Put up with me! Just like the night Accustomed to freeways and flickering lights, Like the sitting blue color Next to the yellow one, In Vincent Van¬ Gogh's Sunflowers. Be intimate with me! Not like coarse brown sofas In Iranian apartments, Bulky, large, reclining -As a heavy and unintelligible concept- Remember me! Like a cafe in the middle of the night, With delicate Polish chairs, On a cobblestone street in Istanbul. Love me! Like the color of persimmon On a snowy day …
Poetry 2:
Fernand Leger Saw women in the shape of circles Breasts, heads, bellies and arms, perfectly round My spouse Sees me in the form of a critical box. He says one day -Out of distraction- I will set the house on fire. I am patient And cold-blooded In the back of my ear, there is a city I leave everything to there: Installment booklets Phone bills and job promotion forms My disrupted hormones And rubbing of the dishes. I crawl under the blanket -With all my circles- And I think One day I should go to Africa ...
Poetry 3:
Wake up babe! Say which pill is better for toothache? And why are two of my vases about to wither? Is it natural I am so Pessimistic? Get up my dear! Bid me, why are the tulips in the footnotes of Kant ’s third book still fresh? Do stocks flowers fight with each other for the moon? Do the flowers brag about their aroma? Get up sweetheart! Is the news true? Don’t the embezzlers of our country Get dizzy of so many zeros? Say, why can’t we experience the grief of the evening At the beginning of the morn? And be convenient the rest of the day? Wake up babe! Tell me, how is my new poem? Why did Plato kick the poets out of the city? And now they throw them in jail? Is rubbing the hide of the trees More in vain, or composing poetry? Why should one only talk of butterflies and the rainbow in poetry? Of those things which are seldom present in life? Why not talk of pens, glass of tea and sobbing under the blanket? Why we are so foolish in sleep and believe everything? Why are the children so insistent? Wake up, sweet heart! Say whether I mix the tea with cardamom or cinnamon chips? Say autumn is guilty My last night sleeplessness is guilty The heap of dirty dishes is guilty Otherwise, we are happy people. Say why we didn’t go to Macondo for our honeymoon? And do all the lovers’ tears fit into December? Does anybody check the fitness of the autumn’s colors? And why can’t I offer your name to my heart like a bowl of hot soup? My darling! My darling! I have a slight toothache and a mist in my head, And a question mark in my mouth That like a hook connects me to a fisherman Who has left the pond. The points of two of my vases’ plant leaves have been burnt And you have left for weeks, dear babe!
Poetry 4:
Talk to me! Let me have a home On your neck, Under your hot throat. I am afraid of the geometric shape of the telephone; I am afraid That the butterflies which I had hidden for years in my arms, Surge and rush towards you In the shape of disgusting insects. I hate Graham Bell; I hate the possibility of giving you a ring, Of this that my voice, Be senseless pulsations of the waves. In the number of the days, you forget me I kiss other men I confess: your arm Was the world’s most beautiful city, With sad harbors and railway bridges.
Poetry 5:
I’m fatigued, My ear’s pulse is beating. Women when menstruated, They think about divorce, About leaving, About putting an end to everything; This is not the reason that They become cynic and aggressive. . . Women get out of Plato’s cave, And find out that they’ve been pouring tea For an apparition -or for a shadow-. They discover that friendship with a shadow Is nothing, but friendship with cavity. However, women return to the cave, And imitate again the mimicry of happiness. Ah! If this would last for two weeks, The world would approach its end…
