Poets Salon: Opening Doors

POETS SALON

Desert Door, Yazd, Iran (Photo – Kathabela Wilson)

– 4/10/19

Hosted by Kathabela Wilson

Evening tai chi class. His quizzical look: ‘Can you make me a poetry corner for my online magazine, every week?’
‘Every two weeks?’ I ask, softly…His voice gets deeper. ‘Every week!’
How could I have known? Opening the door to his childhood home, his poet father welcomes us, the sounds and scents…

in the old tradition
poets and artists conversing
at dinner salon every week

~ Kathabela

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Opening doors (Photo – Mrym Prym)

Mrym Prym

We drove through the mountains and hills, until we reached the door of the big observatory in the heart of the desert, the biggest observatory in Iran. They showed a movie about space, talked about galaxies, and many more things. Everyone was silent when the movie played. It showed the size of earth in comparison to other planets, then went into other galaxies, other worlds even. It gave me goose pimps and brought tears to my eyes; to see how small, how insignificant we are, and I felt I had wasted my whole life, not going for my biggest wish ever “to be an astronaut”. I felt nothing I have done until this moment had value or importance, and I wished I could once work in NASA (if not going to other planets!). I even imagined studying physics (which I am really bad at!) to enter the university to get a second B.A, then a second M.A, then to go to a famous university for PHD and finally to go to NASA. But how many years that would take? My bones will be shaky and my head bald by then!
Alas… But even that wish of mine is an insignificant frequency in the vast ocean of planets. So, I let go.We went to the main room; a room with a movable roof, in which there was a very big telescope, almost the size of the room itself. The man opened the roof with a click somewhere. The roof opened with a lot of sound and the stars and the clouds appeared. But by the time we wanted to use the big telescope, the sky was too cloudy to zoom on any special stars; the zooming of that giant telescope was hard. At the end of the program, we went into another room, a planetarium. On the roof of that room, we could see the motion picture of all the galaxies and group of stars; Cancer, Fish, Cow, even Andromeda and its beautiful myth. As we were driving back to our staying place, through the dark desert, among the hills, the world looked like a different place.

The sky tonight was mystic. The thin layers of clouds, like satin on the dark velvet of night, and the smell of rain in the air, even though there was no rain. The tree of heaven in front of the living room window has started to show some newly opened leaves. Everywhere is silent. No stars in the sky. I think about making a wish; I search my mind for one, but I find none.

spring night
between a flying moth and I
nothing

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Night’s Door (Photo – Tom Clausen)

Cristian Mocanu

Benno

The best quality of memory-they say-is that it can forget. It may well be so. But, as for me, I am grateful for that which my memory-with a mind of its own-selects and saves from the mire of oblivion.

He came into my childhood every year, as implacable as spring itself.

coming with spring break
the clear sky that was just ours
handshakes which build up:
mixed with April’s sun and rain
the words and heart of a friend

I don’t know if Benno was aware of what “cerebral palsy” meant. Our friendship was pre-programmed by his parents and mine: so that I could practice the language and he could have somebody close to his age to spend time with. I don’t know what he was aware of. But he didn’t laugh. And this is how everything began.

just like a burgeon
needs neither tears, nor laughter
but a caring touch-
our friendship sprouted, blossomed,
so many things came to life

Benno didn’t laugh. He didn’t ask questions I had no answer to, such as why. He didn’t use the horrible but as in: “but you are smart and know things, wow!” He talked about his country: a world of high-rise buildings, buttons which, when pushed, took care of more things that we could imagine, a world where TV was in color, like on our cinemas… But, of course, it was colder and rainier, they didn’t have as many flowers, nor people so awesome as Grandma and Grandpa… He said that in his country, if somebody was sick, or different, it was forbidden to bully him, even at school. ”Of course, they still do, sometimes” he said, “but I think it’s wrong and many people think so and maybe someday everybody will realize that and be nice to each other. If it happens by next year, I’ll tell you”.

He didn’t need to. I knew that people didn’t get “nicer” by the year. But the important things were said. It was then that I began to stand up. In my heart.

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Collected Keys (Photo – Richard Grahn)

Richard Grahn

Breakthrough

I see a light through the keyhole while fumbling with the keys to my imagination. The faint sliver penetrates the darkness just enough that I can tell it’s there. I try the first key. It doesn’t fit. I try the next and the next. Each is another mismatch. Finally, the last one slips into place. The lock clicks as the key twists. I turn the knob. The door swings wide and daylight spills in.

spring morning
I follow a bee
to the honey

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Opening Doors: Quotes and Credits

Mrym Prym says: “I am Maryam Pourrahimi, 31 years old, from Mashhad-Iran. I had my MA in English literature a few years ago, and since then, I teach English, write poetry and stories, translate books, and do photography. These are only as far as the physical life concerns, but in my heart, I am a star lover. There is nothing on earth I like more than the starry night sky, and I always wish I could be an astronaut.”

Cristian Mocanu lives in his hometown of Deva, Romania. Making a living as a multilingual translator and interpreter, he feels his more profound vocation is to write poetry, also in various languages-although he has recently embarked on some prose projects as well.

Richard Grahn is an American poet/artist born in Wisconsin in 1959, currently living in Evanston, Ilinois. He has traveled extensively and has been writing and creating art for over 30 years. He started writing short-form and prose poetry in earnest in 2016 as an outlet for coping with illness. He has since had a modicum of success appearing in such publications such as Atlas Poetica, Haibun Today, Contemporary Haibun Online and others. All is well.

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♣ We welcome and encourage your response, especially in the form of a short poem, by leaving a comment below.