The motif is square with marked entrances on facing sides.

Within, there is blue with flowers in yellow, red, green, and white

On the other sides. This area surrounds a red octagon, which

contains a white on black border of wavy lines and strict

Rectangles, which surrounds a white bow- tie imposed

On a long thin rectangle. In its very centre, enclosed,

is a small black circle with four segments yellow- red

yellow-red. On my runner carpet the motif is repeated

four times. It was likely made in the high grazing lands

of the Zagros mountains in Iran, by a young woman

using a horizontal loom, with wool from her sheep

and goats, for sale in the city of Shiraz, but she might keep

the same motif for the rugs in her family tent, the siah-

-chador, which can be easily transported by donkeys or

camel. It is a common enough image to be recognised as

A walled garden, also the Gods’ garden, or pairidaeza

In Old Persian, which is an image of the complete truth

Of life, the flowers standing for growth and beauty, blue

For water and sky, the octagon for universal balance

Within which black is the colour of earth and all that springs

From it, while white is the colour of heaven. The bow-tie

Motif is probably a star, and at its heart the circle ties

Together the yellow of sun and the red of fire, heaven

And hearth, a hint that the whole motif may also be a version

Of the black shelter, the family tent and its inhabitants,

Who hope to mirror paradise in their living. The rug is an implant,

skilled weaver, of your clear faith and custom thousands of miles

From your upland home into my study, house, society, and style

Of life, which are blest by them, not least that I can journey

With you on tracks amid the mountain flowers, in a sweet country

of new grass and harsh rains, to live by the freedom

And discipline of paradise, knowing how much I need them.

 

 

 

Dead these five years, she meets me on the beach at Easthaven

Laughter in her voice and I say she is restored to me, saving

My joie de vivre. “Not restored,” she protests, “Remember what

I was like, so very poisoned and diseased, day after day grotty

With addiction, you wouldn’t want that back.” “Yes, I would!” I tell

Her, “but you were making a point.” “The point is I am not restored,

I’m refreshed.” “Last week the sea was flat and dull, as if it mourned

For someone, but today the sun is a blade cutting away all shoddiness

So that the wind whips up the water into white breakers, fresh

As the clouds, in the shallows.” “Nice illustration,” she acknowledges

“But if you let a wave drain through your hand you’ll find you’ve dredged

Out little residues of shit and plastic showing it’s not as fresh as it looks;

With me, the old has gone, the new is here, I’m refreshed, not just shook

Up and restored. And you should know, it’s a Bible word, your New

Testament studies give you Saint Paul writing to Philemon to

Free a runaway slave, “Refresh my heart in Messiah” he pleads,

Intending that the owner’s heart will be refreshed as he reads.”

“You are a better scholar than I thought” I told her, but then

I wondered if it was just a kind of implant available in heaven.

“I read St Paul on earth,” she said, “And nothing is simply given

Here, you must want it with a true and wholesome craving,

So that being without it would be, even here, a real distress,

As I craved, and every drop of your sea craves, to be fresh.”

 

 

I have never vaped but my brother and my daughter did so

Before they died, both too young, leaving me with a shadowed

Image of the habit, its bold effusions marked by death, the bright

Smoke they puffed so easily in restaurants linked to the white

Output of crematoria chimneys. Provision for the vaper is astonishingly

Rich and varied. An iPad screen grab from a vast catalogue gives me

Strawberry, Strawberry Ice, Watermelon Strawberry, Strawberry Passion,

Strawberry Nic Salt, Strawberry Coconut Ox, and you can reject fashion

In favour of Nicotine Grade X, while the vape pens are ever suaver.

With more than seven thousand selling points in Scotland you’re no farther

From a vape than a bet, especially in the poorest areas of the country.

You might guess that sucking chemicals into your body is not wonderful

For your health, but as vapes are also addictive you are unlikely to stop.

