Where should I put my love?
Cast to November’s gray brick
the city sways
thick with the lowered shoulders of old lovers
going to work or for a pack of cigarettes
assembly lines of cold metal pulsing life
in streets that can't carry another.
Where should I put my love?
The sky saturated with the cumulus of tears
and particulates of dissolved promises;
armies of last words spiral
in exile with yellow leaves.
Where should I put my love?
The Rio too shallow now to carry it
far enough from you
and the ocean’s meniscus pounds at the gates
a mesh of plastic indifference
floats limp near the surface.
Where should I put the love
that colored your eyes
and painted my skin the shimmer of ripples
crashed through reefs of ribs and teeth
to that tidal space between our breath
resting sated, in all the soft, dark corners
of a home foreclosed.
Where should I put this love?
I am full from you and the undigested lingers
it is too big for me to swallow
too big for me to hold.
Yasmeen Najmi
Monday, November 15, 2010
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
A love poem to the not in love (Part 4)
We will be lovers at the end of the world
where the sky burns orange with the diurnal remains
of unharnessed hopes the ocean cools into embers of reflections
slowly extinguished by night into dreams
and lucent clouds scattered to the four directions
to seed them.
Yasmeen Najmi
Copyright 2010 Yasmeen Najmi
A love poem to the not in love (Part 3)
Would you harvest me from the remnants of storms
unmasked in the soft cotton of your shirt,
admire me as rare, blue sea glass
in early, eastern rays
your fingers curved around blunted edge
kiss me as if I might break if you did
or didn't
would you give up your act to be in this story -
the one that we divine
in spite of this,
would you tell me something to make me stay?
Yasmeen Najmi
Copyright 2010 Yasmeen Najmi
unmasked in the soft cotton of your shirt,
admire me as rare, blue sea glass
in early, eastern rays
your fingers curved around blunted edge
kiss me as if I might break if you did
or didn't
would you give up your act to be in this story -
the one that we divine
in spite of this,
would you tell me something to make me stay?
Yasmeen Najmi
Copyright 2010 Yasmeen Najmi
A love poem to the not in love (Part 2)
You wrapped me in the fast moving clouds
of a desert storm
a rapturous gloom that fell with aspen randomness
across postured granite
lingered in the cracks and contours
of familiar wounds
you’ve learned to dance
like all water does around its suitors,
with the promises of fingertips
and our tangled, damp bed of roots
and scattered leaves
I climbed and climbed and settled
into the coldest, thickest part of you.
Yasmeen Najmi
copyright 2010 Yasmeen Najmi
of a desert storm
a rapturous gloom that fell with aspen randomness
across postured granite
lingered in the cracks and contours
of familiar wounds
you’ve learned to dance
like all water does around its suitors,
with the promises of fingertips
and our tangled, damp bed of roots
and scattered leaves
I climbed and climbed and settled
into the coldest, thickest part of you.
Yasmeen Najmi
copyright 2010 Yasmeen Najmi
A love poem to the not in love (Part 1)
Tongues grasp at hidden galaxies
in wordless portals
the Dopplered frequencies of thoughts
before dim vagrancy
the collision of dark matter
and a few faded, blinking stars.
Yasmeen Najmi
copyright 2010 Yasmeen Najmi
in wordless portals
the Dopplered frequencies of thoughts
before dim vagrancy
the collision of dark matter
and a few faded, blinking stars.
Yasmeen Najmi
copyright 2010 Yasmeen Najmi
In the Time of Yellow Flowers
(In loving memory of Dr. Cliff Crawford 1932-2010)
In the time of yellow flowers
you led the earth
into its fruit-drunk slumber
took it with you
as brown swallowed green.
And every bosque bird
knows your name from the bladed edge,
grey ghosts of cottonwoods
and opaque recesses
They know you
in the beaver's concaved trunks
and adobe hives
flushed from red fields
of Johnson grass and willows
tall as teenagers
thick with summer,
in the Round Dance
of lemon butterflies and alfalfa
the bittersweet tobacco of decay
unearthed in the last irrigations
in the tenor of water pushing through
the acequia crossing
and the quiet soprano of ripples
ironed into mirrors
of gold and blue
in the river's new gifts unwrapped
in the final sighs of the Sangres
love’s deep ecology rattles and hums
from lonely elms along farm roads
and the Rio at dusk
where we walk asking,
and what of us now
of all of this?
And we remember to stop
and listen
as the cool river bottom air
climbs out of bed
wakes the salt grass
follows old channels slowly
behind us, as you did
the warm pockets
rest gently on our shoulders
rustle a lullaby,
it is your song we now sing
to our own creations
And in this time of yellow flowers,
we will again look up and greet
the first staccato of cranes.
Yasmeen Najmi
copyright 2010 Yasmeen Najmi
In the time of yellow flowers
you led the earth
into its fruit-drunk slumber
took it with you
as brown swallowed green.
And every bosque bird
knows your name from the bladed edge,
grey ghosts of cottonwoods
and opaque recesses
They know you
in the beaver's concaved trunks
and adobe hives
flushed from red fields
of Johnson grass and willows
tall as teenagers
thick with summer,
in the Round Dance
of lemon butterflies and alfalfa
the bittersweet tobacco of decay
unearthed in the last irrigations
in the tenor of water pushing through
the acequia crossing
and the quiet soprano of ripples
ironed into mirrors
of gold and blue
in the river's new gifts unwrapped
in the final sighs of the Sangres
love’s deep ecology rattles and hums
from lonely elms along farm roads
and the Rio at dusk
where we walk asking,
and what of us now
of all of this?
And we remember to stop
and listen
as the cool river bottom air
climbs out of bed
wakes the salt grass
follows old channels slowly
behind us, as you did
the warm pockets
rest gently on our shoulders
rustle a lullaby,
it is your song we now sing
to our own creations
And in this time of yellow flowers,
we will again look up and greet
the first staccato of cranes.
