Wall by Soodabeh Saeidnia

So happy about my poem “Wall”, quickly published online in the magazine “I am not a silent poet”. Appreciate the Editor in Chief Reuben Woolley.

I am not a silent poet

I am a wall and I am not
I was made of data bricks. I was never built up
I never had the windows. I had a window
with a bitten apple on it, opened toward another wall

I was a female wall and I was not
I was never male nor female
nor did I have any sexual affinity
I belonged to a writer. I did not belong to anybody

I was a wall right on the borders
between understanding and doubting
between the Exons and Introns of a DNA
when it goes to be copied in the body

and Introns must be removed by splicing
during the maturation of the RNAs
I was the interpretation of those borders
The ancestors needed a reason for boundaries

I was that reason in lack of the science but
I am not a reason for any border-walls
in the third millennium proposed…

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My Ghost Author

I’m not a poetess, to be honest

That’s my pen who insists

to squeeze her body

up to the last drop

 

She is the ghost author

of my masterpiece

that yet to write, because

it’s too good to be true

 

She chooses to use metaphors

to make up my disability

of writing the truth,

when the reality is forbidden by law

 

not by ethical codes,

because the rules are always

somewhere between

shadows and sunshine

 

Anyhow, she will never respond

to critiques and comments

That’s me who fight for her right

to write in freedom of speech

 

Published in SPINE

My Ghost Author

Footprints

She followed the footsteps of the one and only
It got her nowhere so she decided to be
the only one to fully trust
It opened her eyes and changed her view on how she saw things in life, the living and all in between

She decided to float on the wind, swirling and spinning
Arriving to a manor backyard opened towards the sandy beach, footprints again , till washed away by the waves ….one by one

Soodabeh Saeidnia & When caterpillars become butterflies

A dream (a collaborative poem)

 A book in a hand

A hand in a sleeve

A sleeve on a dress

A dress from a beauty

A beauty rays from a firm

A firm is nothing

without the brilliant lady on it

 

A lady on a chair

A chair on the meadow

A meadow in his dream

A dream of roses blooming

Roses without thorns

Do not exist in his life

 

A dream about a sunny day

A day among the thousands

of days he passed through

will remind him always

Became the remembrance day

 

He loves her much

She is his day

She is his night

His dreams are only her

Yet in the morning she is gone

 

His eyes are closed

He sees her walking

Seems like she comes to him

but when he thinks she will be there

He just feels cold thin air

 

He prays and hopes

He waits and thinks

Of future days ahead

That day of truth

The day she’ll kiss him

The day he hopes will come

Soodabeh Saeidnia & When caterpillars become butterflies

Borderline

I felt like a wind

trapped in a sail

or a burning cigarette

forgotten on the ashtray

I spent the whole night unveiling

the old wound that was bleeding

again on the scattered sheets

 

I will not soon forget the way

I was driving on the road,

under the misty weather of the Gulf War

The way the barbed wires tore off my thoughts

right after you passed the soldiers

and they yelled at me to stand farther away

 

You should have backed home

I wished you could carry your home-

wherever you want- on your back like a turtle

or at least you could adapt yourself

to another home but you told me

I am not a hermit crab who uses the shell of a sea snail

 

I won’t soon forget how

after I had roasted my dreams

over an open ceasefire,

a mailman-not older than 40 springs-

handed me an envelope with a big red stamp

and told me “the recipient was not found