Your Ankles
By: Jehangir Saleh
Written: February 11, 2004

Your Ankles
Are the swollen bellies
Of blind baby birds
Finding there way
Into my hands

Nesting, peacefully
They are not separated or alone
They are apart of some other
Greater whole

We may never fly again
Stumbling instead
Through uncertain darkness

If I am damaged in your hands
Let my belly be swollen
As my wings twitch
With seizures

Tomorrow we will be eaten
But until then, be happy
That we are blind
Together

If You Weep
By Jehangir Saleh
Written: February 11, 2004

We will walk together
Upon this darkly fragrant mountain
Only a silent understanding
Between us

If you weep
I will sip your tears
Like rosewater

You shoulder my sorrow
With a firm hand
Wet with
Tears

4
By Jehangir Saleh
Written:  August 24, 2003

I gave to you
A poem entitled
Rose
You approved of thorns
But would never accept
The stems or petals

Dried roses are like dead men
Who have lost their minds
Wilted, wrinkled
But remain shaped
As they were
During their last breath
Look at a your dead rose
Although layered with dust
Inhabited by spiders
It is still a rose
Until someone shakes it
And then the petals
Finally defeated
Fall

I hope my rose
Is collecting dust
In the company of a spider
Until the day you decide
It was never
Really a rose
(only a poem)
and throw it away

Waiting For A Woman
With Nothing Else To Do But Think
By: Jehangir Saleh
Written: April 6, 2003

Possibly
It’s only the anticipation we’re after
lingering moments
steeped in uncertain time
as you ponder
(while your nose drips)
whether it’s thoroughly
lubricated love
or merely
a chapped
dry, quick
addictive infatuation

reflection
will only blur
your current, preconceived
understanding
of togetherness
cause you to realise
hidden layers and
complications
stuff she said
you didn’t pickup
that’s better ignored
anyway

in short:
thinking is dangerous

instead:
be a man
arm yourself
with a subtle blend
of ignorance
and bewilderment
remembering that
if she leaves you
you can always masturbate
while watching
The Oprah Winfrey Show
to re-create
the marriage experience
if this poem confuses you
then, my friend
you’re way ahead of the game

Untitled Because I Don’t
Know What Else To Say
By: Jehangir Saleh
Written:  April 6, 2003

I miss the limited perspective
of Fisher Price binoculars
when the problem of the day
was hiding a grape juice stain
on the rug
and suicide
wasn’t a part
of my vocabulary

running tearful
to my mother
I miss the delicate way
she held my pain
tickled out a smile
walked me to the park
where the bullies and beatings
were temporally lost
soaring on the swing sets
in the suburban air

soft pillows in corners
of the public school library
I miss reading
the heroics of princesses in paper-bags
imagining myself as Franklin
the timid turtle
who always came out of his shell
on top

sneaking my second grade hand
on to Rebecca’s soft shoulder
and almost making it
although I don’t miss
the dance rejections
torn love notes
and ignorance
that came immediately after

I miss the firm, callused hands
of my grandfather
who understood me
although I never did

the dusty green
stuffed dragon he gave me
is gone
my father threw it away

supposedly
now things are better
I’m told
I have progressed
that there’s nothing to miss
the past is behind me
I’m stronger, smarter
I’ll be successful
have a future
yes,
tomorrow will be
to be a brighter day

but they took those pillows away
stained by the vomit
of too many children
the swing sets
were torn down
the air polluted

I know a prostitute
who wears a paper bag

and as I sit in my basement
colder than usual
writing a cure
not poetry
I can’t help wondering
what happened
where I stopped understanding
why everyone else
has figured it out
and I’m still wandering

yesterday
was suppose to be
a brighter day

Oh No, Suicide
By Jehangir Saleh
Written:  April 6, 2003

it’s so easy
to write off
poetry about suicide

declare it a childish
silly, belligerent
passing phase
like early love
or homosexuality

but I pity you
who have never
sat alone, cornered
in your basement
pressed against silence
contemplating
the great logically
illogical act

foolishly
you will attempt
to quantify suicide –
an emotional oscillation
which cannot
be represented
by theories or equations
however non-linear
the urge
to kill oneself
is hidden, camouflaged
within the fierce
scribbles of a two-year-old
armed with a deep black
crayon;
the artist understands
while everyone else
sees a mess

perhaps your life
has been a long
hesitant suicide
gun loaded
knife readied at throat
while you strolled around
in a thick black ignorance

your life
as one hard, long
dark waxy line
that swivels off the page

did they forget
to tell you
your life support
has been unplugged?

at least I made
the decision
to unplug mine

The Sex Columnist’s Sonnet
By Jehangir Saleh
Written: April 6, 2003

Dear John, I sincerely hope you can help me
and my budding sexual frustrations.
My wife, she’s a lesbian, and you see,
I’ve found I’m gay and love mastication

But don’t worry, that’s not the problem.
Rather, we have not yet told each other,
though she has found my whips and stolen them.
And worst of all is her dying mother.

My in-laws are going a bit crazy,
they are lost, have absolutely no clue.
They really want kids, but we are lazy.
We’re stuck, and don’t know what to do.

Please help me John, I hope you’ll understand.
Sincerely, Confused and Worried Gay Man

Magic
By Jehangir Saleh
Written: July 7, 2002

There is something
Quite
Magical about poetry
Unsure, I am
Precisely what this magic is
It seems there is this
Vague understanding
A lyrical harmony
A momentous meaning
To life
Even if dull, and faded
It remains, if only for a second
It matters not
The defination
Only that this magic
Exists
And is
Recieved, given, shared
So that everyone
May experince
Its temporary, magical lull

There is magic in us
There is magic in this poem

Jehangir Saleh
3 Mendip Cres, Toronto, ON
M1P1Y3

Fire Hydrants
By Jehangir Saleh
Written: April 27, 2002

2:37am
Stand guard
Against a vast epidemic
Of empty
The streets barren
From earlier invasions
Battles fought
With only
One left standing
Erect, alone, exposed

The wind is sore
And cruel
Silence screams
Ravishing each moment
Seconds stumble,
Each one
Mortifying the next

Stand tall
Proud, shielded
By thick red armor
And frozen dog urine
The world is tarnished
And you are rusting
Peeling, falling apart

Random car belches
The occasional
Suicidal scream
And then nothing

Nothing
Upon layers of
Nothing

The worst plagues
Occur in a still
Of silence

A Funnel In My Ear
For Lindsay
By Jehangir Saleh
Written: April 16, 2002

There is a mole
Furrowing through the funnel
In my ear

I listen, and he laughs
Quite a ticklish mole indeed

Let’s name him Bobert
Yes, Bobert, the mole
Snuggling in blindness
While funneling in the funnel
That has somehow found
It’s way into my ear

I was thinking about a better place
Of deep red comfort
Skies stained a very warm pink
Where we might furrow away
And then came Bobert
And his funnel

I listened
While he laughed
(Quite I ticklish mole indeed)
Closed my eyes
And wrote
What I suppose is a poem
For you