BLACK DOG

Do not let on,

Do not let go, be brave although

Each month, each week,

Each day just makes it worse.

Praise God, praise men,

Praise all who seek to save;

Reach high and reach and reach;

Reach out to beat the curse.

Each time the tears burn more

Ever leaving much, much less.

Such that you can quit and choose

Some quick end that calls

Says its name with ease and

Seems like a way out but is

Itself filled with fear that stalls.

I can but warn all who see this mess:

Own a slow, shared victory –

Our plight offers no easy flight.

No man can hope to win alone

Nevermore’s black dog fight.

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NEVER WILTING

So you think

You have a great idea

For a story.

You see a movie

Or read a book;

And the story is a cruel,

But strangely welcome,

Reminder of something similar

That you have considered,

Or, worse, something that you

Have long ago lived through.

It is but a short step

From that realization

To the inspiration

That leads you to write.

There is something you know well.

Something from your distant past.

An incident that affected

Your whole approach to life.

A person never forgotten.

A few moments

That deserved to be driven

To their logical conclusion –

Whatever that was!

And, yet, perhaps there is

An illogical conclusion

That is also worthy

Of exploration.

So, you decide

To explore.

The effort sucks your insides out.

Each sentence draws you further

Into a hole that has no exit.

Your body aches

And your mind reels

As though it has been bludgeoned

Into insensibility.

Your emotions are worse than stretched;

They are drawn so tight

That the slightest irritation

Makes you appear to be insane.

You become what you are writing.

The inevitable character

Based partly on you is alive

And you cannot help

But act out his longings.

So you long for the objects

That he desires

Even though you know

That they are beyond

Your pathetic reach.

The places you describe

Become the places

You want to inhabit.

They crawl out of the scenes

You see each day

And they torment you

With background music

Composed by the devil.

You slowly go mad.

But at some point

You finish

And you can write no more.

At some point

You ask someone else

To read what you have extracted

From your very soul.

And they read;

And they offer,

With the best of intentions,

A few platitudes …

If you are lucky!

The pity of it all

Is that any platitudes

Are so much more palatable

Than the cold reject notes

That come all too quickly.

So you are left to wonder

Where you went wrong.

You are left to wonder

Why you are desolate

Even though

You have achieved so much more

Than most people ever attempt.

No answers come

And the few who know of your folly

Can only think

‘I should have told him so.’

But you keep trying

To prove them wrong.

DAMAVAND

Massive mountains tower

Over dusty Tehran,

But they cast no shadows –

Such is the deft movement

Of the parching hot sun

Making its daily run.

Most of the smog smeared year

The high mountains merge with

The haze that masks their peaks

And their vastness recedes

Until the breeze blows clear

And peaks and crags seem near.

When dirty air withdraws

A glance detects one more

Distinct summit of size

That dwarfs its neighbors’ heights,

Volcanic in its shape -

Serene in its white cape.

The cone of Damavand

Rises and makes it known

That even stone has grace,

Presence, and stands supreme –

Set stark against blue sky.

Steep slopes delight the eye.

Jaded tourists look up.

Nonchalant Tehranis

Turn knowing heads to see

The sight that stays the same -

Perfect never changes

Above charcoal ranges.

PERSEPOLIS

Perched just behind the pilot’s seat

I felt strangely modern and sure,

Despite the rough terrain below

The helicopter’s throbbing roar.

But then the hills fell right away

And the dusty ruins were there,

Blurring slightly but set in stone

So my response was stare and stare.

The old city stood at the top

Of a neatly divided plain.

The hills behind were stark and bare

Housing old graves that hide the pain

Of those ancient kings of all kings

Who ruled as their vast empire spread.

They gained the world and even more;

But reigned always just years ahead

Of great armies and grim defeat.

In time they came – massed invaders –

Bringing the fire, wreaking revenge,

Raising flags for crass crusaders.

And all the time I walked these ruins

I sensed what must be understood –

Persians were here when we had nil

Of what we know of nationhood.

So I began to wish for you:

My favorite glimpse of Persia’s pride.

How much, much more I would have learned,

If you had been my loving guide.

Later you said in your sweet voice,

That laughed its way around my heart,

You have but seen Takht-e Jamshid

Where our great kings led lives apart

And built bedrooms for all their wives.

With that I smiled, replete with dreams

Of love for my Persian princess,

Who was, I hoped, hot for my schemes.

Note: The ruins at Persepolis are often referred to as Takht-e Jamshid because the site was once believed to be the home of the mythical King Jamshid.  In fact, the city was built by the kings who reigned after Cyrus the Great had toppled the tyranny of Babylon’s Chaldean rulers and established the massive Persian Empire that dominated the known world until Alexander the Great began his march eastwards.  This poem recalls seeing Persepolis from the air while travelling from Shiraz in a military helicopter piloted by members of the Iranian Imperial Guard.  The photograph shows only a tiny portion of the overall spectacle.