Poem: For Monica Lewinsky

"Splendour in the Grass," for Monica Lewinsky

You did not make a mistake. No decent person would call falling in love at 22 a mistake. 

It is normal to fall in love at any age, and even more normal for a young woman to love. 

In an office now sullied by political election and genuine threats of impeachment, you alone had the innocent brightness of a newborn, the strength to think of someone other than yourself. 

The only indecency witnessed was the way the tenderness of the human heart by which we live is so often ignored, spat on, and finally, forgotten by prurient politicians whose fingers pinch and poke anyone they please. 

May thou answerest them 

                                            only with 
   

                                 a 

   
       smile. 


© Matthew Mehdi Rafat (2019)

Poem from Pasternak

"The nights now sit down to play chess with me Where ivory moonlight chequers the floor. It smells of acacia, the windows are open, And passion, a grey witness, stands by the door."
-- Boris Pasternak, "Marburg"

Marburg refers to the German city where Pasternak decided to study around 1912, after his mother gave him an unexpected financial gift. He later published My Sister, Life (1917) and Doctor Zhivago (1957) in his native Russian.

Bonus: "I have a feeling that, for purposes unknown to me, my importance is being deliberately inflated... all this by somebody else's hands, without asking my consent. And I shun nothing in the whole world more than fanfare, sensationalism, and so-called cheap 'celebrity' in the press."

Poem: Exquisite Adaptations in Nature

You are inscrutable. Bottle-sized glasses give you a disarming look, but I knew at once not to underestimate you. 

You're introverted, sure, but you've surrounded yourself with extroverts, becoming unpredictable. Charles Darwin would be proud but unable to categorize you; perhaps you fit his observation that "wonderful metamorphoses in function are at least possible." 

Long giraffe legs give you feelings of being imbalanced, but to the casual observer, if you wobble, it is because you do not yet see your strength. 

I am no scientist, but know this: I already miss the island species that once sat with me, gently tranquilizing me without firing a single shot. 

© Matthew Mehdi Rafat (2018)

Poem: For Anthony Bourdain

I can explain suicide to you. It's as simple as an analog TV's antenna. 

Some people are lucky--the manufacturer delivers the set ready to watch straight out of the box. The antennas stick up in exactly the right places, making it easier to stay close to home. 

Others, not so lucky. Their antennas need adjusting for a clear picture, or they'll only get static. Most of the time, though, it works so life goes on. 

The rest? Companies call them defective, defying QC. These TV owners keep adjusting their antennas because the pictures and sounds, when they come through, are the brightest and most interesting in the neighborhood. 

And only this TV, this antenna, could show you the world from a Colombian barrio rooftop, a Vietnamese restaurant with plastic chairs, and a tiled floor with foul-smelling Icelandic fermented shark. 

But the antenna, as we mentioned, is defective. No one knows the right adjustments, and nothing dampens its signal. Its sharpness captures every smell, every song note, and every person (especially his first love). It's all in there somewhere, jostling around, looking for a place to call home, until one day, he decides the cacophony is too much, too bright, too much. 

He turns it off.

Dedicated to Anthony Bourdain (1956-2018) 

by Matthew Mehdi Rafat (2018) 

Poem: Pas de Deux: Balletomane in Malaysia

I was nervous when we met. You were a shade of color one finds only in Africa, that continent of a thousand and one dialects, and I'd never seen anyone so slender. Sensing my shyness, you began dancing effortlessly, first ballet, then hip hop, your graceful half-twirl more expert than your elbow pumps. I understood, looking at your naked movements, all seamlessly continuous, why politicians and billionaires build grand theaters.

In the shower, my stiff, pillowy hands moving downwards, I said you were small everywhere—until I reached your feet. At 48 kilograms vs. 220 pounds, our feet were improbable fraternal twins. Feeling a one-sided splendor, I moved backwards as fluidly as possible, washing your long toe while maneuvering to a different position. I offered a plié to demonstrate—and settle—our differences. After a failed attempt to grasp my femur, you made a fist, your second punch more rigorous, more delightful than your first.