Yasmeen Najmi
copyright 2010 Yasmeen Najmi
Sunday, August 22, 2010
Map of the Heart
If you want me
you can find me in
the painted canyons carved
by hollow whispers.
When you travel the verdant faults
tuck your secrets
in the cracks draining ojos,
bury them in muddy depositions
unearthed in the baptism
of Spring and love.
You will find little cover here
from the burning light that
opened my pores
to your fertile waters,
but winter came early
froze what was left
into wider crevasses
to see
breathe
release
more.
Time built these labyrinths
around me.
There are no trail signs
or rock cairns to mark the way,
the easy degrades faster
than I can recover.
I am deep rock
for those who seek
the dripping spring,
the hidden garden
of my Babylon.
Seek to walk the path for me,
with me.
No, it won't be easy
to find me now,
after awhile these canyons
look the same -
shades of pink
of love worn.
Yasmeen Najmi
Thursday, August 19, 2010
The Wayfinder (for Melanesian Navigator Mau Piailug)
The Wayfinder fixes the horizon
peels the layers of celestial orange
from top to bottom
notes the iridescent clouds
that hint lagoons
and unwrap storms
a white helix of shorebirds
with flapping silver beaks
on long journeys to short mouths
he traces the midnight of ocean rivers
Conducts the concerto of stars
with a cranial compass
points a 20 foot baton at Polaris
swaying arms and sails
På mai, på mai ka makani nui o Hilo
Blow, blow, great wind of Hilo
Bring the big wind gourd
listens for the humpback's French horn
the cymbal hiss of water
lapping hulls of the Hokule'a.
Always aim for the archipelago
never an island
in community you will find your way.
Blindfolded by the blackest nights
he was never alone
or lonely
reached down to the infrared
of volcanos breathing
the bullet movements of tangs
believed and loved what he couldn't see.
When your guiding star is shrouded
and all you have is your dream -
the island in your mind's eye,
the Wayfinder said
"Keep that image in your mind
if you lose it, you're going to be lost."
Lost as their centuries at sea
and each tide called more
of the old ones to the reef
returned waves of questions
of who would lead their people
from the next great flood
that tugged relentlessly.
Ho’i i ke kai
Wa’a Høküle'a
Eø, é ka wa'a
Return to the sea
the canoe Høküle'a.
Canoe, answer to this call.
Streaming orchids and harmonies
he sailed with the next generation
from Hawa'ii to Tahiti
Survival is more
than voyaging
or protecting our shores
but knowing when
to leave our island
and seek the archipelago.
Yasmeen Najmi
© 2010 Yasmeen Najmi
peels the layers of celestial orange
from top to bottom
notes the iridescent clouds
that hint lagoons
and unwrap storms
a white helix of shorebirds
with flapping silver beaks
on long journeys to short mouths
he traces the midnight of ocean rivers
Conducts the concerto of stars
with a cranial compass
points a 20 foot baton at Polaris
swaying arms and sails
På mai, på mai ka makani nui o Hilo
Blow, blow, great wind of Hilo
Bring the big wind gourd
listens for the humpback's French horn
the cymbal hiss of water
lapping hulls of the Hokule'a.
Always aim for the archipelago
never an island
in community you will find your way.
Blindfolded by the blackest nights
he was never alone
or lonely
reached down to the infrared
of volcanos breathing
the bullet movements of tangs
believed and loved what he couldn't see.
When your guiding star is shrouded
and all you have is your dream -
the island in your mind's eye,
the Wayfinder said
"Keep that image in your mind
if you lose it, you're going to be lost."
Lost as their centuries at sea
and each tide called more
of the old ones to the reef
returned waves of questions
of who would lead their people
from the next great flood
that tugged relentlessly.
Ho’i i ke kai
Wa’a Høküle'a
Eø, é ka wa'a
Return to the sea
the canoe Høküle'a.
Canoe, answer to this call.
Streaming orchids and harmonies
he sailed with the next generation
from Hawa'ii to Tahiti
Survival is more
than voyaging
or protecting our shores
but knowing when
to leave our island
and seek the archipelago.
Yasmeen Najmi
© 2010 Yasmeen Najmi
Friday, July 30, 2010
Oczen
Time roams
that tidal space
of give and take
deposits pearls
and other invitations
scours fractured stucco
from foundations
unravels the kilim's
heavy, woven history
beneath bared feet
the spent hourglass
sand's end
bats white lashes
tugs our child's name
we laugh and plunge
dolphins in the infinite blue.
Yasmeen Najmi
© 2010 Yasmeen Najmi
that tidal space
of give and take
deposits pearls
and other invitations
scours fractured stucco
from foundations
unravels the kilim's
heavy, woven history
beneath bared feet
the spent hourglass
sand's end
bats white lashes
tugs our child's name
we laugh and plunge
dolphins in the infinite blue.
Yasmeen Najmi
© 2010 Yasmeen Najmi
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Food Bank
He strides with Wall Street
intensity
sniper confident
linearity
across to the brokers
at the corner
barreling toward
recognition
I brake
and wonder why
they never look.
Yasmeen Najmi
© 2010 Yasmeen Najmi
intensity
sniper confident
linearity
across to the brokers
at the corner
barreling toward
recognition
I brake
and wonder why
they never look.
Yasmeen Najmi
© 2010 Yasmeen Najmi
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Foundations
For my grandfathers and all fathers. I love you!
Above the salt marshes
hinted among beech and pine
are geysers: springs of rocks
dig into the soil anywhere
and they pop up to greet you
like geologic gophers
some say the Romans
emerged from stones
and intuitively understood
the obstinance
that teaches patience to their host.
