Poetry

The Sun’s Proof

The Sun’s Proof

“The sun became the proof of the sun” Rumi

Petty habits shape me
And the great dream
Has left me behind.

I wake up with the voice of a little man clock
And put on my pajamas.
My hand seeks the bathroom switch
And I sit on the throne with closed eyes.
My realm ends within these small walls.
My agents are my thoughts
Which, simultaneous with my murmuring pee,
Are being sent around
From the dark room of my mind:
“Why wake up?
Why not go back to sleep?
Why walk the same path again?”
My left hand seeks the paper roll
And my right hand flushes the toilet.
I cup my hands under the faucet,
Wipe the residue of sleep from my face
And ask my double
In the mirror:
“Who are you? What do you want?
And why are you carrying the weight of another day
On your shoulders so easily?”

I do not go to the kitchen
As I usually do
To put back washed dishes in the cabinet,
Place the kettle on the burner,
Drop the bread into the toaster,
Scrape dirt from green onions,
Wash a bunch of basil,
And along with cheese, walnuts
And a cup of steaming tea
Put it on the dining table.

No! This time I walk the width of the carpet
With empty hands
And without turning on the radio
To listen to the chaos of the world
Which makes me forget myself,
I sit at my habitual place
With my back to a window and front to a wall
And I stare at a plastic placemat
Which has the trace of past meals
On its surface:
“Why chew?
Why click worn teeth together again?
Why mix saliva with bread dough?
Why rekindle the oven of the stomach
And take the juice of life from each bite
And force the sleeping snakes of my body
To move with each sip of water without any reason?”

Suddenly the sun peeks from the corner of the window
And splashes stains of color
On the front wall.
In summer it starts from the corner of the kitchen
And in autumn from Van Gough’s “Sunflowers”.
But now it is winter
And the sun has begun its tour in my house
From the wall in front of the dining table.

I ask: “Oh, sun!
How many times have you crossed this beaten path?
How many times have you let the earth circle around you?
And how many times have you revolved on your axis?
What do you want and what do you look for?
Why do you raise your head every day from the pillow of clouds
And come to my house gingerly,
Peek into every nook and cranny
And find your way into every hideout?
Tell me
Why do you walk this beaten path every night
And every dawn why do you shed light
Onto my dark soul?”

But the sun does not open its lips.
The sun becomes the proof of the sun
And before I remove my hand from under my chin
It reaches the middle of the wall
And before I sit up straight,
Position myself firmly
And open my mouth for a new question
The sunlight falls on my face from the right,
Slowly touches my cold skin
And makes me become empty
Of all stinging questions.

No! The sun does not ask itself:
“Why get up? Why not go back to sleep?
Why walk the same path every day?”
The sun shines without any question
And lets the world be happy with its presence.
It does not get bored from its tour,
Nor doubts its sunny nature
And does not go blind from giving light lavishly.

I close my eyes under the caressing sunlight,
Filled with the sun’s resolution
And think of my petty habits
Which sometimes deprive me
Of the great dream of living.

Majid Naficy
November 14, 2004

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Categories: Poetry

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