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Category: Hydeh Aubon

  • Whale And The Doorway

    By Hydeh Aubon

    Facing the ocean,
    I stood in a doorway
    with no door.
    It was made out of ancient rocks,
    it was unsteady and full of cracks,
    and, it was built on sand.
    Nevertheless, I stood high
    and observed the ocean.
    Once, a horseman passed
    with a basket of fresh herbs.
    I accepted the herbs,
    the passion and generosity
    of healing, turned my face,
    and I let him go.
    Once, a lady passed with
    a basket full of fragrant blossoms.
    I accepted the promise of life,
    the promise of never-ending
    new beginnings,
    and I let her pass.
    Once, a child was running with a group of
    colorful butterflies and in her
    hand she held a kite
    soaring so high with
    a rainbow tail of dreams,
    manifesting with each step.
    I watched her pass as I envied her.
    Once, a group of
    unknown spirits passed
    lovingly smiling at me;
    vast, as the unknown
    beautiful as uncertainty,
    unreachable as answers,
    and familiar as nothing and everything.
    I closed my eyes, so afraid of
    the possibility of them being real.
    Recently, an old being
    stood in front of my doorway
    and without uttering a word asked me,
    how long was I going to
    stand in a fragile doorway
    without ever stepping forward?
    I said, I know of a whale
    in the vastness of this ocean and
    sometimes, I just close my eyes
    and the whale hears me.
    One day, I will walk to the ocean
    get on the back of that whale
    and go to the endless
    unknown.
    I looked into the unknown’s eyes
    an old hand was stretched
    and I grabbed it stepping
    outside of the doorway.
    The smell of apples, herbs, blossoms,
    the ocean,and
    the presence of eternity,
    What could be more magical?
    What could be so uncertainly reassuring?
    No, I do not need to follow the colorful butterflies
    or enviously look at the birds soar
    or a kite of my dreams vanishing
    in the beyond.
    The hand I grabbed was my own
    and when I smell the apple,
    somehow, I know
    that nothing matters.

    Hydeh Aubon (2/1/09)

    More poems from Hydeh Aubon

     

     

  • Paper Star

    It was mid-June
    the sky clear as if
    nothing ever went wrong,
    as if nothing was ever going
    to disturb your poetic melancholy.
    You stood before the tall glass window,
    walked determined and unsure
    and suddenly you were before the ocean
    and suddenly I was drinking tea
    on the peak of Himalayas
    this is what I’ve always loved about you:
    knowing and not knowing,
    daring and not caring.
    making a long trail of colorful paper stars
    and letting them fly.
    They don’t seem to ever come back.
    “They don’t ” , you say.
    One day , one night,
    they appear in your darkest hour.
    When suddenly you are breathing
    the salty fresh ocean air,
    when the fresh scented air
    on top of a mountain makes you one
    with the running spring, soaring bird,
    wild flowers, and the shiny little creature
    that crawls on a dandelion.,
    then unknowingly you felt it in your being
    that everything you did, said, learned,
    longed for, suffered or struggled for,
    no matter how real and harsh,
    was just another paper star.
    And only when you let the star go,
    It came back to you
    certain, shining and guiding
    like a true friend.,
    like your beautiful soul.

    Hydeh Aubon(6/12/09)

  • No

    Deep in the desert
    she sat on the honey colored sand
    and watched an eagle fade in the far.
    Her tired hands dug uncertain shapes
    in the sand that was warm
    like life.
    Look how it slips away
    from my tight fists.
    Several steps away
    there is a lone flower.
    I don’t know,cannot know
    and shouldn’t know
    of how it is that
    a lone flower stands in the
    midst of this vast desert,
    so proud, so beautiful,
    so certain, brave, strong
    and fragile.
    This silence is holy.
    Having no answers is holy.
    I am not looking for enlightenment,
    awaiting an epiphany or a miracle.
    Why should I complain?
    If my journey
    has been crooked, twisted and
    thorny with endless labyrinths,
    I also have known beauty,
    and I have known and always
    will know of longing
    in the midst of this
    endless desert.
    To long is passion
    passion like poetry
    running in the veins of life.
    I’ve seen a lone beautiful flower
    my heart aches from
    the thought of what has been, is, and will be.
    I stand before the unknown.
    The unknown that
    has always been there and
    with all my being, I know it.
    The unknown that is so certain
    of leaving me in pain, darkness
    and confusion;
    The unknown that reassures
    me of the vastness of love, growth
    and beauty.
    The unknown that is my shield
    against everything and anything I encounter.
    You slip away from my grasp
    and yet,
    you are always here
    and no,
    I do not have any questions.