Men like my great-grandfather
Giorgio Calvi, a stonemason
who knew the value
of strength and beauty
a good foundation
metamorphic midwives
stretched short, hairy appendages
into the wombs of quarries
and earth
each newborn
proclaimed a chip off the old block
cradled by all the paisanos
that birthed and built a nation
the New York City subway
the Erie Canal
the Library of Congress
First National Bank, Las Vegas, NM.
the Fitchburg, KY. iron furnace
to supply the railroad
the Rockville railroad bridge, Marysville, PA.
and the railroad depot in Santa Rosa, CA
the Community Building in Douglass, KS.
the reservoir in Pelham, MA.
the Opera House in Cimarron, NM.
and cowboy cabins in Winnemucca, NV.
everything needed for a good life
stitched into Precambrian quilts
of coastal fog
lashed with sun's rays
and micaceous ripples
artfully layered and pressed
like a model's eyeshadow
each column and color
supporting the next
together they are powerful
foundations of our dreams
dreams that calloused and choked,
sometimes crushed
but always convinced.
I remember my grandfathers
and all immigrants
who want only the opportunity
to carve a new life
or to simply live
and accomplish this
by building the foundations
of ours.
Yasmeen Najmi
© 2010 Yasmeen Najmi
Above the salt marshes
hinted among beech and pine
are geysers: springs of rocks
dig into the soil anywhere
and they pop up to greet you
like geologic gophers
some say the Romans
emerged from stones
and intuitively understood
the obstinance
that teaches patience to their host.
Men like my great-grandfather
Giorgio Calvi, a stonemason
who knew the value
of strength and beauty
a good foundation
metamorphic midwives
stretched short, hairy appendages
into the wombs of quarries
and earth
each newborn
proclaimed a chip off the old block
cradled by all the paisanos
that birthed and built a nation
the New York City subway
the Erie Canal
the Library of Congress
First National Bank, Las Vegas, NM.
the Fitchburg, KY. iron furnace
to supply the railroad
the Rockville railroad bridge, Marysville, PA.
and the railroad depot in Santa Rosa, CA
the Community Building in Douglass, KS.
the reservoir in Pelham, MA.
the Opera House in Cimarron, NM.
and cowboy cabins in Winnemucca, NV.
everything needed for a good life
stitched into Precambrian quilts
of coastal fog
lashed with sun's rays
and micaceous ripples
artfully layered and pressed
like a model's eyeshadow
each column and color
supporting the next
together they are powerful
foundations of our dreams
dreams that calloused and choked,
sometimes crushed
but always convinced.
I remember my grandfathers
and all immigrants
who want only the opportunity
to carve a new life
or to simply live
and accomplish this
by building the foundations
of ours.
Yasmeen Najmi
© 2010 Yasmeen Najmi
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Black Girl (for Comrade Maase)
She brushes red mine dust
from sandals worn smooth
leaving veins in cracked heels
"everything here is red," she smiles
folds her fatigues
into neat samosas
with quick, slender motions
red, the color of death
ripped earth and wombs
shallow the Indravati
red, the color of endurance
a headdress of bricks
a helix of buntings
tonight she will carry
the weight of her world
two husbands
her mother's prayers
Niyamgiri's stony breasts
with an AK on her back
a flash of black eyes and steel
as she rises to dance
she shatters the Tendu leaf ceiling
offering light to stars
to the world unknown.
Yasmeen Najmi
© 2010 Yasmeen Najmi (inspired by "Walking with the Comrades" by Arundhati Roy)
from sandals worn smooth
leaving veins in cracked heels
"everything here is red," she smiles
folds her fatigues
into neat samosas
with quick, slender motions
red, the color of death
ripped earth and wombs
shallow the Indravati
red, the color of endurance
a headdress of bricks
a helix of buntings
tonight she will carry
the weight of her world
two husbands
her mother's prayers
Niyamgiri's stony breasts
with an AK on her back
a flash of black eyes and steel
as she rises to dance
she shatters the Tendu leaf ceiling
offering light to stars
to the world unknown.
Yasmeen Najmi
© 2010 Yasmeen Najmi (inspired by "Walking with the Comrades" by Arundhati Roy)
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Humus
This year, it’s taken awhile
to believe
wary eyes cocked
to oscillating skies
uneasy, but secretly harboring
the truth all Albuquerque folk know
about frost dates and April,
we toe tested in the shallow end
summer came like a pool bully
pushed us from behind
into the 150 proof,
gold tooth-blinding breath
of a Costco parking lot
but somehow…it doesn’t feel like summer.
Was almost convinced by
the cheat grass hiss
the coronation of mulberry-bruised lips
the Rio bumped and strained,
crept beneath to witness
the restless wicks
of velocity and tailpipes
raging Second Street
but, it still doesn't feel like summer.
Summer is a storm of branches
cracking skies
sidewalk tsunamis and stick nest hair
the vato whistles of fireflies
from raspberry thickets
and paint-weary porches
the sweaty milk of corn shucked
and grass cut.
Summers archived
with the humidity of youth
so I need a vernal story
to talk me through equatorial lines
a plow to break sutured concrete
and the false skin of old sand
resurface the fertile profiles
of solstice dreams.
Yasmeen Najmi
© 2010 Yasmeen Najmi
to believe
wary eyes cocked
to oscillating skies
uneasy, but secretly harboring
the truth all Albuquerque folk know
about frost dates and April,
we toe tested in the shallow end
summer came like a pool bully
pushed us from behind
into the 150 proof,
gold tooth-blinding breath
of a Costco parking lot
but somehow…it doesn’t feel like summer.
Was almost convinced by
the cheat grass hiss
the coronation of mulberry-bruised lips
the Rio bumped and strained,
crept beneath to witness
the restless wicks
of velocity and tailpipes
raging Second Street
but, it still doesn't feel like summer.
Summer is a storm of branches
cracking skies
sidewalk tsunamis and stick nest hair
the vato whistles of fireflies
from raspberry thickets
and paint-weary porches
the sweaty milk of corn shucked
and grass cut.
Summers archived
with the humidity of youth
so I need a vernal story
to talk me through equatorial lines
a plow to break sutured concrete
and the false skin of old sand
resurface the fertile profiles
of solstice dreams.
