On Long-Nosed Poets and the Lies That Save Us
In early 2022, Pooya began composing poetry, influenced by his personal experiences.
He wrote poems that, without his realizing it at first, broke away from the traditional forms of Persian poetry. For a long time, he had no intention of publishing them.
He considers his poetic voice shaped by the influences of Omar Khayyam, Sohrab Sepehri, and Shel Silverstein. A curated collection of his poems, titled “Please Be a Long-Nosed Poet,” is currently in the pre-publication stage.
The title refers to one of the key and longer poems in the collection, called “The Wooden Puppet.” In this piece, the poet portrays poetry as a grand lie one that, the more masterfully you tell it, the longer your nose (like Pinocchio’s) grows. And yet, this lie is seen as something vital to being human.
The following poem is one of the works from this collection. The hope is that the full volume will be published in the near future.
What is life?
The piles of dust gathered together
And spoke to each other,
“What is life?”
The body found itself in an accident,
Then when the field of thought was lost,
In the midst of this confusion, human emerged,
And again asked, “What is life?”
One question became the beginning of the field of thought.
Human became human,
A pile of dust scattered in the wind,
A pile of dust settled,
Rain fell,
The earth became wet,
Human became human,
And again asked, “What is life?”
Oh delicate heart,
Oh frail body,
Where are those wings and feathers?
Where is your power?
Piles of humanity gathered together,
And asked each other,
“What is life?”
The society found itself in an accident,
Then when the field of thought of each individual was lost,
In the midst of this confusion, the community emerged,
And again asked, “What is life?”
One question became the beginning of the field of politics.
The society became society,
A revolution occurred,
Sometimes a rebellion boiled in the heart of a hug,
Death danced,
Birth was destroyed,
The society became society,
Oh government,
Oh nation,
What is your power?
What are your wings and feathers?
Piles of thoughts gathered together,
And asked each other,
“What is life?”
“I” found itself in an accident,
Then when the field of norms was lost,
In the midst of this confusion, “I” emerged,
And again asked, “What is life?”
One question became the beginning of the field of philosophy.
“I” became “I”,
“I” crawled in its own solitude,
Gave birth to a child,
The child took its place at the center of the world,
Called itself “self”,
And the world “I”.
I became arrogant with position and status,
Gave birth to another childhood in its solitude,
Named it “knowledge”,
Knowledge was a jealous child,
Tore “I” into pieces and placed each piece in a corner of the mind,
Creating a different parent for each piece,
So that its murder would not be revealed.
“Self” fell from the center of the world and died,
“I” became “I”,
A pile of dust scattered in the wind,
A pile of dust settled,
Rain fell,
The earth became wet,
Life became death,
Meaning became meaningless,
Dust became dust,
And never again asked,
“What is life?”
Pooya Salehi /Feb 2023