Poetry

By

Sarah Pedramnia

 

 

The Broken Pitcher

 

 

So what,

If I dream big,

Or I find the road to salvation

Without your tender kiss?

 

So what,

If another day be gone

Or year start

If the STORY doesn’t Change?

As we stare at the blank canvas

With tears and regrets . . .

 

(To Love and to Be Loved);

 

Grandma is still knitting the Shawl

On Circular needles

In the Same Pattern,

As if Winter is to Stay with us!

 

(“Dead” Grandma);

 

Painter took the brush

And started with Colors

Blue, White and Red,

As the ocean is and the sky

Or as her skirt and soft Lips ought to be!

 

He, Wanted to paint her Peonies and Mallows,

Roses and Daisies,

While White Marguerite Petals were dancing

Around her,

Jasmine and Alpine plants,

On her way . . .

 

In his imagination,

She, was Dancing,

Lady carrying a clay pitcher,

And the soft hand, Moved

As the waves on the Sand Would Wave Up

And Crawl slowly Downwards;

 

Suddenly a hand shook,

Ground shook,

His Heart shook,

His arm hit the Bowl in a turn,

The bowl shook and fell down and Broke,

And Water, Flew and Ran into ground!

 

Lady fell down

And the Pitcher Broke into pieces . . .

 

(Life);

 

Moments in desperation,

Longings, for ever and Ever . . .

 

(Painter);

 

His hand went numb

And the Man Who Cared,

With the broken heart

Might Never find “Her”,

Neither “I” . . .

 

(My Love);

 

Watching the White canvas,

Love, Decision to Burn,

At the right moment

The Right Person,

“Life is so empty without your laughter” . . .

 

(Your embracement as I flatter);

 

– “FIND me Before I Die in my Valentine’s Day”

– “CREATE Life on the Brush and

Create me,

LET me in Your Life,

Be!”

– “DRAW us before I Drown,

RESCUE the Bowl,

RESCUE, Me!”

 

(I know the Wonders Love can Bring);

 

Guitarist plays in my heart

And tears,

Make the paper wet!

Lovers’ imagination is a fecund garden . . .

 

(SO WHAT without LOVE?);

 

– “PAINT by our tears Compiled,

I will moisten the brush!

Color the canvas of our Life,

My heart is shaking in the Cold dark winter Inside me,

Call me Baby,

CALL, Me”;

 

And Grandmother’s Worn-out Spirit

Will Dance by the white Swans,

– “Let her Dare Once

And Celebrate a Birth Moment, in, me!”

– “DASH my Old Guitarist,

Dash

And LET us Unite”

 

(Broken Pitcher is my heart without You) . . .

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Seventh Sense

 

 

I need Smell to smell him

Then I need Touch to touch his shoulders, face,

Hands and Strong arms,

Then I can imagine and See him even without sight

As my fingers would Touch the most amazing sculpture feeling so lucky as it breathes,

And the warmth coming from the blood,

Would ignite the blazes deep in me

And his fingers run through my hair, Gently;

 

Every “Curve” and “Line” would open a new line in my poetry

Under my Fingers and I Sing It Before I write, Shyly,

And I turn and I turn and I turn towards “Them”, With “them”,

In every single Twist and Turn

(Up and Down, Round and Round),

And I can Hear him even if Deaf, as my heart Tunes with his

And coordinates my feelings For him

In, Our, love Affair;

 

And the silence of his wisdom,

His recognition,

Would drive me Crazy;

By now my cheek muscles should hurt,

How long can I keep smiling?

So I light the candle in my heart to celebrate instead,

Feeling blissfully happy

In his candid expression and True understanding;

 

And we dance in motion back and forth,

And I imagine us stepping into the dance hall,

And I put my feet on the tip of his toes or a little bit closer,

And let him Dance me,

Let Us, Dance . . .

Let his hand Unite us at once,

As he scoops me up in his arms,

I feel as if my body is pressed against me, Loving his Shoulders and all the intimacy;

 

And I Can taste his tongue and lick it in as I suck his upper lip,

As he Begins to kiss my lips slowly,

And for Taste, that would AllSo Suffice,

Enough, More than Enough,

It is, Actually . . .

Magic hides away HERE

And it Runs as I Chase it,

In, My, Wild, Imagination!

 

(The seventh sense)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

For Moments of Glory

 

 

A new day to Walk across

Soul doesn’t walk through,

Life is becoming monotonous rise and falls,

Surprises I am getting used to!

So unwise to depend on it,

Not much to unveil without You;

Our Hasty Excuse, False dreams, competition we have begun,

All Escaping the Truth

In Constant fights for,

“The Moments of Glory” . . .

 

That, No excuse;

 

A bride in a gown deserves to Be,

Without any mask or makeup,

That naïve look and smile, so Simple

Waiting impatiently to get Home,

To find her Destination;

A Heart, Beat, as if it would Cry out in Joy:

“I Want To Be”, “I Want To Be”, “I Found It, I found . . .”

Now, I know how it Deserved to turn out,

“Failed at all to Be come?”;

My miss takings, The False-Choice Fallacy . . .

 

Had to be Taken;

 

Either way they were both equally Unpleasant,

And I, was Stuck in the mud,

Life is Choices we make with usually a mistaken Outcome,

Tried with integrity shall they be considered a Defect?

Poetess was trapped in the inconsistent imagery, a Lost Self,

And life endeavored and Failed; But Then:

Broken Angel’s Wings burnt in Love Flames;

“Truth shall be Found in the Heart of the Beholder”

Dreams would Open up Jail doors of Reality . . .

 

And we Survive!

 

Little soul of a woman

Captured in her Own life and flesh,

Longings and reality,

Locked with passion by the bruised heart’s pain,

Suffered in her loving fights and torturing wisdom Gained,

Carrying the Sweet Mistakes without any intent to make up Excuses,

Now Awaits!

Without You, My Final Destination;

I see an empty loose skin here and

A tapster without a Roman Wine Pottery . . .

 

Moments of Glory!

 

 

 

 

 

Sarah Pedramnia

I was born in 1983 in Tehran, Iran. I grew up in a family with humanist values and beliefs and was three when we realized that I was epileptic and was twelve when I realized that I have more to do than a normal person to be able to stand in society.

In 2009 I went to university and studied English Translation and am working on my thesis for a Masters. I have been working on poetry writing and fiction as a freelance writer and undertake complimentary literature studies.

I have approximately 50-80 poems in Persian and a few poems in English. I consider myself not as a professional English poet but with good potential and some good English poems.

I started writing two novels in Persian last year, ’10 days in love’ and ‘Two days in Paris’ and may just turn them into scripts.
Along with poetry, I am writing a story in English ‘The Lady Lavender’ which is a story of the conflicts and life of a woman in the 1970s, not accepted by society due to certain circumstances. Her name was chosen by the process of making Lavender Oil, in which you should first cut the sprigs and then let them dry. It was after my divorce three years ago that my perception radically changed and most of my works reflect my own life and challenges faced in my country as a member and in life as a woman.