Yasmeen Najmi
© 2010 Yasmeen Najmi
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Blackbird
Blackbird singing in the dead of night
take these broken wings and learn to fly
I felt the terror in your eyes
when you emerged paralyzed
Blackbird dipped in oily stream
frozen feathers
plucked and gleaned
down that you just can't make clean
Blackbird fly away with me
cause we don't have much time
swirling skies are coming
and we can't hold the line
Blackbird fly away with me
to the water that don't shine
Thunder Bayou's burning
and I no longer drive.
Yasmeen Najmi
(first two lines from song "Blackbird" by the Beatles)
© 2010 Yasmeen Najmi
take these broken wings and learn to fly
I felt the terror in your eyes
when you emerged paralyzed
Blackbird dipped in oily stream
frozen feathers
plucked and gleaned
down that you just can't make clean
Blackbird fly away with me
cause we don't have much time
swirling skies are coming
and we can't hold the line
Blackbird fly away with me
to the water that don't shine
Thunder Bayou's burning
and I no longer drive.
Yasmeen Najmi
(first two lines from song "Blackbird" by the Beatles)
© 2010 Yasmeen Najmi
What We Remember
What we remember
"We the people of the United States of America
establish justice, insure domestic tranquility
promote the general welfare
and secure the Blessings of Liberty
One nation under God
indivisible
with liberty and justice for all
and all men are created equal
No State shall make or enforce any law
abridging the privileges or immunities
of citizens
whenever any government
becomes destructive of these ends
it is the right of the people
to alter or abolish it
innocent until proven guilty."
We remember our warriors
tagged and numberless
colors of Desert Storm fatigues
camouflage of spilled blood and youth
truths not self-evident
out of scope's range.
The American Dream
We remember
not to forget.
Yasmeen Najmi
© 2010 Yasmeen Najmi
"We the people of the United States of America
establish justice, insure domestic tranquility
promote the general welfare
and secure the Blessings of Liberty
One nation under God
indivisible
with liberty and justice for all
and all men are created equal
No State shall make or enforce any law
abridging the privileges or immunities
of citizens
whenever any government
becomes destructive of these ends
it is the right of the people
to alter or abolish it
innocent until proven guilty."
We remember our warriors
tagged and numberless
colors of Desert Storm fatigues
camouflage of spilled blood and youth
truths not self-evident
out of scope's range.
The American Dream
We remember
not to forget.
Yasmeen Najmi
© 2010 Yasmeen Najmi
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Wilderness of Hope
Wilderness without trees
secrets and dreams
roam Guadalupe's caverns
with bones of birds and men
where conversations obey prevailing winds
brittle words and looks tumble in warning
down Main Street legends
the Chamber of Commerce’s Last Stand
against those who surrendered
to dust and empty shells,
barren reefs lining shores of highways.
Pecos, Texas: Gateway to Nada
A café's tribute of patriotism
almost hides the wood paneled walls
and you realize that West Texas
has always been a police state
Pecos Bill and his rifle-bearing posse
a collage of modern soldiers
their uniforms are banderas
the confession of the sin
of being Mexican
to painted Jesus at his Last Supper
the only one they can really count on
when the chips are down
jobs are few
they don’t replace the bullet-ridden windows
The Law never changed
only the outlaws
no white textbook deities
their stories were abducted
driven into searing light
bleached, bloodlet
unstrung corridos
salvaged by vultures and javelinas
at campfires of the disappeared.
Oil wells peck like desert gulls
to hot, slow rhythms
yo-yo in and out of creosote fields
dark men spray chemicals without masks
in screaming winds
their sky-stung, naked hands rake leaves
from Lady Bird's primary colors
bonnet blues, a ranchera to stay warm
but above the rust ghosts of petrol
frozen in mid-sentence
up on the chalky, pine-freckled mesa
the shifting winds silently turn
the giant white fans of hope.
Yasmeen Najmi
© 2010 Yasmeen Najmi
secrets and dreams
roam Guadalupe's caverns
with bones of birds and men
where conversations obey prevailing winds
brittle words and looks tumble in warning
down Main Street legends
the Chamber of Commerce’s Last Stand
against those who surrendered
to dust and empty shells,
barren reefs lining shores of highways.
Pecos, Texas: Gateway to Nada
A café's tribute of patriotism
almost hides the wood paneled walls
and you realize that West Texas
has always been a police state
Pecos Bill and his rifle-bearing posse
a collage of modern soldiers
their uniforms are banderas
the confession of the sin
of being Mexican
to painted Jesus at his Last Supper
the only one they can really count on
when the chips are down
jobs are few
they don’t replace the bullet-ridden windows
The Law never changed
only the outlaws
no white textbook deities
their stories were abducted
driven into searing light
bleached, bloodlet
unstrung corridos
salvaged by vultures and javelinas
at campfires of the disappeared.
Oil wells peck like desert gulls
to hot, slow rhythms
yo-yo in and out of creosote fields
dark men spray chemicals without masks
in screaming winds
their sky-stung, naked hands rake leaves
from Lady Bird's primary colors
bonnet blues, a ranchera to stay warm
but above the rust ghosts of petrol
frozen in mid-sentence
up on the chalky, pine-freckled mesa
the shifting winds silently turn
the giant white fans of hope.
Yasmeen Najmi
© 2010 Yasmeen Najmi
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Birthed by Xylem
Isn't it good to be born, yaar
in this time of transpiration?
flying to the sun
Surya's golden arms
stretch cold womb
a radiant midwife
softening,
untangling green veins
from brown
with placental permission
each sigh dilates
maternal portals
coaxing seedlings
to the leaf pile
beneath the nest.
Yasmeen Najmi
(yaar = friend, Surya = Sun Deity)
© 2010 Yasmeen Najmi
in this time of transpiration?
flying to the sun
Surya's golden arms
stretch cold womb
a radiant midwife
softening,
untangling green veins
from brown
with placental permission
each sigh dilates
maternal portals
coaxing seedlings
to the leaf pile
beneath the nest.
