Of being able to say what I can’t hold anymore.
Of time.
Not running out of my hands like sand.
Creeping slowly when I want to halt and feel nothing.
Of being able to cry,
Oh cry!
Cry my bones out
and feel weightless.
To feel it sliding down my stomach
that wet, teary smelled, broken breath
that makes noise like death.

Of a month after months,
a day when all the waiting
would be justified.
Of transformation.
When walls, smells, soaps, noises, faces, foods, colours, water, spaces, vacuums, fillers, rooms, ceilings, birds, roads, dust, seasons would change.
Of answers beyond the stories of transformations.
Would it be enough?
Or would I still wait for another story with a longer waiting?
And would this be my life?
Just this?

Of being loved the way I want.
Of being able to drown into those moments that look like pauses,
like photographs still and deep.
And no matter how long you gaze at them,
nothing about them changes.
Of someone someday loving me
without telling the need to leave
for work, meetings and appointments.
Someone free
of the damages of this world.

Of being able to cut off from these ideas
that I never chose but
they still surround me like daily soaps
running in some distant room.
Whom would you want to kill more?
The makers or the viewers?
The idea of settling down,
earning money,
getting up at 8 and sleeping at 10,
using calendars and watches and setting alarms,
of being a people pleaser,
going to parties and wearing make up,
of not being moody, looking presentable,
following dress codes, hiding womanhood,
avoiding rebels, hating rovers, condemning hippies,
men and women and some other avoidable species,
hate the government, argue to look safe,
women’s respect is in her vagina, men have balls of steel,
live in hypocrisy and die full of regrets.
Of imagination.
Imagine a world without these ideas.
Of realisations such as these:
even imaginations
are nothing less than wars.

Of rushing into now and now
and now in this next moment.
When anything can happen
Or maybe nothing would happen.
But at least it will be a newer now.
And in every now
I look a little more like nothingness.
Every now full of silence.
More peace and the world
more disappeared.

Of someday being able to
write this again
another space, pen and paper
and putting an end to it.
No, not the poem,
the longings.

Curves of my body

When did any of our body part become a commodity to be compared to or felt conscious about? All those scoundrel eyes that judge,  rape, harass or humiliate, I’ve seen women coiling all of it around their bodies and as if years after years they have detached completely from it. As if their soul and their flesh are two different people. As if it’s their mistake.
Why? Why do we forget to make love to our own hands and feet. Why can’t we sit in front of the mirrors making faces and loving every inch of our skin with devotion so overwhelming.  Why can’t we decorate our bodies with our touch and fragrance like our home. Imagine what heaven would it be to feel this body as the only cover that uplifts its bird, the soul inside. Why can’t we touch ourselves up to toe and feel like we’re butterflies out of our cocoons. Why can’t we dance with our flesh in the air drooling and swaying like lunatics and never feel the need to hold someone else’s hand or waist to feel complete. Why can’t we make love to ourselves drunk over our own bodies so much that it’s unnecessary to think of other’s flesh.

Photo by Kansuke Yamamoto

By Fortesa Latifi

There is sadness that has been living in my bones longer than I’ve been walking upright.
Longer than the willow in the front yard has been weeping.
No one knows what it’s saying but it sounds a lot like prayer.
It sounds a lot like penance.
I am still hurting and I am still lying about it.
There is no soft way to say that sometimes I forget to breathe so I skip that and ask what’s for dinner instead.
I am still learning how to do the easy things like eat when I’m hungry and leave my bed every day.
I am still learning to twist my tongue around words that resemble the truth.
I am still falling asleep with hope suffocating between my clasped fingers.
I am still losing my mind over the moon.
I am still stepping around broken glass and thinking that counts as strength.
I am still hoping the world ends before we do.

• Fortesa Latifi, This Is How We Find Each Other “I Am Still Learning How to Do the Easy Things”

Why do you forget to love me?