Police suspect that half of all,outlets are controlled by criminals who want

To sell drugs or launder money and may not be nice to know. Capitalism

As usual has been smart in making a cheap addictive provision

for the world’s poor, the state capitalism of China, forbidden

to sell artificial flavours at home but anything it likes elsewhere,

being particularly effective. So, smile along with Jimmy Graham

in Gourock as he sucks his Bubble Gum ‘n Jelly Babies, vaping,

as he blows his Football Pie ‘n Brown Sauce into the air of spring,

as he draws on his Irn Bru ‘n Isotonic Vitamins to make him daring

enough for Big Babs Brown who caresses her tonsils with Sharing-

-For -Two Bananas ‘n Cream!  Uff-Puff, Uff -Puff, since there’s no escape

From the pleasure of this habit, and you’ll be victims of the rape  

Of the poor by the rich, say goodbye as you die with a vape!

Early morning I open the door to the garden and he greets me

With an instant measure of thrush-song from the eucalyptus tree,

Sidelining all other sounds so that he only has my attention

As he tells me it is glorious to be alive in Springtime. Mention

Of Trump, Putin, or Xi, Iran, Ukraine, Gaza, or Scottish elections

Would be like interrupting a Bach partita only less effective

Since the thrush will never stop mid-cadence. If I whistle

Back, he does not despise my human inadequacy but listens

Politely before giving me a subtle variation on his first tune.

Yet Deep Seek tells me that increased sunlight goes kaboom

In his hormones towards territory, mating, breeding, and chicks

so that his song means, “This is my garden, I have the pick

of the females, I have a big one.” These biological facts do not

encompass the whole truth of the bird, who is no more a robot

controlled by chemicals than I am, though I am no less moved

by them than he. His song, composed of distinct sections hooted

or fluted, linked by form and rhythm, tell of an orderly universe

where the sun awakes you and darkness lets you sleep, where birth

and death, pleasures and pains, silence and song are balanced

and trees bear leaves to screen your nest from predators. No fancy

stuff but repetition and variation speak of universal forces

seen in one day’s winds and how two wings may use them.

Testosterone is fuel for this music but the fire that says Amen

To life is the whole bird. That is his song. This is my poem.

 

 

 

In her dream Donald Trump appears to Ma’soumeh and tells her:

“Yeah, I know that your government is run by some very nasty fellows

That’s why I launched my EPIC FURY to eliminate your country. Yes,

I love you people, but I will destroy your CIVILISATION TOTALLY unless

You kiss my ass. They say China is a great power, but when I hit them

With TARIFFS they KISSED MY ASS. Not to mention Harvard which is a shitty

Home of COMMUNISTS and liberals, THEY CRAPPED themselves. I do the cute

Deals. Open with a threat, that’s me. I TOTALLY DESTROYED your nukes

A year ago, so now you must SURRENDER them to me, I just adore

Surrender. To the MAN OF POWER nothing in the world is juicier

Than surrender. Women pretend but once you GRAB THEM BY THE PUSSY

They surrender. So best you do a deal with me otherwise you get BENJY

THE MENSCH who kills before breakfast. One day I may have to forbid any

More massacres and get rid of the horrible little squit, but for now

He’s a DEAR ALLY and you don’t want me to hand you over to him. KOW-

TOW to me and you have a sweet future. Like GREENLAND, land of ice

And MINERALS soon to be mine, a place to possess if it gets twice

As hot elsewhere. Not that I believe in GLOBAL WARMING. Be wise

Be real, get some DEMOCRACY here, and keep it here. Don’t be WOKE

And fight me, as I amALLAH’S MOST UNFORGETTABLE BAD JOKE.

 

 

 

She is up at 5 am, so she can use her phone to contact her uncle

Kouroosh to tell him that because of Soraya and the rest he is cancelled

Forever, but her mother interrupts her, she looks and says, “No, don’t do

That.” Ma’soumeh is surprised at her mother’s unusual tone, kept for the few

Times she had been endangering herself. “OK mum,” she says dutifully.

