Is this Love
Bob Marley: Is This Love
Sending Love Poems to Iran
Farideh Hasanzadeh writes to ask me
to send love poems for a project she
is working on.
I immediately think —
"All of my poems are love poems."
As I am looking through various manuscripts
OZ calls looking for Jay,
"What are you doing?"
I say, "I am looking for love poems
to send to Iran."
"You're probably the only person
in America doing that today.
More people must do this."
Here are a few I sent this morning.
Send some of your own, type
love poems into the comments section —
share the small miracles
that make us human
under any flag.
First there were photographs of it,
or part of it—
you could identify an eye,
part of the trunk.
The photos were in exquisite color,
the last one revealed the whole thing—
a mountain in the shape of an elephant
which when I looked up was actually there
on the horizon,
was the horizon—
a huge mountain that was shaped like
an elephant, was called “Elephant Buddha.”
It was nearly a planet of its own—
serene, and green, a mountain of rock,
trees, streams, lakes, alpine flowers—
A national park spread across the forehead.
There were signs to it.
Above that was an elephant-bald head.
There were books about it
in which houses were painted upside down
and floated in the sky.
Three of my favorite activists were selling
postcards along the road—
I just looked
and looked, looked
at the Elephant Buddha—
wise, serene and erotic.
Noise of the Soul
I feel your presence in my soul
I cannot understand how
you can possibly not
It is like a flashback
delayed stress syndrome
leaves me wondering
what is real —
this feeling that completely
or the world I live in
empty of you,
full of every sort of silence
noise of the soul.
The sound of leaves falling is not you coming home, soft
you have always been but your steps are not leaves falling
nor are they in anticipation real,
but come in their own time falling different from my own.
Like the flat speed of my life, is not you stepping into
the wake of my listening.
With edge of surprise you come startling me and the leaves
you are not gently unlike translate
into life out of doors
with rain rushing past where you step.
Water in the lakes, the blur of rain on it, are not
you in my life.
Nor is the tide or fish to be caught in it. The gamble and you
are not similar, though enduring an extreme.
The people in your world and weather are more like you,
different and sleepwalking
compared to the touch of your love,
in this season of negation,
Babies in Pajamas
are not combatants
of anyone, nor
grown to adulthood
but for rampant
justifies torching a room
full of sleeping children
and if the arc
of our world
demands a rationale
that arc must
Poems, ©Susan Bright, 2007
Susan Bright is the author of nineteen books of poetry. She is the editor of Plain View Press which since 1975 has published one-hundred-and-ninety books. Her work as a poet, publisher, activist and educator has taken her all over the United States and abroad. Her most recent book, The Layers of Our Seeing, is a collection of poetry, photographs and essays about peace done in collaboration with photographer Alan Pogue and Middle Eastern journalist, Muna Hamzeh.
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