    Hydeh Aubon (7/16/09)

  • Eddy

    It was pure poetry
    when you were
    a lone traveler
    in your canoe and
    suddenly the sky
    darkened by a flock
    of migrating birds.
    All you could hear was
    the flapping of their wings
    and their wild calls.
    For a brief time there was
    no time.
    You put your hands around
    your shoulders and looked
    the other way where
    a lone bird was flying
    in the opposite direction
    determined, noble and
    uncertain.
    You saw the bird among
    the crowd of many.
    “That was my unwritten poem”,
    you said.
    “Where everything is
    so urgent to survive,
    I go where the unknown may
    or may not welcome me.
    I go embracing pain
    to be embraced by
    beauty”.

    Hydeh Aubon (1/27/09)

  • My Spring

    Yes, there is someplace
    a deep place,
    a lonely place.
    Unreachable, unexplainable,
    and mysterious in me that
    longs for you.
    When the air feels still
    and a cool soothing breeze
    suddenly brushes my face,
    I know, in my heart, that
    you are aware of this longing.
    The Dogwood has bloomed
    outside my window
    and my feet long to feel
    the fresh lively earth.
    It is in the shower of
    pink, yellow, and white blossoms
    that I imagine you.
    You twirling and smiling as
    if there has never been
    any pain. no,
    only rapture, only love.

    Hydeh Aubon (3/29/07)

     

  • The Gypsy Man

    He stood there everyday
    with the colourful cloth
    spread on the ground.
    People called him “tinker”
    I called him “beautiful.”
    I never got tired of watching him
    putting his beautiful items one by one
    on the beautiful cloth.
    The story was always the same:
    I’d walk to him
    and point at one of his items,
    “how much?”
    He’d look at me with his big beautiful eyes and say,
    “it’s not for sale.”
    Enviously I’d look at the items:
    little suns,
    little moons, little stars, and little horses.
    They were all beautiful
    and they were all made out of thin colourful paper.
    There were “real” earrings, bracelets, and necklaces too
    but, I never looked at them, not really.
    One day I asked him angrily,
    “why do you display your art when you’re not selling it?”
    “It’s just a reminder”, he said.
    “A reminder of what?” I asked.
    He smiled and I saw
    the ocean in his eyes.
    I was falling in love with him and
    he didn’t know it.
    One day he didn’t spread the colourful cloth
    “come to the ocean with me”, he said.
    I followed him as if under a spell.
    The ocean looked like his eyes:
    deep, mysterious, and full of life.
    He opened his cloth
    and the wind blew away
    the paper suns, moons, stars,
    and horses.
    I looked at him with tears in my eyes.
    “my dreams will never die”, he said
    “and neither will yours”, he added.
    And then he smiled his beautiful smile.
    I reached out and held him.
    My lost home was in his arms, a gypsy traveler.
    Knowing that he wouldn’t understand,
    in my native tongue I whispered,
    “I love you.”
    We walked back to the city.
    We bought hot tea.
    Thinking that I wouldn’t understand,
    In his native tongue he sang me a goodbye song.
    Before I left he looked into my eyes
    I saw the ocean in his eyes.
    With tears in his eyes he said,
    “I love you too”.
    His words drifted away
    like thin paper stars
    They were my dreams
    and my dreams would never die.

    Hydeh Aubon (1/11/04)

  • Red Scarf

    Your face halfway hidden
    in the red scarf that she
    knitted for you long ago
    when you wouldn’t turn
    your face from the ocean and look
    at her.
    I remember that day when
    she was sitting on a wooden chair,
    the room smelled of tarragon and firewood
    and you stood with your back to her
    staring at the ink blue ocean.
    Her hands knitted steadily and
    you never knew the pain she endured
    with the hands that disobeyed with
    pain. And you never knew
    that each time she stared at your dark
    sad curls, she knitted her stifled
    poems into a red scarf that
    you wear now to hide your beautiful face.
    And she remembers all this with
    a faded smile while she knows
    the ocean could still be inky blue
    and your scarf must still be poetically red.

    Hydeh Aubon (12/27/07)