Between A and Z

By Mo H Saidi

This collection of poems begins in Tehran, Iran, and ends in San Antonio, Texas, with plenty of stops along the way to observe people, places, and nature, and to gather stories. Saidi is a great storyteller, and his poems are rich with the lives of people he has met around the globe. Politically liberal, intellectually astute, emotionally powerful, and full of compassion, these are poems that resonate with a wide range of readers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wings Press
• Release date: Apr 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781609403683

Book preview

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

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.

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?

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.

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