Yasmeen Najmi
(yaar = friend, Surya = Sun Deity)
© 2010 Yasmeen Najmi
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Kutch Rain
Rain has come to Kutch
you set fire to grasses
in preparation
burning core
melts laterally
travel through
my shattered landscape
bound centrifugally
by your gaze.
Submergence
etched, carved
arms frame
blurring edge
rebuild me with cool adobe
blocks of silty skin
cut from salt flats
of our shore.
Lips gather
pick gently
at seared flesh
epicurean vulture
elegantly scouring
to nothing but
bulbul songs,
whispered mantras
of past lives
haunting Ghat currents
through canyons
of blushing ears.
Rain has come to Kutch
at night
I know surrender
I hold you in my step well
for future drought.
Yasmeen Najmi
© 2010 Yasmeen Najmi
you set fire to grasses
in preparation
burning core
melts laterally
travel through
my shattered landscape
bound centrifugally
by your gaze.
Submergence
etched, carved
arms frame
blurring edge
rebuild me with cool adobe
blocks of silty skin
cut from salt flats
of our shore.
Lips gather
pick gently
at seared flesh
epicurean vulture
elegantly scouring
to nothing but
bulbul songs,
whispered mantras
of past lives
haunting Ghat currents
through canyons
of blushing ears.
Rain has come to Kutch
at night
I know surrender
I hold you in my step well
for future drought.
Yasmeen Najmi
© 2010 Yasmeen Najmi
The Elephant in the Room
The elephant in the room
is a ceremonious diva
she carries her weight confidently
like Queen Latifah
and she can get you with that Queen look
you know the one I'm talking about
sideways, eyes slit
burgundy lips
wrinkle a warning
and a "mmmhmmm"
vibrates from a place
deep beneath her blouse
you know you'll never see.
The elephant in the room
seeks low places
not for the company
she hides behind a burqa
of clay and cottonwood leaves
but uses her eyes as a weapon
sleeps on cool sandbars
tail thumping unconsciously
to bullfrog, deep pool bass
casting flies and other,
more savvy suitors
to the corners of her dreams.
The elephant in the room
has hips that can knock a man
off bar stools
and bus stops on Central
she sways her trunk
like a bossa nova
through the bosque
and down the ditch on Atrisco
sweeping for emotional land mines.
The elephant in the room
stands lonely in her exhibit
because branches and balls
can't bathe her
with mud and cool water
and she's forgotten
the ancient acoustics females use
to call a mate
or their herd
and doesn't know where to look.
The elephant in the room
is afraid of being alone
but elephants never forget
she wears the scrubbed coffee stains
of her shackles
and refuses to board the truck
to the next circus.
The elephant in the room
is so large that noone
can share her space
or get past the couch
placed near the front door
nothing grows in her shadow
not even tumbleweeds
the misanthropic nightshade
or love.
The elephant in the room
is every woman afraid
to be stuck with something
worse than celibacy
one less pillow or paycheck
to extract the fragments
from scar tissue sprayed over
3am grafitti on back doors
that read "too much"
or "not enough"
to those close enough
to decipher the swerving tire script.
Yasmeen Najmi
© 2010 Yasmeen Najmi
is a ceremonious diva
she carries her weight confidently
like Queen Latifah
and she can get you with that Queen look
you know the one I'm talking about
sideways, eyes slit
burgundy lips
wrinkle a warning
and a "mmmhmmm"
vibrates from a place
deep beneath her blouse
you know you'll never see.
The elephant in the room
seeks low places
not for the company
she hides behind a burqa
of clay and cottonwood leaves
but uses her eyes as a weapon
sleeps on cool sandbars
tail thumping unconsciously
to bullfrog, deep pool bass
casting flies and other,
more savvy suitors
to the corners of her dreams.
The elephant in the room
has hips that can knock a man
off bar stools
and bus stops on Central
she sways her trunk
like a bossa nova
through the bosque
and down the ditch on Atrisco
sweeping for emotional land mines.
The elephant in the room
stands lonely in her exhibit
because branches and balls
can't bathe her
with mud and cool water
and she's forgotten
the ancient acoustics females use
to call a mate
or their herd
and doesn't know where to look.
The elephant in the room
is afraid of being alone
but elephants never forget
she wears the scrubbed coffee stains
of her shackles
and refuses to board the truck
to the next circus.
The elephant in the room
is so large that noone
can share her space
or get past the couch
placed near the front door
nothing grows in her shadow
not even tumbleweeds
the misanthropic nightshade
or love.
The elephant in the room
is every woman afraid
to be stuck with something
worse than celibacy
one less pillow or paycheck
to extract the fragments
from scar tissue sprayed over
3am grafitti on back doors
that read "too much"
or "not enough"
to those close enough
to decipher the swerving tire script.
Yasmeen Najmi
© 2010 Yasmeen Najmi
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
A Wall in the Heart
A poem from Salah-al-Din (Saladin) to Simon Wiesenthal re: building the Simon Wiesenthal Center for Dignity and Tolerance on top of the Mamilla Cemetary – a 1000-year-old Moslem burial ground in Jerusalem.
They say in death
we are equal
but our dead cannot rest
peeled awake in layers to witness
the long-awaited arrival
of dignity and tolerance
the latest chapter in the Holy War
You said, Shimon,
that a People are not evil
only individuals
shifting sands
revoked sacred geography
for neglect of our brothers.
We are no strangers to death, Shimon
the red rivers of Jerusalem and Krakow
horses and boots slipped and snared
in kudzu of limbs
as they forded them
drunk with power
swords and bullets whirling round Vienna waltzes
and Crusade became crucifixion
Aliyah, apartheid
Charity, recruitment
for God’s armies
Jihad, a brutality waged on others
but to the internal struggle
we must return
salvation is not possession
but liberation.
We are not so different, Shimon
I remember the words
of my great father, Ayuub
to battle only when
all bridges are impassable
soldiers will sacrifice
for cause that transcends them
a whispered promise
in Mecca prostrations.
Are Jerusalem’s gates beyond repair?
