Earlier today:

Sheema: I don't know how to go on living. I am lost.... she is gone... 43 days is past ...and I will never hear her voice...
P: I don't know how to help you cope with this loss but I know... I am lost without you... and I love you and want to take you in my arms and never let you go.

  

 

The Heart Is Left Lonely

The heart is left lonely

When you hid your presence from me,
I embraced the mountain of patience.
When you did not know what caused my anguish,
I suffered from the grief and the sorrow.

Ashamed of the dignity of eternity,
I discover now the purpose of my being only
when I am powerless and lifeless.

From these tears of grief
I will not fill the alleyway of my eyes,
for I am like a harmless ant
who wants to escape from losing you to death.

When I was asleep, you crossed
my dream and asked for forgiveness,
but it was at the breeze of dawn
when I realized it was my beloved
who had passed me by.

In the tumult, where the heart
is left lonely, I am alone,
and to become purified and cleansed,
I recite this tale
of sadness and sorrow.

Batoul Nayer


Translation and editing by Sheema Kalbasi and Roger Humes (Additional editing by Dr. Hassan Rejali.)


My writer friend Mahasti Shahrokhi's latest is part of the collection of stories in "Another Sea, Another Shore: Persian Stories of Migration"... enjoy the read.

  

 

I will be with you in the grave
on the night you leave behind
your shop and your family.
When you hear my soft voice
echoing in your tomb,
you will realize
that you were never hidden from my eyes.
I am the pure awareness within your heart,
with you during joy and celebration,
suffering and despair.

-Rumi

Please sign and save the lives of two women (Via leilaye-leili, one of my regularly read weblogs).

Thinking Coma:
I want to get a leave of absence from being anyone and anything. That much I have the right to or don't I? With her (my mother,) my 12:00 P.M. sun is gone forever.

...losing your beloved is not a soft parade.

Just a few:

Last Saturday when birds had not left their nests -yes... that early in the morning- Mandana and I picked her sister-in-law and headed for a flower market. The sister-in-law, Marcie (an Iranian Studies expert, a computer programmer and a blogger) has started her own flower shop- I don't know the name of her blog or I have had linked to it. We drove and talked about Maman and Khorshid Khanoom (no connections). Marcie promised me... my very own Persian blog (she offerd to make a Persian blog for me).

Yesterday: Radio Ghasedak has informed me of two links to my works.
Last night when everyone (even Denmark's Minister of Defense) was sleep... I cried and cried and cried for not having her (Maman) in my life and than came to one conclusion: Sleep!
For a few months now: One of Roger Humes and my poems is selected by a Dance Academy in CA.
...and one of my English poems is selected for an anthology by Ms. Jennifer Langer.

  

 

Hear! Hear! The Danish Government is crying for Argentina!!!

According to Gooya on Jan. 24th.2004 there is a Conference in the Danish Parliament. It is the first time in the history of the European countries that a Parliament is going to discuss the future of Iran and its different ethnic groups.

I (a Danish Citizen) want to know why on earth they don't discuss the importance and the future of ethnic groups in Denmark? Believe it or not it would benefit the Danish society much more than the resent...Laws. Stop raping your own citizens because their parents or great grandparents were Jewish, Muslim, Black, Turk or Pakistani!

  

 

Yesterday... when I left a message on Hasti's blog... I released... I am not going to stay in Denmark. I am going to take the little girl and Dad and fly back to the U.S. Why should I stay here now that Maman isn't. I am going to take a leave of absence from my studies and fly back in 3-4 weeks. I have to start dealing with my loss. I have to...now that she doesn't live... I have to... I will be back to Denmark for the Summer to put the stone on her grave and than go biking with Dad and the little girl. I am thinking about biking through Denmark and Sweden. For three summers Dad has biked through the Scandinavia... all by himself... maybe it's about time... for me to join him. Maybe we'll do some fishing too. Maman and dad used to go fishing for hours and hours... and rain or snow didn't matter to them! I have to start living without her.


Unwritten words...

...and this is for you Maman (one of the songs she loved to sing).

  

 

You Are All Invited To The Poppet Show.

Hosted by: The Iranian Government (A government that kills its citizens faster than the blink of an eye).
The gusts of Honor: The Western Media and the World.
Price: You can watch it free of charge (The tickets are already paid by the Iranian citizens).


Welcome to the poppet show. We are the great actors but the blood on the stage is not from a red paint. The blood is of the executed Iranian Citizens.


