Dardedel

by Manoucher Parvin

  “Lost in the Sonora talking to saguaros.

  Pirooz! Don’t you recognize me without my green skin and prickles?

  I am Hafez! The poet! The star-counting cactus

  Who magically grows umbrellas from his arms,

  And now drives a taxi in New York!

  Are you surprised I changed into a man, and came to visit you?”

  Pirooz blinks at the happy eyes in the rearview mirror,

  And, shaking his head, sighs: “Surprised and not surprised.

  I had convinced myself that you and Rumi were real,

  Then just this morning re-convinced myself it was a dream after all.

  But now it is easy to believe everything:

  If a poet can become a cactus, glued in the sands of a desert,

  Then a cactus can become a man, glued to the seat of a taxi.”

  As Pirooz talks he searches the cab, as if looking for a lost ring.

  “Where are you hiding, Rumi Jaan?

  You are not the cab itself, are you, Rumi Jaan?”

  The image of Rumi as a wheeled yellow ball makes Hafez chuckle.

  “No, no, Pirooz! He is still a cactus counting stars,

  Still thinking it unwise for me to follow you to New York.

  But I had to follow you, to feel how you feel,

  To see this marvelous future you live in!”

  The cab turns down the avenue named for Columbus,

  The discoverer of places already discovered.

  “I missed you, Pirooz Jaan!” Hafez says.

  “I have missed you all my life,” Pirooz replies.

  Then he mumbles to himself, “Beh haghe harf-haye nashnofteh!”

  (I now, the unbelievable has come true before my own eyes.)

  “So,” asks Hafez, as they stop and go, and stop and go,

  “You teach at that school back there?”

  It is Pirooz’s turn to laugh: “I show up there,

  And my students furiously fill their notebooks there—

  But do I teach there? Not what I really want to teach.”

  Hafez is nodding his head. “I know what you mean.

  My driving is not exactly driving, either.

  I sometimes mistake the gas for the brake,

  Or bump into bumpers or go the wrong way on one-way streets.

  Yet my license insists I am a driver!”

  They turn onto Broadway, just missing a jaywalking woman

  Carrying a tiny white poodle in her huge purple purse.

  “Dummy!” the poodle woman shouts.

  Growls Hafez: “In Shiraz I was a smart man.

  But in New York I am apparently not a smart man.”

  Pirooz sighs sympathetically, saying,

  “Presidents proclaim that America is a celebration of difference.

  But America demands conformity to the norm.

  America ties individuals legally with ropes made of dollar bills …”

  Hafez has heard a word he does not know.

  “The norm? What is the norm?”

  Answers Pirooz: “It is the pulp of your soul after the

  Leviathan called Education has squeezed the exotic juices out of you.”

  Hafez is puzzled: “Education, a slithering monster from the deep?”

  Pirooz sits silently, hands on his knees,

  Watching the stuck traffic, listening to the shattering horns.

  “Let me educate you about education in America, Hafez:

  Our bodies are soaring toward the stars,

  But our souls are nailed to the ground.

  We search for extra-terrestrials curiously,

  But refuse to look at ourselves critically.

  Compared to what we could be, we remain so imperfect.”

  Protests Hafez: “Come on, Pirooz, all is not all that bad.

  There is more freedom today, more wine, more books.

  Even the norms you decry are not as bad as the norms of Ancientday!”

  The cab crawls on through the noisy chaos,

  Through the Sodom of Times Square and the Gomorrah of Chelsea.

  “Go on,” Hafez urges. “I didn’t mean to silence you with my optimism.”

  Pirooz is angry and the hair under his beret is itching.

  “And I didn’t mean to depress you with my pessimism.”

  He lifts his beret and scratches, saying,

  “I, too, want to believe that education can bring the best to man;

  That we can remain curious like a child, and laugh like a child;

  Grow toward perfection with every experience and every generation.

  But here is the problem, my curious Hafez:

  Who will decide what knowledge is best? Whose teaching is best?

  Unfortunately, it is the powerful who dictate their truth best!

  And although religious indoctrination is banned in schools,

  They nevertheless indoctrinate a National Religion in schools.

  In this religion created by slave owners ages ago

  Columbus is the prophet and the Founding Fathers apostles.

  The Constitution is the holy book.

  The National Anthem is the hymn.

  The flag, carried on shoulders like a cross,

  Ruffles with stars and rivers of blood,

  Each representing a chunk of captured real estate.

  Hell is jail and heaven is success.

  Money is god, so in money we trust.

  We do not educate our children to become wise and creative.

  We educate them to become functional, obedient, and employed.”

  Hafez shakes his head: “Nothing has changed in the soul of man.

  Education has failed in the soul of man.”

  Pirooz is nearly in a frenzy now,

  His arms flapping like the wings of a caged hen:

  “But any proposal to change the system faces acrimonious debate,

  Not about what is good for students, or society,

  But what suits parents and politicians.

  And since no one from outer space will help us,

  Then who but us can save us from us and educate us?