When you glissaded to dry yourself, I followed, and we stood face to face. I thought your shoulders, a taut heart shape, were your best feature, but you shook your head. Studying your eyes, I explained they resembled the Eye of Horus, and I knew now why Egyptians believed your ancestors a symbol of good health. After a quick glance upwards--as if on cue--you switched from en face, readied yourself for a finale, and left me wanting to learn a grand reverence. 

© Matthew Mehdi Rafat (2020)

Bonus: "There is more diversity in pigmentation variation in Africa than anywhere else in the world. And yet pigmentation, skin colour, is the key founding principle of race as a social construct." -- Adam Rutherford (2020) 

Poem: Fire Ceremony

Some women cannot be categorized. It’s the gleam in her eyes as she sits next to you, when a single sideways look tells you degrees in physiology, psychology, and even physics are worthless. It’s when she loosens a string in her blouse and glances at you, daring you to do all the things you’ve dreamed of—knowing full well you won’t be able to keep up.

That’s the problem with us college boys. We frame our lives in rectangular wooden caskets, keep track of the latest restaurant openings, maybe even attend weekly poker nights. Nowhere do we envision the woman who shimmies when she shouldn’t, discarding civilization’s rules with a three-second dance. She’s seen our kind before—too often, sadly—and her eyes still gleam.

When she goes to the balcony for a smoke, I stay inside, a glass door separating our worlds. No matter how high the story, others look down on us, drafting rules to keep us in place. My three rectangular wooden caskets hem me in, creaking in tongues I can’t use to communicate. I pay respects to the undertakers by saying nothing, hoping she’ll silence their dirge with the sound of her voice. Her phone rings while I knead her back, and she answers, making plans for hours my eyes won’t open, not even on a Friday night.

She leaves, and suddenly, I'm hungry. After I return from eating alone, the room feels cavernous and dark. Like Plato’s Cave, my eyes try to adjust but cannot. The gleam is gone, and I’ve learned fire comes in many forms; also, that sometimes, all it helps you see are empty spaces and the dancing shadows you’ll miss. 

MMR (2019) 

Poem: the Bee's Knees

Your knee. That’s what I’ll remember most, prostrate next to you, reaching backwards, circling it with my blind right hand. Your skin is white marblestone smooth, your knee the kitchen counter in a mansion I’m not sure I belong in.

You are older, classy, not quite Eastern European, not quite Middle Eastern, plump olive eyes set against a Siberian landscape. Your simple dress intends to disguise your royal provenance, but you slip out of heels and approach with a grace that requires training. Years of careful measurements take time to unwind, and I keep circling your knee to see if I can start again.

An hour ago, you placed one hand on my shoulder and one on my chest, as if you were concerned your weight would be a nuisance. When I kissed your earlobe, you moved your earring to make a path for my tongue. Each movement betrays a lifetime of dignified behavior, thinking of others, being presentable. I do the best I can to turn back the clock, remind you of when you acted out of turn.

In the shadows, we time-travel together, and I see your younger self in the contours of your face, imagining all the moments I missed, and the other selves within you, waiting to emerge. You look back, smile, and remind me the proper time is now. 

MMR (2019)

Poem: A Concerto in V Sharp

From far away, bruscamente is the word that comes to mind. The pace is quick, the shoes don’t match a standard color, and if something fierce appears on the horizon, it might be her or another Indonesian tsunami.

Getting closer, we notice perfect teeth, expertly-applied makeup, and earrings matching the blouse (ah, the shoes weren’t accidental). Even then, it’s not until my hands become baby spianato and my gait mysteriously shifts from a capriccio to sostenuto adagietto that I realize I'm listening to a concerto I’ll never forget.

If you’re lucky, maybe you’ll manage to get even closer, but by then, it’ll be too late: you’re in an orbit that will ground satellites with a mere smile, bring you into her gravitational pull and, if you’re even luckier, never let you go.

© Matthew Rafat (August 2018)