“When I was a student,” Yasmin said “I was a rebel with others, truly,

Wearing western clothes, occupying Metro Stations and Trains. We were

Defeated, many jailed and tortured, some killed. They accused me of terror

But let me go because I was pregnant. I had to ask what was the best thing

I could do to fight them.” “And what did you decide?” “To give birth and bring

Up my child with my values. You are my future. Don’t waste it on hate

Or violent gestures or anything that gives them an easy win. The state

Has power, we need to build a countervailing power. You have intelligence;

Use it.” She is stunned: this is her mum who makes food and chairs! She senses

This is a special moment between them and hugs her tenderly. “Is

There more?” she asks. “Your Quds man, I knew him, in one of my classes

At Uni. Maybe he can be saved.” “I must fight, mum, but I will think of what

You’ve said and done.” After school she decides to visit the bulbuls and walks

To their hedge. The chicks are screaming for food, while both parents hunt

for it. The female arrives, flustered by the foreign presence, but some-

how manages to satisfy four mouths. “Maybe,” she tells her, “My mothering

job begins with you and other birds as I learn to include the other

species, like homo sapiens. But I will always love you.” The male flies in

with food and the female, pleased to see him take his fatherly turn, sings

joyfully to him and Ma’soumeh, who has tried to put her life in order.

She has not succeeded, she thinks, but she has found a way forward.

 

Ma’soumeh will be late returning home, because the day is sunny,

Because a ceasefire is declared, because The Theatre Park is stuffed

With students who talk to her, so it’s after three when she remembers

She promised her mother to help with visit of a bereaved friend

-to make the coffee while they talk. She hurries to the metro, entering

a middle carriage rather than the women-only, crossing the city centre

to Azadegan and home. “Sorry, sorry, I forgot,” she tells her mother

who is in the kitchen. “It’s all right, my dove,” Yasmin says, “She’s under

stress, I’m making her food, go and talk to her. She’s Ziba”. She goes.

“Auntie Ziba, hello I’m Ma’soum……..her words tail off because she knows

The woman is not hearing. She is silent and rigid on the sofa. She waits

Hoping her mother will arrive, but minutes go by without any change.

Unable to bear it longer she sits down beside Ziba, shoulder to shoulder

Cheek against taut cheek and is silent. Slowly Ziba’s anger and cold

Grief begin to seep into the child, an unimaginable desolation opens

Within her, so that she cannot speak or move but only share a sobbing

which suddenly comes from Ziba, who pulls her across her breast as

Yasmin runs in and embraces them both, weeping. Minutes pass

Until Ziba says, “Thank you, thank you, my sweet, my dear child,

for reminding me that although my child is dead, I am still alive.

“Tell us,” Yasmin whispers, “Tell us what happened.” Ziba settles

Into the sofa. “It was the third day of the protests, some rebels

Had been killed, but Soraya said she needed to share the danger

And I tried to argue, but she was resolute, “I’ll be fine, see you later”

After four hours she was not home so I went to find her. Some protesters

Told me there was shooting at the Velayat Parks. When I got there, no molesters

Only bodies on the asphalt by the go-carts. I shouted her name

And a weeping girl pointed me to a bundle on the ground, which became

Soraya, at least her clothes, her face was gone. ‘She ran,’ they told me ‘So

They shot her legs and she fell. Then they stood above her, with slow

brutality and shot her face. We are at college with her: she is a martyr.’

That’s what happened to my girl. So, I hate the government of my gangster

 Nation as much as Donald Trump and all his bombs.” “It’s like I’m born here,”

Ma’soumeh says, “From now on, I will always fight your daughter’s corner.”

 

 

 

 

The energetic bearded man, wearing a khaki shirt, jeans and fleece

Approaches her café table saying, “Good morning, you’ll be my niece,

Ma’soumeh.” She had responded to his note left at her school office

“Meet me on Friday 13 hours at the Bird Park café to celebrate this

Extension of my family, your uncle Kouroosh.” She told her mother

She had invented an uncle for protection without thinking what bother

Might result. “He sounds OK,” Yasmin had judged. “Just say sorry.”

