I’m sitting by a river, and perhaps, as far as I could be from morning executions, and the river is clear, and the river floats, and the river speaks, and we are both alive For an instant. There’s a lot to be grateful for, and a lot to be angry about, I was born into this. First Draft 2.25.26 Canóvanas, PR

What are the chances? “What are you doing?” “Writing a letter to a friend back home,” I said. “You might as well put it in a bottle,” he said. “Chances for her to get it are much higher that way.” He was right, but I kept writing anyway. “Do you want another drink?” He said I nodded. Then “I miss them too” he said I nodded. We drank. First Draft 1.15.26 Madrid, Spain. — Letter*: “[…] I’m sorry, and I know you are tired. I wish this winter was different from the last one, and the one before that, and the past 47 winters. Maybe spring will be different this time. Maybe. […] I hope you are well, and we get to sit across a table again one day and have some tea. I’m well. […] I am starting to hate the color red — it doesn’t belong to the streets — whenever I close my eyes, I see every street painted in it. Take care.”