i'm taking a class on persian poetry i don't speak persian- my taste in poetry has always been more bukowski than rumi a little too western, a little too crude
but then there's you with poetry flowing at the tips of your fingers and the edges of your heart you read poetry as if it were the bible making every word sound holy and every sentence more scripture than art and when you recite it's like thunder and ice it's fire with just enough passion to burn for centuries
you're the hafiz to my plath and i never quite understood your language but i loved it any way and i tried to speak it but my words were always too western, too crude and yours
yours like a burning candle in the middle of winter it's a small light but enough to keep me warm and the darker the night the cooler the weather the warmer the flame that burns bright
you were my ferdowsi and khyyam and i was still somewhere between woolf and dickinson their worlds made sense to me more than persian passions that i always wanted could almost taste but never swallow but you feasted
i'm taking a class on persian poetry i don't speak persian- *but it brings me one step closer to you.