By: Jehangir Saleh
Written: May 22, 2003

I am dying inside
He wanted to say
And it’s so easy to write about
Angst
She said
And I don’t understand
Why anyone would be so foolish
Neither do I he said
And they both were having
Trouble reading
This sort-of poem
Was broken dialogue
Like
Broken other things that if you don’t know I’m not going to tell you
That (which is like love) also fails to
Make any sense
But
You think that perhaps
If you play the piano
Long enough
Pound the keys
Hard
(until the fingers bleed a bit)
that notes will remain
fluent in the air
and never die

you think if
I pound this
Hard enough
it will stay
with me
invade my silence
destroy
and make me whole again
with its long pause

where are you going?
I’m the one who
Promised to leave

“Why?
What do I have to do
With your
Health”

I am siloquy

After Getting Lost
By: Jehangir Saleh
Written: May 11, 2003

You remind me
Of water
Without borders
Without the touch
Of land
Just water
Continuing
To more water
Deeper
To more deep
To more
deeper

And I want
To be the only
Mass
In the your water
To swim
And keep swimming
Or drown
And keep drowning
In the
Warm embrace
Of the sea

This Is Not Speech To Divine Revelation
By: Jehangir Saleh
Written: May 3, 2003

This little boy
Inattentive in Jamat Khana
Who will grow?
To be lost in his work

What would you be like now
As you search the streets for Shams?
They would lock you away
Arrest you for drunkenness and
Wonder why you never smelled of liquor.

Find you disoriented
Breathelizer test.

Gesture at Bay & Bloor
By: Jehangir Saleh
Written: April 30, 2003

Easy to trip on
That man with rancid in his voice
A slop on the sidewalk
Hands and mouth shaking at passersby
Rasps of hair peeking out
From the holes in his hat
Which he tips towards me
While I wait for the light to change
For things to happen,
For progression
Leaving him behind with the pigeons
And other pedestrians

I imagine walking back
Shaking his callused
But firm hands
Sharing a cigarette
Becoming dirty from his wisdom

He is a great mound of man –
Like the one where they waited for Godot
It was not a rock
But a blanketed homeless man
That meant nothing and never will-
As tragic as a permanent suit stain

A leather briefcase jabs my side,
The well-dressed crowd hungers for green
And I begin to think of my future
As the light begins to change

Please Stop
By: Jehangir Saleh
Written: April 28, 2003

to the herd
who boarded at Bloor,
rubber-band intelligence
stretched through their
pre-pubescent bodies

please stop
your discussion of
the evenings activities
you’re knawing on the nerves

the aging black man
who dropped his rice cracker,
the veteran grandfather cluting

it may seem to your that everyone else is riding the wrong train
and I’m afraid to tell you
it’s just southbound from here
we’re both riding the wrong train

while you thrive on your own fire
they go home a light matches
the nights are hard,
but tonight was harder

1
By: Jehangir Saleh
Written: April 15, 2003

Alas, summer has arrived, and with it those soon to be memorable symptoms of knotted stomach, feeling queasy and really bad heartburn. Someone has seized your heart and you’re in love (again). Not to worry, take the following steps that lead to the perfect love letter and lure the object of your affection.

1) Avoid the temptation to declare your immediate and undying affection. If the urge is too overwhelming, then temporarily ignore this article, write a gushy love letter and send it to your cat. Once your feline is aware of your affection, it’s now time to try it with another human being.

2) Find a focus. It’s easy to begin writing and get carried away pouring emotion and random thoughts on the page. You and your reader will be stumbling through words, potentially eliminating chances at further relationship development. This is not good. Instead try focusing on something you can both relate to.

3) Take hold of a moment! Try referring to a memorable pausing of time that you both shared (or at least you think that you both shared….) Perhaps it’s the first time you met, and you warmly recall the way her eyes sparkled when you spilled your orange soda on her white dress. Perhaps you remember her warm smile when you apologized. Perhaps this would be a good time to make an apology. Writing about a special moment is something you can both relate to, and it might spark or deepen their interest.

4) Lay some common ground. Maybe they told you that they despise rap music. And after going home and thinking about it, you have decided that you despise rap music too. Write about your shared hatred for rap music, or anything else for that matter. You’ve now established something you can both relate to.

5) Throw your personality into it! Not everyone is a hopeless romantic that compares life to a darkly fragrant mountain and stands on its peak reciting Shakespeare and Byron while the wind whispers sweet nothings to chipmunks who frolic in meadows embraced with tulips and sweet grass. Your letter is a reflection of you and your feelings. And although it may seem to be the easiest way out, I strongly caution against using the internet to piece your letter together. Be clever, be
witty, bottom line: be yourself.

Once you’re finished writing your love infused letter, seal it carefully and place it in a spot where the object of your affection will just happen to stumble upon it. And don’t feel bad if this one doesn’t work out. Remember, the summer breeze is full of love and next week someone else will be giving you heartburn. So grab some ant-acid and get writing!

Canada became home for my parents who escaped persecution in Uganda
By: Jehangir Saleh
Written: April 11, 2003

Canada became home for my parents who escaped persecution in Uganda during a revolution in the seventies. They did not merely feel relieved; they felt they owed Canada a debt of gratitude. I share their view. Canada has provided me with the opportunity to learn and grow while helping others in the process. I do not feel obliged to give back, rather, giving back seems to be the Canadian sentiment. In my experiences as a volunteer and intern, tolerance and understanding diversity have become essential skills. And as a Canadian citizen, these skills and ways of thinking have become instilled in me.
It is too simple to say that I hope to gain skills by joining this program, because no matter where I work, there will always been new experiences and skills to develop. Instead, I hope this program will allow me develop a better understanding of the career I aspire to pursue, and provide me skills that I would not be able to acquire while working typical summer jobs. I know that regardless of what opportunity I am able to find through this program, it will be a great learning experience. And it will also provide me with a greater sense of direction regarding my career path, and ultimately my future

Mr. Armstrong
By: Jehangir Saleh
Written: April 6, 2003

A tribute
to Mr. Armstrong
who overstayed his welcome
was put in a home to age
but came down everyday
to smell the plastic tulips
and further dehydrate
the inheritance

if you met him
under living circumstances
you probably
would have ignored him willingly
but as he is dead
I will try and give him
the nobility
we all deserve

sometimes
he was Mr. Armstrong:
sly gentlemen of the fifties
late evenings of booze and jazz
strolling the arms of beautiful
young victims to his charm
or Mr. Armstrong:
brilliant, hardworking architect
building hopes and dreams
for his wife, children
and coming home
to walk the dog
but most of the time
he was Mr. Armstrong:
eighty-three years stolen
by the Alzheimer’s that infected
his mind

he strolled down
the dull orange hallways
of the retirement centre
amongst the other tragedies
(who were fading at various speeds)
with his wife, dog and navy blue top hat
never once losing the hat
although the dog
ran away twice
and he misplaced her
many times

everyone shook their heads
said a prayer
and quietly walked around
the man whose past
would constantly erupt
our of order
who would begin the conversation
in 1958 and end up stuck
somewhere in the seventies

It was fine
when he was
a cranky twelve-year-old
It was fine
the twenty-sixth time
I told him my name
It was fine
as long as he stayed inside
the ignorance

But sometimes
ever so briefly
he remembered
that he was Mr. Armstrong
the decrepit old man
who wasn’t dying fast enough
and worse
sometimes he remembered
that he would forget

but don’t feel bad
he’s dead now
although his dog is alive
still running away
as is his wife
so there’s still someone
to feel sorry for
more importantly
there’s still someone
to ignore