Dawn

Taleghany-Poems-cover-3:Layout 1 13/10/2014 14:05 Page 1

ISBN: 978-1-909075-30-6

DAwn a collection of poems

M.A.R. Taleghany

M.A.R. Taleghany comes from a family of lawyers and men of letters. He followed the family tradition and received two degrees in law from the University of Tehran. He continued with his advance studies at the University of London where he received another two degrees. He taught law for several years at his alma mater. Subsequently he moved to England where he practices as a consultant lawyer.

Being interested in literature from early childhood, he has written a number of books on law and literature as well as translating several books from English into Persian and vice versa. His collection of poems The Flight of the Phoenix was well received.

Apart from the present work, he has a collection of English poems entitled, “Dawn�, a collection of short stories and also a collection of fables from the east.

He lives with his wife and second son, also a lawyer, in London. His first son is a film director who lives in Los Angeles, California.

DAwn: A Collection of Poems

I never sit down to write a poem. It usually so happens that the idea of a poem simply descends on me. This happens quite accidentally; it is never pre-planned. The process of writing a poem is like this: I feel restless for a while. This could take a few days, weeks or months. The emotionally sensitive part of my mind, if I may say so, is impressed, or rather pressed, by events happening around me. The effect of these events are not, directly or indirectly, personal; they are imprints of events that my subconscious considers rightly or wrongly, not fair, humane or rational; especially rationality, which is a rare commodity in our present day world. Thus the poems presented in this volume, could be said are records of the moments captured in words and are a reflection of the effects of the events in the mirror of my mind.

by

M.A.R. Taleghany RRP ÂŁ6

DAWN

DAWN A COLLECTION OF POEMS

by

M.A.R. Taleghany

Copyright M Taleghany Š 2014 Produced in association with

www.wordsbydesign.co.uk ISBN: 978-1-909075-30-6 The right of M Taleghany to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electric, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the copyright holder or a licence permitting restricted copying. In the UK such licences are issued by the Copyright Licencing Agency, 90 Tottenham Court Road, London W1P 9HE. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

For

Susan My Wife: The Anchor or My Life

Contents Preface Dawn The Link Lullaby Homecoming Narcissus The Eagle The Meadows From the Depths Journey Into The Dark Suddenly‌ The Night A Prayer in Silence Thunder in August Only the Best Nightmare The Houseboat The Daybreak Of Joy and Sorrow The Rock The Shadows The Magic Screen Parade of Colours and Figures Tristesse Passage of Time Tender was the Night Spring Festival

ix 1 3 7 9 14 15 19 21 24 26 30 32 34 38 40 42 46 47 52 53 57 59 63 66 68 69

Chorus for Storm A Japanese Ballad The Mirror In Silence In Praise of Your Eyes From the Bird’s Beak The Vine Tree Pansies A Flash of Red Pride The Four Seasons THE CALIFORNIAN VIGNETTES Palm Trees The Valley Waves and Surfers San Fernando Boulevard The Pacific Sunset Desire In…

71 73 76 77 78 79 81 83 84 85 88 93 95 96 98 99 100 103

M.A.R. Taleghany

I am not a man of so many words.

I am but a mirror; just a mirror.

My state of mind could be seen, Only if your ears turn into eyes.

Rumi

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Preface A few words about this collection: I never sit down to write a poem. It usually so happens that the idea of a poem simply descends on me. This happens quite accidentally; it is never pre-planned. The process of writing a poem is like this: I feel restless for a while. This could take a few days, weeks or months. The emotionally sensitive part of my mind, if I may say so, is impressed, or rather pressed, by events happening around me. The effect of these events are not, directly or indirectly, personal; they are imprints of events that my subconscious considers rightly or wrongly, not fair, humane or rational; especially rationality, which is a rare commodity in our present day world. Thus the poems presented below, could be said are records of the moments captured in words and are a reflection of the effects of the events in the mirror of my mind.