  Certainty not television—that foul mouth of falsehood

  Of the money and for the money,

  Inflicting that horrible addiction called consumption!”

  They reach 34th Street and wait for shoppers and beggars

  To flood across the beeping, beeping street.

  Pirooz, exhausted by his lament,

  Wishes that his beret were as large as a quilt,

  So he could pull it over his head and disappear,

  The way frightened children disappear under their blankets at night.

  With his eyes he begs Hafez for permission

  To end the re-experiencing of his own long agony.

  But Hafez is insistent: “We still have some blocks to go, Pirooz Jaan.

  Tell me why these patriot-preacher-teachers don’t rebel?”

  “We teachers may look like ghosts,” Pirooz moans.

  “But we are not ghosts—We have to eat.”

  “My heart breaks for you,” Hafez says, “but are you really powerless?

  In my day, teachers sat atop very high pillows.”

  Pirooz answers angrily: “Today teachers pillows are very flat,

  Flattened by the weight of regulations and laws.

  We can’t even stop our students from shooting each other.

  That is how powerless we are!”

  They reach Bleeker Street and Hafez pulls to the curb,

  Knocking over a rack of free newspapers.

  “Here you are, Pirooz Jaan, safe and sound.”

  Pirooz looks at Hafez’s grin and digs into his pocket for his wad of bills.

  Hafez waves his hands: “No no, Pirooz Jaan, this ride is on me.”

  Pirooz feels faint, a little foolish.

  Does he just get out of the taxi now and go on about his business?

  As if Hafez were just any other c
abby?

  As if this ride was just another dream to awaken from and forget?

  Says Hafez: “Hurry up, Pirooz! Get out!

  Those other drivers are honking their horns.”

  So Pirooz hops out and waves, not knowing

  If he will ever see Hafez again.

  He watches the cab disappear into the gas fumes and blaring horns.

  Shaken, feeling lonely, he hurries toward The Sad Ghazal,

  The coffee house with the wobbly green chairs

  And the tiny cracked cups of strong espresso.

  He takes only a few steps before he feels a hand on his shoulder.

  It is Hafez, a grinning Hafez.

  “I have decided to join you!” says Hafez.

  Pirooz can see the numerous questions in his eyes.

  5 Espresso & Consciousness

  The Sad Ghazal is packed with the usual people,

  Some animated, some in a trance as if posing for Rodin.

  Some are sipping, some chattering, some lost in games of chess.

  Some are reading, some are scribbling away at novels and poems.

  Pirooz and Hafez sit at a table by the windows.

  A waitress arrives and takes their order.

  Pirooz does not know what to say to Hafez,

  And Hafez is not interested in saying anything at all.

  He is soaking in the people, inside the cafe and out there on the street.

  They are of every color, from the whitest pink to the bluest black.

  There are men holding hands with men,

  Women holding hands with women,

  There are dogs as small as rats pulling people as big as bears.

  There are young faces furious that time moves too slow,

  Old faces filled with fear because time moves too fast.

  There are people who look rich, people who look very poor.

  Languages as varied as the songs of birds in jungles,

  Twist and twirl and intertwine unimaginable notes,

  Creating exotic perfumes of sound.

  “Quite a Babel,” Hafez finally says.

  The waitress brings their first espressos and they sip and sip and sip.

  “Hafez,” says Pirooz, “do you know that you

  Are still the most popular poet in Iran?

  That your Divan is more popular than the Holy Koran?

  That it has been translated into languages

  That did not even exist in your time?

  That the great German poet Goethe loved it,

  And like other poets was inspired by it?”

  Hafez’s entire body nods, slowly and sadly.

  “I was the first Johann came to see when he died.

  He praised me until I could take it no longer,

  So I hid at the bottom of a lake as a clam until he went away.

  I hope you are not going to praise me like that, Pirooz Jaan.”

  Emboldened by the espresso,

  Pirooz reaches across the little table and takes the poet’s hands.

  “How can I not praise you, Hafez, when your poems

  Are heavenly wine, becoming more intoxicating with time?

  The great epic poet Ferdowsi revitalized Persian—

  You beautified it into a bride.

  You love Persian and Persian loves you.

  What lovers you make—one making the other more enchanting.”

  Hafez pulls his hands away. “Pirooz, if you don’t stop this nonsense

  I will turn myself into a clam right here.”

  As Pirooz slides apprehensively down the back of his chair,

  Hafez explodes with laughter and takes Pirooz’s hands in his.

  “Don’t worry, I won’t turn into a clam—that is worse than being a cactus!

  I appreciate your good words, yet they seem so unlike you,

  You, the one impressed not even with God!”

  Says Pirooz shyly: “My compliments are from the heart, Hafez Jaan.”

  Two more cups of espresso arrive,

  And so do two enormous bagels sprinkled with sesame seeds.

  Hafez sips and chews and lets his frustration flow:

  “In life I was condemned by a few and loved by some.

  Now you tell me in death I am condemned by none and loved by many,

  Even by those who cannot understand my Persian pen,

  That publishers have become rich off my labors while I drive a taxi.

