Crossroads Of Choice

I don't write to publish
I write to revolt
So, may the notebook of my poetry
Be as a larynx
For the crying out of those women who have whispered their existence
And may my words
Be as open windows
That inhale a new age

Revoke my identity certificate
Take back my passport
My country
Is my body whose borders, I generously open
To any man that comes with the adventure of a kiss
And the language I speak
Is not my mother tongue
But the language of humankind

Convey my greetings to my mother and tell her
I am so homesick
I am not coming back
I, at the crossroads of choice
Have chosen rather to be the child of freedom than to be a child to one woman
And my roots
Are too free
To be committed to one soil

Give a flower to those men who have been in love with me
And tell them
Your allies were dead-ends
And my feet
Knew nothing of stopping
Because for a woman like me
Love was the beginning of the journey and not the end of it

To the children of neighbours
Give a future, even a small share of it
(Give) a book to their schools
Put bread in the hands of their fathers
(Give)Countless smiles to their mothers

Convey my greetings to my mother
And tell her that I am alone
I am not coming back
At the crossroads of choice
have chosen rather to be free than to be happy.

by Samar Shahdad

Comments (1)

Samar, I read the first two lines and thought, yes! she has her priorities right. And you followed with the wish your poetry be like a larynx and an open window—accessible, fresh, and logical. Reading your accompanying note seems to confirm what your craft shows—that you’re not a newcomer to it. Good stuff! BTW, I work in schools with students of Iranian immigrants. And one of my favorite poets is Hafez. -Glen