Ali Alizadeh is an Iranian-born Australian writer. His books include the novel The New Angel (Transit Lounge Publishing, 2008); with Ken Avery, translations of medieval Sufi poetry Fifty Poems of Attar (re.press, 2007); and the collection of poetry Eyes in Times of War (Salt Publishing, 2006). The main themes of his writing are history, spirituality and dissent. His current projects include a nonfiction novel about the life of his grandfather (to be published in 2010) and, with John Kinsella, an anthology of Persian poetry in translation.
A Familial Rennaissance
for Saf
Like the Italian one, my family’s rebirth
spawned masterpieces, caused a breakdown
like the civil wars of the Reformation
with few victors, countless casualties. Mine
a kind of persecution: bullied, beaten
at school for being a ‘dirty terrorist’ and
my resurrection stunted, my ‘new
start’ delayed. Immigration was more than
traumatic, abusive, for my father: defeat
and capitulation at the hands of employers
dreading a foreign-educated ‘wog’ without
‘acceptable’ Western work history. Mum’s
reshaping as an ‘Aussie’ almost aborted:
she returned to Iran (temporarily, it turned out)
when denied recognition of her degrees
by the union. I took up drugs; became a drunk
to forget the bullies, banish from my ears
the din of my parents’ jousts in the kitchen. But
my sister, a triumphant genius, the Leonardo
of this renaissance tale: the death of her Iranian
identity, followed by calm gestation – caring
daughter in the crossfire between workless father
and alcoholic brother – and then, yes, successful
delivery: a modern young woman, her alacrity
salary, property, paid holidays, etc. In photos
her posture, an homage to Michelangelo’s David.
A Sufi’s Remonstrance
I’m sick of You. Your magnificence
precipitates mental pain, ethical
cramps. That You continue to shine
blinds, asphyxiates, twists the sinews
of my words. How dare You bewitch
in an aeon like this? 14 year-old
Iraqi girl kidnapped, raped, burnt alive
by American servicemen; Palestinian
toddler’s head pulped by the shrapnel
of Israeli bombs; sleepy Israeli civilian
shattered by rubble while drinking tea; not
to forget the forgotten diseased, starved
billions expiring in the squalid ghettos
of ‘globalisation’. Could You possibly
justify the garish brilliance of your
intractable, effervescent spring
as rivers shrivel and soil turns saline
due to pitiless ‘progress’? Or the candle
of compassion in this starless night
of cyclic hatred? I honestly can’t help
my revulsion at Your volition to remain
prodigious, enchanting, Beloved. So what
if You discharge life, if my life is nothing
but a valley along the trajectory of return
to You? You flaunt the ecstasies of Union
and transcendence when reality demands
outrage and obduracy. Why won’t You
let me loathe my fellow creatures instead
of being mesmerised by Your allure? It turns
my stomach, aches my intellect, since I hope
and even occasionally smile, sleep and dream
in spite of the calamities, because of You.
Dubai
I can’t pretend
there’s beauty to exhume
from these slabs
concrete and sandstone
planted in the sand
funereal totems. I can’t
harmonise with the drill
fracturing the boulders
beneath the desert
puncturing the landscape
holes to insert
pillars as foundation
for incipient towers
towards a veritable
concrete forest. What
palm trees remain, inspire
the outline of the artificial
island, beach resort
to A-list celebrities. Camels
happy and humanised
logos on T-shirts
at the gargantuan mall
the largest in the world
outside of USA. Burger King
and co. don’t clash
but complement the Arabic
kitsch. I can’t conjure
my gifts (meager
as they are) enough
to resemble this reality
in an aesthetically refined
string of words: only this
beveled cluster
of clauses and the like
summoned by a Colossus
of a place called Dubai.