  What kind of world is this modern world of yours?”

  Pirooz answers him: “Hafez, you are like the world itself,

  Full of enigmas unresolved.

  Your life is an enigma, your love and lovers an enigma,

  Your faith is an enigma and your Divan is an enigma,

  A miracle of words with no claim it came from God.

  So don’t play humble with me, Hafez!

  Surely you must know the secret of this universal love for you.”

  Hafez lets his mustache twist into a grin.

  “You have answered your own question,” he says.

  “You said everything about me is enigmatic—and you are right!

  What people don’t understand they usually praise.

  Ask God, who is understood least and praised most,

  About awe and admiration!”

  Pirooz dips his finger into the thick brown sugary drops,

  Congealed like bitter honey at the bottom of his cup.

  He sucks on his fingers and watches the way women

  Give the handsome Hafez second, third, and fourth glances.

  He says: “You rebelled against all that exists in heaven and on earth.

  Remember, Hafez, your own poem:

  Come, let us scatter flowers around and fill your cup with wine,

  And tear, and turn the world upside-down.…

  “You criticized creation, the rulers, the clergy,

  The scholars, false Sufis, the rich crowd and the jealous crowd,

  And then you bashed yourself for being just like them,

  A dissimulating hypocrite concealing your beliefs out of fear,

  And for being just as greedy for pleasures of the skin!”

  Hafez erupts with another of his thunderlaughs, saying:

  “I certainly was greedy, and certainly still am!

  How can you stand living in this city, Pirooz?

  So many alluring young women roaming around half naked,

  As if in a bathhouse, heads, arms, and legs uncovered.

  Even those parts covered press against their coverings

  Like the flesh of a plum against its purpled skin.”

  Hafez looks about, worried that his voice is as loud as his lust.

  No one is listening or watching but he whispers just the same.

  “I remember this poem I wrote about myself:

  Bring wine, and let us be intoxicated

  Since if you look soberly, you will see,

  That the learned, the men of God,

  The rulers, and even Hafez,

  Engage in hypocrisy and dissimulation.”

  When Pirooz adds that, “Even God dissimulates,”

  Hafez is provoked: “Even God?”

  “Yes,” Pirooz says. “He refuses to tell us the origin of consciousness,

  To tell us how the seen brain creates, or couples with, the unseen mind,

  How biology and electromagnetism ascend to belief

  In His existence and His goodness,

  If the self, the soul, and spirit are just fancy words

  For a bunch of programmed neurons?”

  “What is your secret?” Pirooz asks Hafez,

  As they walk toward Washington Square.

  “Your poems are layered with so many ideas and meanings.

  They reveal so much yet seem to reveal so little.”

  Hafez, eyes fixed on a man dressed in leather and chains,

  Walking a frilly monkey not much bigger than a doll,

  Nervously straightens his mustache a
nd replies:

  “Some of the ambiguity in my poems is there playfully,

  Some incidentally, some intentionally,

  Layers and layers of disgusting disguise,

  To protect me from powerful authorities and angry crowds.

  So most of what was in my heart remained in my heart.

  But I don’t have to tell you about dissimulation, Pirooz, do I?

  You do complain about it as if it were a disease of the soul.

  And of course dissimulation is a disease of the soul,

  Tragically inflicted on man by man, like so many other diseases.”

  Pirooz takes a final sip of his thick, cold espresso.

  “Yes, Hafez Jaan. The most important and interesting truths

  Always remain unsaid.”

  “How do you know what you say is true?” Hafez demands.

  Says Pirooz with a smile, “If I state the uncontradictable—

  Which surely I try to do—

  Then I’ve got the truth as shiny as sunlight

  Captured on the brim of a great big hat!”

  As they cross the street and enter the park,

  Pirooz puts his hand on Hafez’s shoulder, saying:

  “Now it is I who remembers one of your own poems:

  With whom or for whom can you open your heart,

  If you are the nightingale that must remain still as death

  Even when the roses bloom.”

  They find a bench surrounded by pigeons and squirrels,

  And people with wheels on their feet.

  “Thank you for remembering my poem,” Hafez says.

  Pirooz takes off his beret so the evening breeze can

  Gently blow his dark brown hair, and answers:

  “The Koran was in your heart, Hafez Jaan,

  But your Divan is in many hearts.”

  As they talk, one of the people with wheels on their feet slices by,

  Just inches from their toes.

  “Who are these people?” Hafez grumbles.

  “Rollerbladers,” Pirooz responds,

  “A race of creatures impatient with the speed of evolution.”

  They laugh and then laugh at their laughter.

  “Why do you have to dissimulate, Pirooz?” asks Hafez,

  “Everything in this New York of yours seems so free and easy.”

  Answers Pirooz: “That is the enigma of America.

  We praise freedom and rejoice in it, as if it were morning prayer.

  But when you try to live it, reality rips you in two.

  Your body is left free but your spirit is put in jail.”

  “Have you experienced this yourself, Pirooz?”

  Pirooz throws his arms over his head and groans,

  “I am marginalized not only by my colleagues,