Poet of the Revolution

CAN MAJID IMAGINE EVER GOING back to Iran? "Only if the government apologized for what they did," he says emphatically. Isn't that unlikely? Is there even a precedent? "It's not unprecedented," Majid insists. "Madeleine Albright recently apologized for what the U.S. did to Iran in 1953, for the CIA coup. It's just like a personal relationship -- if you want to have a relationship, apology is the first step."

However, he's not holding his breath, for an apology, or for his return. In the years since receiving asylum, Majid has become an American poet. Editor Ardavan Daravan, who included Majid's work in an influential anthology of Iranian-diaspora literature, spent years trying to find significant voices for his collection. Majid was among those writers, Daravan says, "who had made the transition . . . who could connect their experiences living abroad with their original cultural traditions." Fred Dewey of Beyond Baroque wrote in his foreword to Muddy Shoesthat Majid's poetry "is born of great suffering yet affirms deep dignity and respect for that wider experience of the world, brought here through danger and carved out of solitude and reflection. Tragically, we are seldom allowed to hear or see such things, blocked from sensing the reality of other countries, knowledges, forms of speech; when these are allowed in, or come in, they are, without recourse, smoothed out, conquered, if you will, without mercy. Majid, as a poet of Los Angeles, suggests a new route."

Majid's adopted city has recently adopted one of his poems. At the intersection of Brooks Avenue and Ocean Front Walk in Venice, where Majid frequently jogs with Azâd on a scooter beside him, the L.A. Recreation and Parks Department has engraved on a concrete wall a stanza from his long poem "Ah, Los Angeles." The poem is Majid Naficy's manifesto, one that proclaims he is no longer in exile.

 

Ah, Los Angeles!

I accept you as my city,

And after 10 years

am at peace with you.

Waiting without fear

I lean back against the bus post.

And I become lost

In the sounds of your late night.

A man gets off the Blue Bus 1

And crosses to this side

To take RTD 4.

Perhaps he too is coming back

From his nights on campus.

On the way he has sobbed

Into a blank letter.

And he has heard the voice of a woman

With a tropical accent.

On the RTD 4 it rains.

A woman is talking to her umbrella

And a man ceaselessly flushes a toilet.

I told Carlos yesterday,

"Your clanging cart

Wakes me up in the morning."

He collects cans

And wants to go back to Cuba.

From the Promenade

Comes the sound of my homeless man.

He sings sadly

As he plays his guitar.

Where in the world can I hear

The black moaning of the trumpet

Alongside the Chinese chimes?

And see this warm olive skin

Through blue eyes?

The heedless pigeons

Have perched on the empty benches.

They stare at the dinosaur

Who sprays old water on our kids.

Marziyeh sings from afar.

I return, homesick

And I put my feet

On your back.

Ah, Los Angeles!

I feel your blood.

You taught me to get up

And look with love

At my beautiful legs

And along with the marathon

Run on your broad shoulders.

Once I wanted to commit suicide.

I coiled up under my blanket

And was a recluse for two nights.

Then, I turned on the radio,

And I heard the poems of a Russian poet,

Who in a death camp,

Was denied paper

But his wife learned them by heart.

Will Azâd read my poems?

On the days that I take him to school,

He sees the bus number from far off.

And makes things easier for me.

At night he stays under the shower

And lets the drops of water

Spray on his young skin.

Sometimes we go to the beach.

He bikes and I skate.

He buys a Pepsi from a machine

And gives me one sip.

Yesterday we went to Romteen's house.

His father is a Parsee from India.

He wore sadra and kusti

While he was painting the house.

On that little stool

He looked like a Zoroastrian

Rowing from Hormuz to Sanjan.

Ah, Los Angeles!

Let me bend down and put my ear

To your warm skin.

Perhaps in you

I will find my own Sanjan.

No, it's not a ship scraping

Against the rocky shore;

It's the rumbling of Blue Bus 8.

I know.

I will get off at Idaho Street

And will pass the shopping carts

Left by the homeless.

I will climb the wooden staircase

And will open the door.

I will start the answering machine

And in the dark

I will wait like a fisherman.

Majid Naficy reads at Beyond Baroque on Saturday, February 17, at 7:30 p.m. (310) 822-3006.