His Pen Poem by Nassy Fesharaki

His pen

Was early in morning
Sat me in balcony:
"Break Fast! "

Lame Deer on a side
On other, Shajarian.

Took bites to chew on them
While reading, I listened.

Suddenly stopped, said:
"Great is creation…"

Rewrite "Song of Myself, "
Duplicating Whitman
Or maybe Carl Sandburg.

Maybe both,
Maybe none!

Then think of porcupine
Coated with needle-like
Colourful, Black White
Quills that are quite long.

With them have stories
And many memories…

In village we lived and
Ahmad went to city…

He was my brother
Different, Seemingly!

He loved to read and write,
In summer ran the farms,
Was humble like the earth
That worked on with shovel.

Master of stories
He taught us many things.

The roads were gravel,
Lacked means of travel,
Just beasts and randomly
A truck that came in
To take things to market,
Both harvest and farmers…

Most of times when he came,
Walked along, for hours
And without bicycle
That had rich children…

On the way with sky
And breeze and the heights
He had a rendezvous,
They exchanged touch, flirt
And made love in secret,
He took time and they talked.

They taught him the lessons
Though the same, different
From those in school…

When he told stories
Inserted many things
Of seeing and reading.

"On my way I got this…"
He said and showed quill:
"…from the porcupine…"

He had his sacred time
With air and animals
And trees, short and tall.

He was a prophet,
Speaker and poet
And great brother.

Ahmad was my teacher,
Forever shall remain
My greatest leader.

Yes, he died when too young
But always is alive,
In my heart and in mind…

With me is Ahmad when
Wherever I pray
To greatest mother
That gives birth and murders!

Nature is strong,
Is feeder that eats us…

I see these on pages
Of trees and bushes
When looking at quill
That held my brother.

He had a pot of ink,
Always wrote in green…

He never missed a line:
"I must use what have got! "

He tells me of his talks
With water and sky,
And valleys, also heights.

With right suite and dress
He entered the water
And made kind of whistle,
Jump on him the chickens
With deep faith in saviour…

Ahmad is prophet
And I, his disciple.

Therefore I, understand
The words of Walt Whitman
When he talks of grass…

I, too, want to seal me,
Idle in privacy…

There, I talk to God if
He, ever, was, exists…

To me, God means part of
Our bodies and our minds.

He is cell in blood
And is thought of the mind.

We are nailed but fly
Like Sufis in Islam,
Indian Jadoowallahs!

We, the old Asians
Like Native Americans
Have leading Medicine Men.

They talk with every bird
And the ants, crickets
And water in rivers
And the moose, also bear.

To them Hell and Heaven
Are not but meaningless,
Do not sell, nor purchase…

Between such men, nature
The bridge, connection
Is formed by love and care.

So, Whitman, come to me
Let us share some Hashish
On grass, sit, observe
Then sing and celebrate
Our lives as suit ourselves.

Whitman, you come to me
And let us loafe, lonely
And speak, silently
While seeing, observing
What today's men, women
To them are blind, deaf.