kamand-kojouri

Maybe stories choose how they are told and who tells them.

She was in awe of all his work. 'How do you do it?" she asked.He smiled and said, 'By loving you.

Because at nightwhen others are sleeping, I drown myself in poetry.

We are all born as storytellers. Our inner voice tells the first story we ever hear.

Poetry isn__ an island, it is the bridge. Poetry isn__ a ship, it is the lifeboat. Poetry isn__ swimming. Poetry is water.

It is a dangerous thing to substitute reading or writing for living. Live first, then write.

These poems are cupsthat I pour my life into.Here, Drink!

There is no revelation in my words. I am merely stating what others have forgotten to write down.

We are told that in translation there is no such thing as equivalence. Many times the translator reaches a fork in the translating road where they must make a choice in the interpretation of a word. And each time they make one of these choices, they are taken further from the truth. But what we aren__ told is that this isn__ a shortcoming of translation; it__ a shortcoming of language itself. As soon as we try to put reality into words, we limit it. Words are not reality, they are the cause of reality, and thus reality is always more. Writers aren't alchemists who transmute words into the aurous essence of the human experience. No, they are glassmakers. They create a work of art that enables us to see inside to help us understand. And if they are really good, we can see our own reflections staring back at us.

Art doesn__ give rise to anything in us that isn__ already there. It simply stirs our curious consciousness and sparks a fire that illuminates who we have always wanted to be.

Listen.Do you see that you can__ hear snowfall?Look.Do you sensethat you can__ see love?Touch.Do you graspthat you can__ catch poems?Try.Smell this glass. Go on taste this cloud.These material senses won__ get you far untilyou feelthe velvet glove caress your soul.

Love, the exotic bird, came and went.Heart forgot love.Joy, the majestic willow, wept and died.Mind forgot joy.Hope, the basement lamp, fell and broke.Soul forgot hope.Self, the anxious caterpillar, took flight and dropped.Self forgot self.You, my all, became all my reasons.Reasons left.You left.I never forgot.

My mind is being consumed by you.My body is longing for you. Just one touch or a kiss, And I shall be satiated for a thousand years.

Mist to mist, drops to drops. For water thou art, and unto water shalt thou return.

I open my eyes. I want to know:what is in the abyss of a kiss? Are stars born in these black caves that house bated breaths and unspoken words? Do our souls crawl on these tender cheeks to greet one another by ivory gates? What happens when we kiss?Where do you go?Don__ tell me. For I have lost my desire to know. Kiss me so that I forget myself. I close my eyes and fall in the abyss.

Maybe love at first sight isn__ what we think it is. Maybe it__ recognising a soul we loved in a past life and falling in love with them again.

Why this candle?Why this cake?The day of my birth is not today.I was born when you said, 'Hey.

Everything I have become,everything I will ever accomplishcannot compare to my mostimpressive feat:I have loved youfiercelyand assiduouslywith the very marrowinside my bones. So that when I die, they can crack them to findyou there. So that when I die, they can open me upand see your name tattooed on the wall of my heart.So that when I die, my epitaph will neither commemoratewho I wasnor what I did, but will read:__he loved.And loved. And loved.__nd so, I smile now,because that is no small thing.