Ey Iran, this is love.

But this was something new and unexpected. I had never been drawn to Iranian culture or music, never had desired to learn more beyond the superficial knowledge of this historical place; a perfunctory appreciation for the art of the lost world of Persepolis and this cradle of humanity. 

That casual indifference began to change for me when I became acquainted with an Iranian man whom I will forever consider a friend. I was immediately touched by his quiet dignity, the respect he showed to me, and his generosity.  His noble heart opened mine to what was to come, proof in a way that one person, one man, can make a difference. With the passage of time, and having the honour of being in the presence of the Iranian community, I found myself growing in respect for these intelligent and dignified people.

When I wrote this poem, it was with a realisation that we love places not for the bricks and mortar that they are made of, but because of the people they represent; how much more so now that those bricks and pavements have been christened with blood?  How much more so now, that the same blood was used to paint these words onto the walls of the city with their hands, in a final show of defiance writing:

"Javid Shah - Long live the king"

I often second guess my art and my poetry. I belong to that strange group of misunderstood people, who spend way too much time in their heads and on the periphery of society; never quite having enough ambition to make something of myself, but neither content to go quietly into the night.  So seeing this photo in my newsfeed felt like a confirmation from God, or the Universe, or from the workings of a mind that seeks meaning and patterns in a chaotic and crazy world. 

It was a photo taken in Iran with the words “War, war until victory” and “We will never compromise.” The words of the photographer Mohammad Moheimany  struck me, “I cannot remember ever seeing beauty, romantic, or uplifting words written on the walls of our cities. For years, all we have seen in front of us is war, division, hostility, and curses. That is why we have become depressed, angry, and exhausted people. They neither taught us love nor allowed us to see it. And in the end, all those curses come back to our own lives.”

به یاد ندارم روی دیوارهای شهر
جملات قشنگ.عاشقانه.حال خوب کن نوشته باشن
سالهاست جلو چشممون فقط جنگ و نفاق و دشمنی و لعنت هست
همینه که حالا آدمهای افسرده و بی اعصابی شدیم
چون محبت رو نه آموزش دادن نه گذاشتن ببینیم
و ته لعنت ها به زندگی خودمون برمیگرده

Those who know, will understand what a crime this is.  Those who know will understand that poetry, beauty and art are the very fabric of Iranian culture.  The idea that beyond the beautiful minds that are being killed by this regime, that the beautiful Iranian culture is being replaced with a vile hatred and indoctrination, is abhorrent to me, and should be abhorrent to the world.  The erasure of Iranian culture by the Islamic Republic and hollowing out of its heart and soul, is one of the greatest crimes against humanity and should not be allowed to continue without a fight.

 My voice is not here to compete with that of the Iranian people and their raw experience,  I could not. My words, inadequate as they are, will not compare to the great Iranian poets past and present, I am not.  But my inadequate ramblings can add to the continued and ever growing voices of those who are unwilling to accept the reality we find ourselves in. 

It is our job; the ones on the periphery, the ones who are abstract minded and non conforming, to take up arms against the powers of this world that want to bring nothing to our existence but submission and hate. To paint our words of beauty and love on to those walls, and to add to the voices of those who did so in blood. To paint a new reality into existence, and to say loudly and without shame, "Ey Iran...this is love." 

The streets of Tehran

You are the streets of Tehran

Everywhere I look, you surround me.

The pavement beneath my feet echoes your heartbeat,

And the sigh from your lips is the breeze

blowing gently through the trees on the

avenue.

The windows of every building are your eyes,

watching me tenderly from a distance as I pass you by.

Each brick of Tehran; created from your sinews,

And the door that greets me

at every house is the door to your heart;

Stepping through that door,

unto the threshold,

I am home.

تو خیابان‌های تهرانی

هر کجا که نگاه می‌کنم، تو مرا در بر گرفته‌ای.

سنگفرش زیر گام‌هایم

طنین تپش قلب تو را بازمی‌تاباند،

و آهی که از لبانت برمی‌خیزد،

همان نسیم آرامی است

که درختان خیابان را به نرمی می‌نوازد.

پنجره‌های هر ساختمان،

چشمان تو هستند؛

از دور، با مهربانی نگاهم می‌کنند

هنگامی که از کنارت می‌گذرم.

هر آجر تهران

از تار و پود وجود تو ساخته شده است،

و دری که در هر خانه

به استقبالم گشوده می‌شود،

دروازه‌ای است به قلب تو.

و آن‌گاه که از آن در می‌گذرم

و بر آستانه‌اش قدم می‌گذارم،

به خانه بازگشته‌ام.