The content, or form, of the restless moments of my mind, is not known to me in advance. I am not at all aware of what could be the child of my restlessness. I only know that something is passing through my mind; something like a childish, playful hand on the piano keyboard, Then, all of a sudden, out of nowhere, the vague idea that brews within my mind comes to the surface, takes shape and finds a form. This happens mostly when I am at one with nature; that is to say, when I feel I am part of nature; in a park, by a river or watching a children’s playground from afar and xi

Dawn: A Collection of Poems

so on and so forth. It is at these moments that a simple, external event – such as a child’s smile, the fall of a leaf from a tree dancing its way to the ground, a picture of a war-scene (as in the “Magic Box”) and the like – turns the vague idea in my mind into words. I jot down the main theme of my thoughts on a small piece of paper, which is then placed in one of my pockets; to be taken home to be written down properly at a later time.

The way I write down my poetic impressions has its shortcomings too. It so often happens that I leave my notes on a bookshelf, to find time to write them down, that I lose them because of ordinary life engagements, or they are lost in the heap of books and notebooks that is supposed to be my library. Also, though I am quite fastidious about my research notes I am not so caring when it comes to my poems and literary notes. This is so because I am not a professional poet; I do not write poems to be published or necessarily read in a literary gathering.

Writing poems is an emotional necessity; it is a pouring out of my mental engagements with the more humane issues.

This collection is, therefore, a fraction of my poetical output.

Some poems in this collection follow certain patterns.

Although these poems are also quite spontaneous they have the influence of my background and upbringing. As from a tender age I found out, in my childish way, that the world around me was not a rational one; that some unwarranted misery or unasked-for bliss could not be rationally explained away. Being brought up in a literary milieu, where “Rumi” reigned high in the world of poetic admiration, I found a safe refuge in mysticism where a xii

M.A.R. Taleghany

colourful, soothing cosmology made life easier and more bearable, where not only people of all walks were equal and respected but even the animals received more rights and respect.

Thus it was that I embraced the protective shield of mystic cosmology to my life; the poems “Dawn,” “Shadows,” “The Mirror” and “The Houseboat” belong to this trend of thought. I should at once say that the mystic interpretation of the world and events is a natural way of thinking to me and I have not set myself the task of explaining things in this way.

I should also mention that there is always a latent symbolism throughout this collection: Thus, the poem “Thunder in August” presents an unlikely, or unpredictable, event; an anomaly, an event, or a movement, that cannot rationally be explained away. The piece entitled “the Eagle,” also symbolises the aborted attempts of my father to come over to London to see my children for a last time. The “Pansies” also belong to this category of poems. “The Link” portrays the fate of those who try to reconcile tradition with modernity.

I have also included a few poems of my impressions of California, entitled “the Californian Vignette”; these are leisurely reading, or rather seeing, elements, or scenes, in their natural surroundings.

The poems “Desire” and “In…” are the only survivors of my early attempt at writing poem; there were a number of them but unfortunately they are all lost due to the forced change of residence and moving homes.

At the beginning of this “Preface” I said that writing these pieces was for me a necessity to record some of my xiii

Dawn: A Collection of Poems

choked up emotions and that I did not mean initially to collect and publish them. So, why publish them now? The reason is that recently I published a volume of my childhood memoirs as a record of events, amusements, ventures, and so on, of my childhood period which were quite different from those of present day children’s engagements. It was well received by all those interested in the records of a bygone period. I then thought of the surviving pieces of my poetry and that it might be of interest to my children, friends and others who may find it a readable interpretation of events that I have experienced.

I was also afraid that they might be lost, like so many pages of my literary output. I therefore published them in one volume and hope that they may be of some interest to those who found my memoirs interesting.

July 2014 Putney – London

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Dawn In the pre-dawn of eternity, I was with you.

Enwrapped in serenity, Unknown.

There appeared a desire.

Serenity was no more, It was naught but a fire.

You loved yourself, The boat had come ashore, Wandering was no longer.

In your dream, I was a mirror, In which you could adore your own image.

I was born, You came of age.