Is it the fate of the place
that gave birth to our prophets
to wave the flag of intolerance,
flaunt scars and stripes and D9 damn the different
Did we not learn that suffering
is the enemy of nobility
power and devotion
the twins born of Myth
and every breath conceives a choice?
Salah-al-din’s army
recaptured Jerusalem
Abraham’s children returned
Muslim and Jew rejoiced
the victors rewrite history
but when we finally reach the promised land
we must ask, was our cause just?
Did we live by our books
or by eyeless faith and lust?
Jeremiah foretold that the law
would not be inscribed in stone
but deep in our hearts
where this wall remains
and there are one way arteries to reason
not compassion
we can always find scripture
to justify reaction
but I pray we don’t forget
the good, the merciful
who live by their word
give us comfort and wisdom
with bread in darkness
when the Temple wall exhales
the western sky
returns wails of the dispossessed
their hungry, hollow eyes stretching barbed wire
of No Man’s land.
A lonely call to prayer
announces a new dawn
they say the Moors dwelt
in the drowning sun
washing flame and sin
from our Saharan star
placing it anew
each morning in the eastern sky
so nothing's irreversible, Shimon
we’ve proved
that the dead, like our humanity
can be forgotten
but so can our transgressions
and failures to love the stranger
and the vulnerable as our own
to see divinity in each of us
one thousand golden domes.
You fought for justice not vengeance
contemplated forgiveness
and envied dead Nazis
decorated with names and sunflowers
their brilliant, yellow optimism
made you forget for a moment
that God had abandoned you
at Mauthausen
silently praying
someone would care enough
to plant a sunflower for birds
to carry you pieces and seeds to Zion
so I ask you, Shimon,
who will plant sunflowers
on the tired, shattered graves of Mamilla
who will forgive you?
Yasmeen Najmi
© 2010 Yasmeen Najmi
They say in death
we are equal
but our dead cannot rest
peeled awake in layers to witness
the long-awaited arrival
of dignity and tolerance
the latest chapter in the Holy War
You said, Shimon,
that a People are not evil
only individuals
shifting sands
revoked sacred geography
for neglect of our brothers.
We are no strangers to death, Shimon
the red rivers of Jerusalem and Krakow
horses and boots slipped and snared
in kudzu of limbs
as they forded them
drunk with power
swords and bullets whirling round Vienna waltzes
and Crusade became crucifixion
Aliyah, apartheid
Charity, recruitment
for God’s armies
Jihad, a brutality waged on others
but to the internal struggle
we must return
salvation is not possession
but liberation.
We are not so different, Shimon
I remember the words
of my great father, Ayuub
to battle only when
all bridges are impassable
soldiers will sacrifice
for cause that transcends them
a whispered promise
in Mecca prostrations.
Are Jerusalem’s gates beyond repair?
Is it the fate of the place
that gave birth to our prophets
to wave the flag of intolerance,
flaunt scars and stripes and D9 damn the different
Did we not learn that suffering
is the enemy of nobility
power and devotion
the twins born of Myth
and every breath conceives a choice?
Salah-al-din’s army
recaptured Jerusalem
Abraham’s children returned
Muslim and Jew rejoiced
the victors rewrite history
but when we finally reach the promised land
we must ask, was our cause just?
Did we live by our books
or by eyeless faith and lust?
Jeremiah foretold that the law
would not be inscribed in stone
but deep in our hearts
where this wall remains
and there are one way arteries to reason
not compassion
we can always find scripture
to justify reaction
but I pray we don’t forget
the good, the merciful
who live by their word
give us comfort and wisdom
with bread in darkness
when the Temple wall exhales
the western sky
returns wails of the dispossessed
their hungry, hollow eyes stretching barbed wire
of No Man’s land.
A lonely call to prayer
announces a new dawn
they say the Moors dwelt
in the drowning sun
washing flame and sin
from our Saharan star
placing it anew
each morning in the eastern sky
so nothing's irreversible, Shimon
we’ve proved
that the dead, like our humanity
can be forgotten
but so can our transgressions
and failures to love the stranger
and the vulnerable as our own
to see divinity in each of us
one thousand golden domes.
You fought for justice not vengeance
contemplated forgiveness
and envied dead Nazis
decorated with names and sunflowers
their brilliant, yellow optimism
made you forget for a moment
that God had abandoned you
at Mauthausen
silently praying
someone would care enough
to plant a sunflower for birds
to carry you pieces and seeds to Zion
so I ask you, Shimon,
who will plant sunflowers
on the tired, shattered graves of Mamilla
who will forgive you?
Yasmeen Najmi
© 2010 Yasmeen Najmi
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Distant Kingdom (Ghazal)
All, this is my first attempt at a ghazal. It follows a story my dad told me of when his family had to leave Nagpur and move to Hyderabad, India after the partition of India and Pakistan. Hyderabad was still under the rule of a Muslim prince, so they thought they would be safer there. Nevertheless, there was the threat of violence, so they had to leave quietly and travel at night.
We left at night, an industrial moon bathing the Distant Kingdom,
Revealed dim paths to men, leading us to the Distant Kingdom.
The moon unveiled furrowed brown faces, darting eyes and whispers,
To Allah’s weary, wide-eyed children, dreaming of a Distant Kingdom.
Small hands clutched saris, weaving in and out of brilliant folds,
Decolonized, weak smiles seeking refuge in the Distant Kingdom.
The bus traced scents of Mughal gardens, evening jasmine and gul,
Through long grass and listless rivers, searching for the Distant Kingdom.
Peacocks wailed the women’s songs of bride departure gloom,
Eight-hundred years of marriage breaking with a Distant Kingdom.
We woke to shouts and spinning wheels - a bus void of men,
Emancipated from its muddy prison singing odes to Distant Kingdom.
Oh Yasmeen, did you glimpse the light that danced on peaceful ripples?
The orange moon remained, blessing our journey to the Distant Kingdom.
Yasmeen Najmi
© 2010 Yasmeen Najmi
We left at night, an industrial moon bathing the Distant Kingdom,
Revealed dim paths to men, leading us to the Distant Kingdom.