How does this happen to you?
Or does it happen to me?
Why do you forget to love?
I never do.
I am always loving you in my head,          
in my heart and
in how I say it to you or
how I wait to listen it from you.
Oh no.
I am not saying you do not love me.    
But why can I not know it all the time?
Why do I wait for hours
and go back again
waiting for hours?
Why do you forget to love me?
Of course you’ll say you do not forget.
Of course you’ll make me remember    
all that’s love in your eyes.
Of course my hurt will be a complain      
in a while.
Is it a fault in my love to always get caught in your flaws
or there really are flaws that can’t be settled for?
I am not afraid of how I feel                    
but I’m afraid of                                      
why do you forget to love me.
No it’s not about laughter all the time.
No it’s not in an hour of eating.      
Sorry I expected poetry out of it too.
But I still do.
Sorry you’re forced to be here
but I can’t let it go,
the want for poetry from you.
I don’t feel enough
when I can’t get love back
from you
the way I want and I sit here feeling why
do you forget to love me.
Why do you forget
the wishes and dreams
and talk about things
that only fill gaps.
Why do you forget to ask
how am I feeling and finish
what you say and simply go off?
Why do you forget
someone is always waiting and
she’s not looking for much.
Why do you crush this sweet thing beneath your daily hours                            of labour and needs
while all I try is to make you better at life.
Why do you forget so much about me and
why do you forget to love me?
I know your heart has love
but only words that are said and actions that are done
can make a day worth a life.
Why do you forget what’s this life?            
I know
I want a lot but I am not guilty of it.
I don’t say I have loved perfectly and
I don’t say you’re flawed to disappoint.
All I want to say is                                    
why do you forget to love me                    
and if you don’t                                          
then maybe
you’re with the wrong one.
What about those beautiful fancy things?
They were promises.
The made up kind of promises.
The ones that are said never meant too much.
Is the time not right?
When will it be?
Am I to wait too long or am I walking ahead too fast.
Am I talking too much or
maybe I am talking senseless.
Maybe I am hurt and
maybe I am the one causing my own pain.
Then from where did you come?
In between why does my heart wants to go and
ask you why do you forget
to love me?
I might be the fool out of two.
I might be the one
in an imaginary kind of love
but I think a while back you were here too
and once I had called you back and you came and
it was all feeling fine.
Now it is not.
Maybe that’s why I want to ask
why do you forget to love me?
And mind you
do not give me an apology or a promise in return for this.
Possibly I am not looking for an answer too.
So I leave it on you
to ask yourself
why do you forget to love me?

Photo by Bill Henson

Like a long pause

Oh this sadness of the silent night
Like a long pause in the heart,
and numbness in my mind.
Agony I’ve got and now only
agony do I like,
Oh this sadness of the silent night.
Tears fill my throat like a man
convinced to suicide.
Doesn’t leave, doesn’t stay
Simply dies.
Oh this sadness of the silent night.
Aches of a howling old man,
of a woman long quiet, ‘tis bearable, I tell you;
But of a heart decided to let
all hopes die, ‘tis infinite.
Oh this sadness of the silent night.
Oh moon in your pale light
I sing this sadness of the silent night.
It let my fireflies die,
but listen close because
yet they fly, yet they fly.
Oh this sadness of the silent night.


Photo by Avertigo

Love of the ordinary

There’s so much love
in the patience of
ordinary things;
Paintings on the wall,
street light on a forgotten road,
old yellow papers in a file,
wires stretched over small houses all alike,
soaps dry and water drains everyday,
our hands, our feet go wherever
we take.
Curtains pulled off, hanged up like labels for decoration
decided merely for colors.
Books in a book shelf laid for life
decided merely for how our hearts feel.
Newspapers made, read, unread, wrapped around yellow stained things, thrown
and again
made, read, unread, wrapped
and thrown
for years unknown.
Smells, shapes, sizes
shoes, clothes in our closets.
And our skins
when do they change,
except for rot with our age?
How sky repeats through
every inch of this universe,
blue and vast.
And what’s more lovingly patient
than the birds that sing
the same song every dawn
on the same branch
of the same tree?

"….all artists, regardless of degree of talent, are a painful, paradoxical combination of certainty and humility, constantly in need of reassurance, and yet with a stubborn streak of faith in their own validity no matter what."