You looked in the mirror.

You loved your image.

The bird was out of the cage.

I was in the mirror.

You were born, I came of age.

It was dawn.

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Dawn: A Collection of Poems

I was with you in your dream.

You were with me in the mirror.

The plethora of images your love screams, Your love for thyself, your love for me.

Santa Monica, Los Angeles September 2001

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M.A.R. Taleghany

The Link The game started.

There were two horses and a man.

The man was standing in the middle of a circle.

The horses were to his left and right.

They were to pull the man in opposite directions.

The man was to keep them from doing so.

If the man could pull the horses closer to the centre, And, if he could remain within the circle, He had won.

If one of the horses could pull the man and the other horse in his own direction, That horse had won.

If the man failed to keep the horses together and remain in the circle, He was damned. *****

The man stood in the circle.

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Dawn: A Collection of Poems

He was young and fair.

He was facing the mountains; towards the north, that is.

The sun was bright, The breeze was fresh and light.

Expectation filled the air.

Restless were the spectators in their seats.

The game started.

Not with a song, but with a pistol shot.

The man clasped the silver rings, tested the ropes and looked at the horses.

To the man’s right, there was the black horse: Old and bold, Solid, like a rock.

Its shiny, black mane flowing in the wind.

His eyes ablaze with intensity.

His mouth covered with froth.

Awe-inspiring he was, and indeed fearsome.

To the man though, he was a familiar sight Of his childhood, When he perched on the stallion’s back With his father’s help.

A reminder of the time when he could hold, And caress, the horse’s mane.

With ecstatic, mystical, feeling. ***** 4

M.A.R. Taleghany

To the man’s left was the bay horse: The Bay horse was young and strong.

With bushy, golden mane.

Beautiful, but insolent.

His eyes full of challenge.

Eager and impatient: A reminder of the man’s younger age, And of gaiety that goes with green pasturage. *****

The game started.

The horses were strong and pulling hard.

The man was holding hard and standing strong.

He held his ground well for quite a while, Then he was feeling hot, And started sweating fast.

He could hear the spectators’ cry.

Betting on the horses, they urged them to pull, to the left, Or to the right.

He did not turn towards them, nor did he try.

The sun was becoming too hot Its rays hitting him hard like arrows.

He could no longer see clearly.

The air was a shimmering mirage.

The cries were echoing far, far, afar.

He gently closed his eyes.

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Dawn: A Collection of Poems

And hard he cried; Though he could not hear his own cry, Nor the cry of the spectators from afar.

The man’s eyelids were by now coarse and dry, His head was going round and round.

Then everything went dark The feeling was naught but ecstasy.

The dream was no longer fantasy.

The silence of eternity everywhere.

The sleep was ruling high.

His soul was somewhere in the sky, And the horses were pulling his body apart.

London 1987

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M.A.R. Taleghany

Lullaby I was in a field, A fresh, green field of rolling hills.

It was a misty morning, the air was still.

I was numb but happy.

The mist then rose.

I saw the rainbow.

Its sharp colours I counted many times over.

I loved it.

It was a sight to remember.

I then heard a tune: A familiar, soothing and heart-warming old tune.

Someone was humming it a long way away.

I listened and I was blissfully calm.

The tune I had heard many times before.

The voice was familiar.

I was enraptured.

The voice grew clearer, The singer came nearer and nearer.

I did not move; I was in a trance, And the heavenly voice took me a long way back, To my childhood.

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Dawn: A Collection of Poems

I could then see your face, Your brown eyes smiling, Your long, soft hair flowing, Your arms around me, Your warmth endearing, Your kisses heavenly, Your lullaby, after so many years, most charming and blessing.

I was very happy when I opened my eyes.

The morning sun was promising.

Putney, London December 2005

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M.A.R. Taleghany

Homecoming I set out in the morning.

The air was fresh, The sun was bright, I was young and strong.

Quickly I moved along.

Soon, I reached the crossroads and looked around: *****

To the right, the sun was rising.