“You told my colleague that I knew you were a pest.”- she worried

what was coming next- “But I was delighted by your humour. How

did you get here, it’s not easy if you don’tdrive.” “The metro, then I allowed

someone to give me a lift, a baker’s van in fact.” “I thought you would be

resourceful. Interesting you should choose me, since I am family-free.

After my mother’s death, I have no-one. I know you like birds, but what else

Do you like? “I love my mum Yasmin, I like school, I like the metro, I like

Nature, and I like coffee.” “So sorry, can I get you coffee or would you like

Lunch?” “Both, please.” He laughed and took her order. “I thought you might

Know this place given your interest in birds?” “No, it’s my first time here.”

“Why?” “I like birds because they are wild. I like their nesting, their breeding, their

Flying, their fighting, their migration, their freedom, but here they are caged

Or let fly within a huge net.” “Does the net offend you?” “It is somebody’s guage

Of beauty, but nobody asked the birds.” “I am part of the net around our country

A system of control that you may hate.” “Why do we need controlled?” “Capital,

The power of wealth, wants to rule by turning people into consumers of all

It sells, regardless of truth, justice or goodness. Our laws try to protect you.”

“But did I ask for that?” “It’s like vaccination against germs that might infect you.”

“Such as?” “Have you looked at the social media of the West?” “Yes.” “And?”

“It’s girls my age learning to be whores.” “Do you want that here?” “Aren’t

Parents enough?” “Not in Europe or the USA.” “How many people

Have you killed?” “None who were not trying to kill me.” “I want to keep you,

I want to like you, I want you for my uncle, you have been so patient

With me, but I have to be myself. I’m sorry for the lie I created

About you when I felt at risk, especially when you are fighting

A war.” “If I were your real uncle, I would be proud of your rightness

As a woman and a citizen. Can I be your unofficial uncle?” “I don’t

Know how to kiss a man with a beard, here is my hand.” He holds

It in two of his. “But it must be secret, no more using my name.

Ever.” “I will tell my mum.” “And she will know the rules of the game.

 Sometime I will meet her and tell her she is a good parent.” “This

Will be good for me.” “Inshallah,” he says, “and for me. If you wish

To contact me, use the text number you’ll find on your phone. I can’t

Be seen giving you a lift, but my guard, who is outside, a nice man,

Will take you anywhere.” “Oh fun!” she says, “May your hand not hurt,

God be with you!” “And with you,” he replies, kissing her forehead.

 

 

“Hello Yasmin,” she calls, using her mother’s first name, “That’s

Me off, it’s five o’clock, back by four this afternoon.” “Rats!”

Her mother groans, “School is so early now. I may be later,

I’m doing a sofa. Love you, Ma’soumeh.” “Love you, Mater,”

she replies, using the word from the English Boarding School books

she favours. She runs to the Metro at Azadegan, looking

ahead for the 05-10, as she enters the station, flashes her card

and arrives on the platform with the train, on which men are barred

from the first and last carriages, so that female virginity may be

protected. “Good idea” she thinks, without care for the theory

but great appreciation for the practice which means fun and games

beyond state control. She smiles as she recognises the same

hawker of cheap jewellery who had sold her a bangle last week

while she finds a seat in the rear coach, as if amongst colleagues,

some of whom greet her, Hi ‘Soumeh, Hey Professor, Salam darling,

which she receives by blowing kisses. There are at least 8 starting

their journey to work or study along line 3 and will be more. “Boys

will surrender to you if you use this,” the hawker says, “which brings joy.”