The moon unveiled furrowed brown faces, darting eyes and whispers,
To Allah’s weary, wide-eyed children, dreaming of a Distant Kingdom.
Small hands clutched saris, weaving in and out of brilliant folds,
Decolonized, weak smiles seeking refuge in the Distant Kingdom.
The bus traced scents of Mughal gardens, evening jasmine and gul,
Through long grass and listless rivers, searching for the Distant Kingdom.
Peacocks wailed the women’s songs of bride departure gloom,
Eight-hundred years of marriage breaking with a Distant Kingdom.
We woke to shouts and spinning wheels - a bus void of men,
Emancipated from its muddy prison singing odes to Distant Kingdom.
Oh Yasmeen, did you glimpse the light that danced on peaceful ripples?
The orange moon remained, blessing our journey to the Distant Kingdom.
Yasmeen Najmi
© 2010 Yasmeen Najmi
Thursday, February 18, 2010
Early Bird Special
The gym looks like the Senior Center
Sagging suits and shuffling sandals
sweating out winter
and other cranial centered maladies
And a younger dude, friendly in a way
That makes me sit near the sauna door
Tattoos and eyeliner ringed like a boxer
Fighting for both sides
I think it was a draw
The shades of gray hair
Define the range of pool side discourse
High volume and vapid
Sliding slowly along wet floors into drains
An older man tells us
He goes to the gym
to avoid his wife
And his car refuses
to make that right turn
home to Taylor Ranch
magically carrying him like
Chitty Chitty Bang Bang
To the Santa Ana Casino
In the half hour I was there
He repeats this confession three times
As if he wants to tell enough of us
to make the Rosary
Anything to escape mind numbing
Lack of purpose wrought by retirement
The air drips resignation.
“I know what you mean, bro”
Said a man in the Jacuzzi
Still young enough to be seen with his wife
“I go with my lady to the seafood buffet
For nineteen dollars you get
all-you-can-eat crab legs
And they’re biiiig (his hands confirm the abundance)
It’s worth the money for that.”
And the older man admits that
he sometimes prefers a good hot dog to steak
And I watch clichés spiral in currents
Recirculating questions about why one would
quit a good postal service
or any job with benefits and pension
and whether they would go to Vegas.
The locker room women have bakery bodies
Breasts hang warm and unembarrassed
like stretched pizza dough
I survey my flushed figure in the mirror
breathe into saturated lungs
Relieved that most of my ribs are visible
Smile and realize
That, perhaps the trite conversations
really aren’t the problem
In our garage entrance-cul-de-sac culture
Hell, I’m just glad people talk.
Yasmeen Najmi
© 2010 Yasmeen Najmi
Sagging suits and shuffling sandals
sweating out winter
and other cranial centered maladies
And a younger dude, friendly in a way
That makes me sit near the sauna door
Tattoos and eyeliner ringed like a boxer
Fighting for both sides
I think it was a draw
The shades of gray hair
Define the range of pool side discourse
High volume and vapid
Sliding slowly along wet floors into drains
An older man tells us
He goes to the gym
to avoid his wife
And his car refuses
to make that right turn
home to Taylor Ranch
magically carrying him like
Chitty Chitty Bang Bang
To the Santa Ana Casino
In the half hour I was there
He repeats this confession three times
As if he wants to tell enough of us
to make the Rosary
Anything to escape mind numbing
Lack of purpose wrought by retirement
The air drips resignation.
“I know what you mean, bro”
Said a man in the Jacuzzi
Still young enough to be seen with his wife
“I go with my lady to the seafood buffet
For nineteen dollars you get
all-you-can-eat crab legs
And they’re biiiig (his hands confirm the abundance)
It’s worth the money for that.”
And the older man admits that
he sometimes prefers a good hot dog to steak
And I watch clichés spiral in currents
Recirculating questions about why one would
quit a good postal service
or any job with benefits and pension
and whether they would go to Vegas.
The locker room women have bakery bodies
Breasts hang warm and unembarrassed
like stretched pizza dough
I survey my flushed figure in the mirror
breathe into saturated lungs
Relieved that most of my ribs are visible
Smile and realize
That, perhaps the trite conversations
really aren’t the problem
In our garage entrance-cul-de-sac culture
Hell, I’m just glad people talk.
Yasmeen Najmi
© 2010 Yasmeen Najmi
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Haiku
In winter salt grass
the tamarisk and willow
are again equal
A wall can't deny
smells and sounds of genocide
their screams roam at night
Flash of black white tail
lifting hopes to winter branch
was just a Robin
Lady Liberty
repatriating freedom
how long will we drift?
Comida pura
porque es necessito
a defenderla?
Rio tap water
has estrogen and prozac
life is looking up
White dog with dreadlocks
Barelas 4th Street struttin'
in a pink sweater
Yasmeen Najmi
© 2010 Yasmeen Najmi
the tamarisk and willow
are again equal
A wall can't deny
smells and sounds of genocide
their screams roam at night
Flash of black white tail
lifting hopes to winter branch
was just a Robin
Lady Liberty
repatriating freedom
how long will we drift?
Comida pura
porque es necessito
a defenderla?
Rio tap water
has estrogen and prozac
life is looking up
White dog with dreadlocks
Barelas 4th Street struttin'
in a pink sweater
Yasmeen Najmi
© 2010 Yasmeen Najmi
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Convivencia
You returned in the Fall
of my 40th year
Armed with an early frost
And a box of 500-year-old plums
The forbidden fruits of our common ancestry
Blurred the boundaries of our worlds
If I fed you my jam with horno bread
Would you recognize the explosion of purple
cryogenically preserved in the layers
of a Buffalo winter?
The firm, green pucker of impending womanhood
Would it taste like me?