The air was warm and inviting.

The people were sort of old looking, but friendly.

A man tipped his hat and smiled.

I passed by some skinny children.

They looked at me affectionately.

They were playing with a tennis ball, on a dusty ground.

They had bright eyes.

There was a narrow dusty road, With old houses on both sides.

I was told that it led to the centre of the city; The city of light, a young lady said.

I followed her direction.

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Dawn: A Collection of Poems

The city centre was over crowded A number of horse-driven carts were blocking the road.

The horses looked undernourished.

The coach-drivers were whipping them hard.

The people shouted at each other.

Not so many women around.

Nor many gardens either.

Seeing me, the people exchanged meaningful glances.

The air was heavy.

Everything was in order, and a suffocating one it was.

Naked truth abounding, I could not stand it, I turned around. *****

To the left, I saw a broad boulevard, Clean, with well-kept lawns, And roses in rows, in front of pretty houses.

Bright lights in shops, And plenty of food in stores.

The children were healthy and well dressed, Men and women strolled the streets, hand in hand.

Shapely and multicoloured they were.

They were polite and smiling, Well mannered but cold.

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M.A.R. Taleghany

Plenty of music, laughter and noises, Beautiful buildings, bright lights.

Life seemed but a show, Empty and shallow.

It was much too much for me to behold.

I turned on my heels once more. *****

To the north, I looked with hope and great expectations.

The weather was a bit chilly.

The streets were straight but calm and quiet; Well lit, they were though.

Not so much graffiti on the walls.

The buildings, mostly of equal heights, were clean.

There were plenty of roses, but no noises.

The people kept to themselves; They were courteous, nodded their heads, then looked away Perhaps they were not used to seeing foreigners.

Silence was apparently the rule.

The whole thing looked grey No colourful lights, and no noises.

I could hear no laughter, or so I thought.

The evening then turned cold, And the place had no soul.

I felt quite lonely in the vast square in the town centre. ***** 11

Dawn: A Collection of Poems

We parted ways: (There were a great number of us by then.)

Some marched forward, farther to the north.

I was tired and hungry.

My feet were sore.

The waves of time were leaving my patience’ shore.

I had reached the end of my tether, I felt I was young no more.

I thought as though I heard my father calling, Though I could not understand his words.

Then I clearly heard my mother’s velvety voice.

Humming my childhood’s favourite tune.

I turned southward, towards home. *****

It was dusk when I reached my hometown.

The people looked tired; though their faces were bright, And their voices familiar I moved along.

The aroma of freshly baked bread, The smell of my childhood’s favourite dishes, The memories of childhood, and The vague, yet tender, youthful wishes had filled my lungs.

The alleyway was not lonesome though, I felt at ease.

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M.A.R. Taleghany

It was late when I reached home.

I knocked on the door, only to find that it was open.

The house was warm My father saw me first, and smiled.

He nodded, and I read the great welcome in his eyes.

And my mother: all in tears, held open her arms, As she did when I was a boy.

Everybody was full of joy.

I was back; I was at home.

London 1984

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Dawn: A Collection of Poems

Narcissus O, youth! looking in the pond!

What seeks thou in the water?

What charms thee there?

What calls thee from the depth of the nature’s mirror?

Is that a memory calling thee?

Or is it thy twin?

Is that the past that bewitches thee?

Or just a reflection of thyself?

In the depth of that crystal-clear spring Thou shall find naught.

The world of the mirror is but the domain of images, Of similes.

Come away from the mirror, Or thou may find in thyself naught but a narcissus St. James’ Park, London

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M.A.R. Taleghany

‘Home is the sailor, home from the sea, And the hunter home from the hill.’

The Eagle It was early September.

It was warm in the afternoon sun.

The plain was shimmering in green and gold.

And, though the horses in the meadow were bold, It was quiet everywhere.

The old, golden eagle was on the lofty rock, surveying the plain.

Its plumage was magnificent.

Its eyes sharp and piercing.

Its poise, regal.

The king of birds was brooding.