“I’m not much interested in boys,” she grins. The seller waves the scent

Bottle towards the older women. “Come on girls, your husbands will be begging

For it.” “He is already but he only gets it Fridays” one chuckles. “After Prayers

Of course,” another adds. “Ladies, ladies, remember we’ve got to behave

for the sake of Ma’soumeh here. “Nonsense Layla, she’ll get more education

here than in any school!” “Sisters and mothers,” Ma’soumeh says, “Your attention

for something my mother made.” Yay! Show us!” It is a very small handbag,

pale leather, with a darker image of a bird. They pass it round, with frank

admiration, “Is it for sale? How much?” “No, she made it for me, ‘cause

I love birds, but you can order yours with something you love.” “Who knows

What I love, but we know what you love, Sabrina and you can’t show it

On a bag, eh?” “It takes three days work, at 6million rials a day, plus

The cost of leather, another 6million, so a bargain at 25million. Less

Than a week’s wages. Order from me.” More women are getting on

From the platform and the bag is passed to them. “I’ll need to sweat

to afford that, but order me one, with a rose.” Others are getting off

At their stations, saying goodbyes and blessings, with hands pressed

To her cheek, then Ma’soumeh exits at the City Theatre, and the rest

Of her journey is a walk to her school, a familiar route for her to follow.

Now she is ready for Maths, Science, Iranian Literature, and Allah.

 

 

 

Ma’ soumeh is a quiet girl aged 12 who lives in Tehran.

After studies, she likes to walk through the city wearing

Discreet Islamic clothing, with aim of seeing the birds

She knows and loves, ordinary ones -she might flirt

With storks- but doves, woodpeckers, bulbuls, sparrows,

are her true delight; and although she does not relish parrots’

screeching she likes their green impudence. A solitary female

is suspect by the Morality Police but they are not so brave

during the US/ Israel bombing. If a siren sounds or explosions

are near she knows the nearest below-street car-park will cushion

the blast. She stops at a bench to eat the lunch her mum provided,

stew with rice, from her thermos. It’s not very hot but it slides

down easily as a reminder of home. Last week the tall hedge

to her left was full of nesting bulbuls with chicks since when

much of its leafage has been blown away. As she leans into it

a uniformed arm snakes round her neck and pulls. She bites

hard, without thinking. “Dirty little bitch” a voice says. She turns

to see a woman officer from The Morality Police nursing an arm.

“Sorry” she says, “I thought you were a man, attacking me. I’m trained

To react.” “Quite well trained,” the policewoman says, “You’ve maimed

Me.” “So sorry, I’ve got my first aid kit here. Let me wipe it, see the skin

Is bruised not broken. This is an antiseptic plaster. It was my uncle

He’s in the Quds, taught me self-defence.” “How did I get into this fankle?

You’re tough, you’re smart, and your uncle is in Quds. What’s his name?”

“He’s Kouroosh Khorani.” “KK, yes I’ve seen him on TV. He’s famous.”

“Don’t worry, he knows I’m a pest.” “So, what are you doing all on your own,

Peering at bushes?” “Birdwatching.” “Why?” “They’re so beautiful. Look

These are bulbuls, nesting. The female is feeding the chicks. A drone shook

Their bush to bits but this nest survived.” “Ah, she’s neat, grey, and brown

like a good muslim woman!”  “And a black headscarf too!” “But down

there, a bright yellow ass, that beats us.” “Vent, the bird books say, and listen,

the male is on that tree, singing.” “A chook-chook, then a flutey bit. Is he whistling

at us?” “At other birds, who might raid the nest. But come round this side

and see what the drone did.” Splattered outwards for thirty yards lie

bits of nest and bird, a wing, a head, the scrawny dinosaur of a chick.

“As they say, the death of a civilisation,” the policewoman says, quickly

Standing upright as a car passes by. “Peacemaking is not so hard,”

The girl ventures. “Yeah, we just did it,” the adult agrees, “perhaps

The big guys must learn to birdwatch. Thanks for your lesson,

And good luck. My name is Nazanin. And yours?” “Ma’soumeh.”