Life is a game of Model UN is what Michael Totten has written on War and Iraq. Well I disagree with all his reasons be it Life isn�t a game of Model UN or the real reasons that can be explained in two ways. Read them yourself. I just want to say this:

Have you asked who are the U.N. members and which countries are they representing?
They cut hands, stone and execute their citizens faster and easier than the blink of an eye!
Life is indeed a game of Model UN!


...and as for the War in Iraq or on Iraq or whatever/however anyone wants to call it... this is what I posted on April 10 2003:

The world of the 21st century won�t be one in which tyrants and fanatics are supported/appeased by democracies. It will be a world built on alliance of democracies, which together deal the final blow to fundamentalism and terrorism. I see Iraq�s liberation as the first step towards that end. The US has come to realize the importance of security in the region and the inseparable relationship between security and democracy in that region. I truly hope that this leads to democratization of the region and peace for everyone just as US intervention in Europe brought prosperity to the continent.

... Time will tell!




11: 35 A.M. I check my e-mails. I have one from P. We talk on the phone twice everyday so e-mailing isn't on the list!

but ...

Sent : Wednesday, January 14, 2004 6:16 AM
To : Sheema Kalbasi

he writes:

I miss you so much... I miss you so much... I miss you so much...

  

 

I open her closet to smell her clothes� but the smell is fading away as she did 33 days ago...

A few years ago P and I were invited to a privet party (at one of our friends) in the Bay Area, CA. Ziba Shirazi, a good friend of the hosts was invited to sing for us.

The next morning
P: Who�s that singer last night? Her voice was awful. It is ...STILL... echoing in my head.

Later the same day
P: Whose CD is this? The words are great.


Today

In Maman�s closet... I found one of the three CDs Ziba gave us... I had given one to Maman... as a birthday gift.

  

 

My mother (Batoul Nayer) wrote poetry in Persian but never published her works. Here is one of her many poems:

In the nights of departures the heart is blood-eyed*

The heart is inflamed from this pain and sorrow.
My eyes smile though they are full of blood,
and I am tied to the wind that blows
from the flower garden of your being.

I do not even slightly forget.
I am not even one moment removed
from the secrets of His Truth
because He is the only one who knows
how long this life will last.

The longest night of the year for me with my short life
is full of pain and secrets
because I did not find light anywhere
that is lit from a place of wishfulness.

My heart is aching,
my heart is aching,
and this is the tale of the glass and the stone.
Not tonight, not every night,
but every day is as long as this pain
that dances with the spirit of my dreams.

The breath of the wise man is a token for me
for only he knows this all is just a search and finding.

Translation and editing by Sheema Kalbasi and Roger Humes (Version based on Batoul Nayer's Persian poem. Additional editing by Dr. Hassan Rejali.)

  

 

Send me a map Mother. I can't find my way and I need to know the next turn. It is still snowing on your grave and the frozen flowers ...and in my heart a reflective glare betrays my eyes.

  

 

I want to hear your voice
and forget for this instant
that my soul has shattered
and lies in fragments upon the floor
where my tears collect in the shards,
pooled forever reflected in the image of you.



My thanks to dear Imshin for the lotus flower she has posted in memory of my mother.

  

 

Thinking of you...

  

 

Life is not the same. To numb the pain of her loss, eating has become my only escape� and writing� well� writing is not the easy habit I used to have� my heart is heavy� I don�t watch the news of the earthquake in Bam. I don�t watch the news and I stay home day in and day out. I am constantly anxious. The only dim of light in these cold, dark days is my husband� but earlier today he had to return to the U.S.

Yesterday P and the little girl were invited to our friends� (a Danish couple) home. I used the opportunity to visit Maman (�s grave.) Dad and I biked to the cemetery. The cemeteries in the West are unlike the ones in Iran. In Iran the dead are buried someplace far from the cities and graveyards are the saddest places you can imagine. In Denmark the cemeteries are like a park where people jug, sunbathe and walk with their kids. The cemetery where Maman is buried is a beautiful and peaceful place. From reading this you would think my visit was a peaceful journey specially since it�s only ten minutes from my dad�s apartment� well the biking wasn�t peaceful at all. The bike was not the mountain bike I used to have as a teenager. It was one of those put together bikes that the biker has the constant fear of causing an accident. There were also two other problems. One was my twenty kilo heavier body and the other was� I keep that one to myself.

a) The motivation to post today�s blog is my blogger friend Pedram Moallemian of the Eyeranian. He has threatened� major clean up of the inactive blogs from his site.
b) My thanks to the editor of the MAG Mr. August Highland and the bloggers Mr. Babak Ghaffari, Ms. Ghasemi for their kind e-mails.