once in a while you read a poem that enters you and becomes a part of you.

Sonnet 1
by Mahmoud Darwish (translation by Fady Joudah)

If you are the last of what god told me, be
the pronoun revealed to double the "I." Blessedness is ours
now that almond trees have illuminated the footprints of passerby, here
on your banks, where above you grouse and doves flutter

With a gazelle's horn you stabbed the sky, then words flowed
like dew in nature's veins. What's a poem's name
before the duality of creation and truth, between the faraway sky
and your cedar bed, when blood longs for blood, and marble aches?

A myth will need to sunbathe around you. This crowdedness,
these gods of Egypt and Sumer under palm trees change their dresses
and their days' names, and complete their journey to the end of ryhme...

And my song needs to breathe: poetry isn't poetry
and prose isn't prose. I dreamt that you are the last of what god told me
when I saw you both in my sleep, then there were words...

Confessions of a Frustrated Writer (part 1)

I'm having such a difficult time writing lately. There are so many stories in my head. So many. To the point where I should be able to write a whole damn collection. But I can't squeeze them out of my head. The stories. They're stuck in there, all tangled up in a big ass knot.

Imagine what it feels like to NOT be able to do the one thing that means so much to you...

I JUST WANT TO WRITE, dammit.

Tehran

-5 degrees celsius and snowing.