Something was amiss within him.

He had lost his zeal.

The time had taken its toll, Eroded hollow was his will.

No flight, no prey no more.

Indeed, the boat was heading ashore.

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Dawn: A Collection of Poems

A breeze made its passage.

A breeze from across the sea.

Awakened in him was a hanker for the sun, And yearning for a last voyage; a voyage into heavens, over the continents, over the sea.

The eagle scanned around.

The sky was blue, the breeze abound.

He could hear its sound.

He could smell the clover and the corn.

And he was then in the sky, he was airborne.

It was late afternoon.

The eagle followed the rays of the sun, He cruised on the waves of wind,

with serenity.

His wings straight, like the olden days, tipping the eternity.

Over the woods, above the farms, he sailed along, with magnanimity.

He was feeling the warmth of the setting sun, in his veins, When he spotted a pigeon flying far below. and that was promising, for the young ones at home.

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M.A.R. Taleghany

He then heard the sound of the pigeon’s wings; the flapping of its heart, calling the eagle to dive.

The veins were trembling in the eagle’ claws.

The blood was rushing through his heart as though with blows.

The ecstasy of yester year was in full swing.

The eagle folded his wings, Bullet like, he swooped down in full speed.

His claws ready for a clasp, The prey was in sight, within reach, To be his in no time indeed.

Great was the eagle’s delight and ecstasy, of having lived a last kingly deed He could hear the pigeon’s heart chime, The prey was in his claws, or so he thought, the excitement was high, When, all of a sudden, and for a moment, the eagle’s eyes could see nothing but a dark sky, his claws were numb; they did not clasp in time. everywhere and everything plunged into the dark.

The end was nigh.

When the eagle came to, the sun was down.

His claws, but for a few feathers, empty, as was the sky.

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Dawn: A Collection of Poems

In despair, he turned towards the rock.

Flapping his wings hard over the plain, The whole of his body was in pain.

Pulling up to the lofty rock, He had to summon all his strength, And spread his wings to full length But for a ray of red,

The sky was now quite dark.

The eagle’s heart was beating hard.

He perched on the rock and rested there sublime.

He felt exhausted, but calm.

His limbs were quite numb.

He gently closed his eyes.

The sun splashed red on the horizon, and the eagle’s wings were reddish now.

The eagle was no more, Although his soul set sail, For the last flight, Towards the kingdom of light.

London September 1984 18

Taleghany-Poems-cover-3:Layout 1 13/10/2014 14:05 Page 1

ISBN: 978-1-909075-30-6

DAwn a collection of poems

M.A.R. Taleghany

M.A.R. Taleghany comes from a family of lawyers and men of letters. He followed the family tradition and received two degrees in law from the University of Tehran. He continued with his advance studies at the University of London where he received another two degrees. He taught law for several years at his alma mater. Subsequently he moved to England where he practices as a consultant lawyer.

Being interested in literature from early childhood, he has written a number of books on law and literature as well as translating several books from English into Persian and vice versa. His collection of poems The Flight of the Phoenix was well received.

Apart from the present work, he has a collection of English poems entitled, “Dawn�, a collection of short stories and also a collection of fables from the east.

He lives with his wife and second son, also a lawyer, in London. His first son is a film director who lives in Los Angeles, California.

DAwn: A Collection of Poems

I never sit down to write a poem. It usually so happens that the idea of a poem simply descends on me. This happens quite accidentally; it is never pre-planned. The process of writing a poem is like this: I feel restless for a while. This could take a few days, weeks or months. The emotionally sensitive part of my mind, if I may say so, is impressed, or rather pressed, by events happening around me. The effect of these events are not, directly or indirectly, personal; they are imprints of events that my subconscious considers rightly or wrongly, not fair, humane or rational; especially rationality, which is a rare commodity in our present day world. Thus the poems presented in this volume, could be said are records of the moments captured in words and are a reflection of the effects of the events in the mirror of my mind.

by

M.A.R. Taleghany RRP ÂŁ6