Belonging

I met Niloufar Talebi in Mountain View, California on 9 October 2008. She spoke at Books, Inc. that Thursday night. The night of Thor, god of thunder. Before going to Mountain View I had just met a used car salesman, a friendly and nice guy named Ali, at Saturn of Stevens Creek, who is Iranian by heritage, yet actually Christian. Though he is Christian, his parents had given him the Muslim name Ali as a child to avoid persecution in Iran. I suggested to Ali to drop by Books, Inc., and headed up to listen in.

I had also invite another Iranian acquaintance to the event, Monir. She was unable to make it. She is studying very hard at school and thus did not get my message until after the reading was concluded. Yet I was there for her. I bought an extra copy of Belonging, signed by Niloufar, for my friend Monir.

After the poetry reading was done, Niloufar, myself, and another Iranian gentleman went for Mongolian Barbeque. We spoke about her new life in New York City. How one cannot leave their door without spending $100 or more. Between taxis, cleaners, shopping, and so on. Some friends, she was saying, spend more like $500. I don’t doubt it. NYC can be very expensive. So can Mountain View. Any place in the country can now be expensive with gas somewhere between $4.50 - $5.00 a gallon.

Yet rather than focus on the typical issues of Iran—Muslim politics, the price of oil, and geopolitics—we shared stories far more personal. We spoke more of universal culture and arts that bind the peoples of the American and Iranian nations together commonly as humans. The emotions and experiences of love, of loss, of longing, of enlightenment, are true regardless of the languages we speak.

It was then a double-privilege of mine to go see Niloufar perform in ICARUS/RISE at the Red Poppy Art House, along with Bobak Salehi, Jeff Stott and a dashing Iranian “playboy of the western world,” whose face I can see yet whose name escapes me presently.

For various reasons, my mind was a mix of emotions, focused mostly on love and loss. The red poppy is the symbol of the dead of World War I. The symbol of Armistice Day. This will be the 90th Anniversary of the end of World War I on November 11, 2008.

Furthermore, I had just come away from a memorial service for my friend Jeff Tibbets, whose wife Stephanie Tibbets recently past away at the beginning of October.

So it was somewhat natural for me to shed some tears at the beautiful poetry. Filled with images of the Phoenix, references to flowers here and there. Lemons and oranges. Celebrating what was seen, or acknowledging being ignored. Yet this was not a night to be ignored! It was an awesome performance. Followed by a good late-night discussion at Cha-cha-cha late into the night.

I believe if we listened to the poets of the world more, we would have a far greater appreciation for the cultures we are currently fearful of. War would evaporate as an option if we saw the world through their eyes. For many in the Iranian international community long to see their homeland again. Intact. As beautiful as it was when they departed for foreign lands. As intact, or better off, as they reflect upon it today.

This poem is written in context for those who wish to reflect upon World War I. This, the upcoming 90th Anniversary of the end of the “War to End All Wars.” It is also in recognition of those who suffered on all sides in the horrific and costly Iran-Iraq War of 1980-1988, which, through its deadly use of chemical weapons and trench warfare, mirrored the older, prior war in far too many ways. It is in recognition of those who strive now to live in peace, and seek to make peace the norm of the Iranian experience. Above all, it is especially for my inspiring new sister-in-the-arts, Niloufar.

My sincere thanks for all the musicians and poets involved in the making of Icarus/Rise. It was a truly marvelous and moving experience for me.

The Red Poppy shed its life for the fallen flower of England
This San Francisco potted soil for fair English-speaking Persian
Music in the dark hole of soul plucked by passionate hand
Light combined with voices raised to forge fantastical immersion

Icarus climbed the sky
Upon his father's waxwork wings
The music groaned a birthing sigh
Bowed and plucked from strings

Then rise to join the souls aloft in aerobatic mirth
Landscapes of silky black and brown and hazelnut
Survey the skin and hair the hues of richest earth
Crestfall then at the news of Icarus' tragic scuttlebutt

Daedalus flew the middle way
Neither fully safe nor all endangered
Music sweet and bitter ended day
A love and longing deep engendered

Thus is how I came to be now an honored brother of Iran
When me, a man of Mountain View, shared imagery with a woman from Tehran

Onwards to adventure!

-Peter.