Treasure Island

Nassy Fesharaki

(Dec 29 / Iran)

FRG


FRG

By melted fat of a home raised lamb
Their cracked hands and feet healing
I am embarrassed to look farmers in
The sweaty eye with eyelids wetted

Heard him talk about being ashamed
“Of my palm when praying, in front;
I am embarrassed to look into cracks
Of my hands and feet; hope it’ll heal.”

I run away from a scissors sharpener
Carrying his wheel, pedal and blades

Behind the wall a huge plot of land
The owner wearing fashioned shoe
Servants bring tea and fruits, foods

I lower my head recalling old styles
The chairs in row facing brick walls
Mirrors on the side of the brick wall

Barbers with bowls of water, soaps
And the belts to sharpen the blades
Some serving clients cinnamon tea

To the south west corner is a street
Mazandrani; a chain of crop-shops,
In bags, tops rolled down, all conic
And scales, and weighs, then ghee
In square-based tin of eighteen-KG

The horses pull carriage; water tank
The boys run after each, hang a ride
It was the game on the gravele-roads

No horse droshky on the roads now
A rarity in the city and packed crop
In sealed standard packages on rack
What of the psychological seminar?
Doctor talked of Forgiving, revenge
And he, of course mentioned grudge

In my mind I spread a magic carpet
I take him to that time, mirrors-wall
With chairs; and barber using blade
Sharpened with a leather strip hung

I see him, a poor psychologist, alien
And he spoke funny among the men
Sitting on wooden chair facing wall

And he was, the psychologist, alien
And was blind to see sweating men
Walking in the Vega picking crops

And he was, the psychologist, alien
And I see on the walls when I open
My returning travelling eye of year

And he was, the psychologist, alien
When I folded my noted old papers
So we travelled in different worlds

I run away from a scissors sharpener
Carrying his wheel, pedal and blades
And calling out, “We sharpen knives”
I lower my head recalling old styles
The brick wall a mirror’s on its side
And chairs in row facing brick walls

The main parts of audience, women
Elderly, some men there, few young
And I see on the walls when I open
A travelling eye returning; decades

He, the psychologist, was the alien
Talking of forgiving’s, the revenge
And the grudge, of their reflections

Submitted: Saturday, May 03, 2014

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