Poem Hunter
(Dec 29 / Toronto)


Poem By Nassy Fesharaki


Lucky I
I have escaped the crowd
I make two triangles with my hands
Palms under my head as pillow, I lay on the sand.
I observe the painting in the biggest canvas ever
I get lost in the lines and the spots, dark, bright.
“Silence” I shout to the noise that has, for long,
Maybe it never existed in the vast desert
As I think of the night.
Will the stars fall?

Shadows walk around me…
I love to think…
Though I am sure they have never been
In the absence of the light…
I make them up.

We make the fear ourselves
Then we fight the monster we create
But cannot say what it is…
“What is fear? ”

A particular noise boils in me as if crops in a huge water-filled pot, on fire
The fire is in a stove of precious stones; dug with difficulty…
From the belly of the sandy hills, which…
Possibly were once, stones, rocks.

The hair strings race on my skin
They stand on their hind as if meerkats…
Feeling the threat of an eagle; its wing spans to six feet.

Ears are on guard as if they belong to a dog…
Ready to warn: “earthquake is coming” or hunter
There is no bullet…no gun…
But the fear is.
It is in waiting…
Waiting is the fear.

Ali said:
“Wrestle the fear, it ends in failure or success.”

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