Tormented by your freeze-thaw
I broke the silence
I don’t remember your few, soft words that night
Only how they erupted in beautiful volcanic violence
Hurled fiberoptically through flaming canyons
Slamming into sandstone, stealing my breath
from the river where I hibernate beneath mud and snow
Frozen stalagmites dripping lethargically
into swirling debris
Your voice dove deep into my bed
Liberated geothermal streams
That nibbled the cold from below
Gently exposed fractals and fractures through icy lenses
Warm currents shaped my face
Brushed away leaves and lost years
Dendritic fingers carved cliffs and valleys
The genesis of Spring and tears form vegas
The thick grass of your chest
Birthing sparrows and love again
But your tongue could never speak of love
It just pushed it deep inside of me
A seed that suffocates in the darkness of womb
But never dies
I want you to reconstitute me
With caldera endurance and ancient fire
Lava burning rifts into thighs
Following the Silk Road to white sheets
And in our movement
Time leaves nothing but ash and Pele’s tears
And your eyes
The blue Spanish sky.
Yasmeen Najmi
© 2010 Yasmeen Najmi
of my 40th year
Armed with an early frost
And a box of 500-year-old plums
The forbidden fruits of our common ancestry
Blurred the boundaries of our worlds
If I fed you my jam with horno bread
Would you recognize the explosion of purple
cryogenically preserved in the layers
of a Buffalo winter?
The firm, green pucker of impending womanhood
Would it taste like me?
Tormented by your freeze-thaw
I broke the silence
I don’t remember your few, soft words that night
Only how they erupted in beautiful volcanic violence
Hurled fiberoptically through flaming canyons
Slamming into sandstone, stealing my breath
from the river where I hibernate beneath mud and snow
Frozen stalagmites dripping lethargically
into swirling debris
Your voice dove deep into my bed
Liberated geothermal streams
That nibbled the cold from below
Gently exposed fractals and fractures through icy lenses
Warm currents shaped my face
Brushed away leaves and lost years
Dendritic fingers carved cliffs and valleys
The genesis of Spring and tears form vegas
The thick grass of your chest
Birthing sparrows and love again
But your tongue could never speak of love
It just pushed it deep inside of me
A seed that suffocates in the darkness of womb
But never dies
I want you to reconstitute me
With caldera endurance and ancient fire
Lava burning rifts into thighs
Following the Silk Road to white sheets
And in our movement
Time leaves nothing but ash and Pele’s tears
And your eyes
The blue Spanish sky.
Yasmeen Najmi
© 2010 Yasmeen Najmi
Monday, February 8, 2010
The Back 40 and other Underground Tales
From 25,000 feet our country
looks like a desperate act of geometry
As if the Gods of Aztlan, in a last attempt at prophecy
threw thunderbolts
from the roof of the Sony Maquila
And collapsed the border wall
into a giant flat screen
So we could all look the same to them
The topography is killing us
Or perhaps it was aliens
playing laser games with landscape
In an intergalactic contest to see
how many bank-approved shapes
Could be jammed into an irregular continent
There are 40 squares in a section of land
Roads and natural features
Our children's response
to coloring inside the lines
A rebellion of vermacelli and fistfuls of sand
hurled across checkerboard yards
Our Euro-obsession with rectangularity
stamps remnant hills and forests
Random waves conclude with stoplight precision
But in the twilight of red farm dust and cricket nods
When noone can see them
The rows sigh and shake off the long, linear day
As dog’s ear casts a fly
Fingers of water appear
then disappear under boundary fences
forced underground in silent streams
You, water, giver of life and soil
You are not wanted here
You create and destroy
Like the lover
That submerges us, as we gasp for more
and other times
Pulses, embedding the echos of waves
Before evulsing to other valleys
We tried to redefine you
Paint you with familiar colors
Herd you into shimmering corrals
and brand you with sexy French names
And childhood memories of instant chocolate
Taking what we want and need
But never with enough distance
to avoid the collateral damage
So we erected levees, dams
diverted and shared you with others,
Flushed you with estro-prozac cocktails and filed for custody
To make you stay
You were always just passing through
We never learned from those
Whose lives we stole
their knowledge thrown into arroyos
with grizzle and bones after the feast
We never intended to reshape our existence
beyond the bought and paid
Knowing this
You went away sadly
Sinking into sands of doubt
Evaporating into desert skies.
Yasmeen Najmi
© 2010 Yasmeen Najmi
looks like a desperate act of geometry
As if the Gods of Aztlan, in a last attempt at prophecy
threw thunderbolts
from the roof of the Sony Maquila
And collapsed the border wall
into a giant flat screen
So we could all look the same to them
The topography is killing us
Or perhaps it was aliens
playing laser games with landscape
In an intergalactic contest to see
how many bank-approved shapes
Could be jammed into an irregular continent
There are 40 squares in a section of land
Roads and natural features
Our children's response
to coloring inside the lines
A rebellion of vermacelli and fistfuls of sand
hurled across checkerboard yards
Our Euro-obsession with rectangularity
stamps remnant hills and forests
Random waves conclude with stoplight precision
But in the twilight of red farm dust and cricket nods
When noone can see them
The rows sigh and shake off the long, linear day
As dog’s ear casts a fly
Fingers of water appear
then disappear under boundary fences
forced underground in silent streams
You, water, giver of life and soil
You are not wanted here
You create and destroy
Like the lover
That submerges us, as we gasp for more
and other times
Pulses, embedding the echos of waves
Before evulsing to other valleys
We tried to redefine you
Paint you with familiar colors
Herd you into shimmering corrals
and brand you with sexy French names
And childhood memories of instant chocolate
Taking what we want and need
But never with enough distance
to avoid the collateral damage
So we erected levees, dams
diverted and shared you with others,
Flushed you with estro-prozac cocktails and filed for custody
To make you stay
You were always just passing through
We never learned from those
Whose lives we stole
their knowledge thrown into arroyos
with grizzle and bones after the feast
We never intended to reshape our existence
beyond the bought and paid
Knowing this
You went away sadly
Sinking into sands of doubt
Evaporating into desert skies.
Yasmeen Najmi
© 2010 Yasmeen Najmi
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
