eastbaypoetics.com » music

the one who never goes away

tahminah zaman, m.f.a. — Mon, 06 Feb 2012 06:48:28 +0000

You are the one who never goes away. You arrived when I was six, remember? I took you as my playmate because piano was, at the time, impossible. I composed you in pencil, became addicted to our leaden etchings, have been married to you ever since.

Poetry, faithful husband, you earn next to nothing and require everything of me: leave my refrigerator and bank accounts empty in your ardor and wildness, litter the tables with fragments of new works, ask me every day when these thirty years will be ordered. Title those three decades in the name of my last lover, the one I waited all that damn time for. The unspeakable love in those November poems, these newest stories the most poignant for I am broken open with pain today. Gather the lines, bind them into a collection dated 1981, year of the Metal Rooster, through last December. You don’t pause to ask where I slept last night.

Where were you when I was born, abandoned in an incubator? I was supposed to be a Sagittarius, a true one. Not jealous, delicate Scorpio at the brink of Sagittarius — it was my mother’s smoking that made me a month premature. Clawing with unborn talons at her uterus that housed three before me. Sound of my assisted breathing for the first four weeks.

I always wanted to be claimed early — life is simpler while belonging to someone. It’s hard to be alone, my mother told me when I was too young to protect myself from her words. It’s hard to be alone. Engraved on every one of my cells, wasn’t I unshielded from the force of her loneliness? But my last name was changed, an invisible weight already on the weakest finger of my left hand. My identity the property of experimental literature. The kind that unseats and deprograms, slaughters the master and his narrative — chained to my pen, freeing everyone else.

Little angel of murdered doubts, you are the one who never leaves, who wakes me each morning with a chase around the perimeter of my mind, pulls the thoughts from an unwilling throat, flicks away the scab grown over my heart where those other fingerprints are still visible. Face washed with saltwater from the corners of my eyes, purified of my transgressions. Unashamed of my imperfections. Only you, besides me, know my ugliness. You’re not possessive like me, too free to fear the end of anything; you are a humble map of veins, green under my earthen copper skin, unseen except for those who know my marital status. Private. Wrists bound for life by the ribbon of words that extends from my mouth, my fingers, fountains from my womb — fiery tsunami of my voice, loudness of this body’s truth. Delayed expression liberating itself, in spite of empty noise and silence of annihilation, through you. Your unconditional nature, what I may never understand.

I turn away from the external world to recall how, with you, I became love, how your curling script records the shapes of my tears when death is more attractive to me than this limited incarnation, how the contract between us was written without conditions when I was a child. Too young to know the gravity of a lifelong agreement. But your presence is bottomless, the lingual caress of communication. In my valley of destruction you find me carving a labyrinth, call my names to remind me who I am.

Filed under: ancestry, bahauddin, bengali poetry, cosmology/mythology, creative non-fiction, death, erotic poetry, experimental, feminism, gender, hip hop poetry, inspired by music, inspired by my mother Habiba Zaman, karma, life, long poems, love poetry, men, motherhood, multimedia works, music, parapsychology, poetry, politics, prose, psychology, queer poetry, religion/faith, self-love, sex, short poems, the creative/writing process, the male species, translations, Uncategorized, women

draining rage

tahminah zaman, m.f.a. — Wed, 13 Apr 2011 23:49:48 +0000

Rage responses misplaced. Punished my roommate for eating all my chocolate today — the last vice I allow myself. Will I always need to live alone? Unable to cater to anyone’s feelings in this under-rested, agitated, transmedium state. Out of body in more ways than one, deprogramming fast and reprogrammed constantly — confused about what I thought I wanted; shapes into which I can no longer pretend to reform. Old lovers, outdated relationship models. Scholarship with too many boundaries. Overstructured employment. Body, mind, spirit exhausted. Clocking 90 hours a week between work, business school, and SOUL FRAGMENTS show prep, with very limited assistance. Made plans with my script between teaching engagements and meetings tomorrow, felt marginally guilty this time about refusing a few hours’ paid work when it was offered later. Will I not get to dance choreography until the summer? Terrified of my own schedule and competing projects. Distant fantasy of the lover I imagine will enter at any moment.

Sudden visions of engagement rings chained together in the shape of a noose. Leaving lives behind. Ten thousand years of externally controlled thoughts and decisions, hiding my revolutionary nature, expressing creativity within confines of marriage, motherhood. Forced subtlety, sublimation of passion into calm, accommodating delivery. Slavery of the body, soul negotiated then promised to another. Bengali woman, show yourself. Lower back pops as I type this; releasing sexual histories engraved with my name, old healing projects and emotional ties, the familiar desire to spend my years building against the crumbling structure of a broken man. When I finally choose a whole lover, I will have learned to revere life as well as death.

I slide back into old patterns, wanting control, wanting to own the one I will love, the ones I have loved. Paralyzed in the place between the programmed self and freedom. I still long to have changed, transformed into the robot that would have made it possible to continue with disturbed lovers. Indian woman. Indian woman. Indian woman. Why is self-destruction so easy? Lingering fear of being thieved, cheated, interfered with. Not just colonial disruptions of our narrative, but the original narrative — bones and joints turned arthritic, brittle and cracking in response to foreign influence. The body still believes in arranged marriage — love as mechanism following naturally from the promise and intent. Stabilizing with time, effort, force. My history lied to me: the one who loves me will never fear my absence, will never attach to me in order to avoid loss, will never press me into a wall demanding forever.

Indian woman. Indian woman. Brown daughter of genocide. Who are you beneath your fear? Your control? Your black and white, your learned habits? Can you love without chains, without promises? Does slavery always beget slavery?

Should I decide to die an ever unmarried woman? I am not yet 32; my body still belongs more to those around me than to myself. Some never fully claim their flesh as their own. If I had made my choice when I thought I knew what I wanted, if I chose now, I would change my mind soon enough; will divorce, certainly, if I marry before 33. My hunger for stability wanes, waxes alongside my evolving manner of living. Painful myth to release, that we are the same tomorrow, will without a doubt love the same lover next year. Even if I never free myself completely from my own falsehoods, I cannot imprison myself as before. Not without consenting to abandon my worship of an unchained existence.

Filed under: ancestry, bangladesh, bengali poetry, creative non-fiction, east indian diaspora, east indies, erotic poetry, experimental, feminism, gender, india, inspired by dance, inspired by music, karma, life, long poems, love poetry, men, mental illness, motherhood, multimedia works, music, muslim women, pakistan, philosophy, poetry, political truths, politics, prose, psychology, queer poetry, religion/faith, self-love, sex, short poems, south asian diaspora, south asian politics, south asian women, the creative/writing process, the male species, women

music man

tahminah zaman, m.f.a. — Tue, 29 Mar 2011 06:00:56 +0000

I want the man,
not just his music.
Can’t settle for his beats,
need the hands
that make them.
Love not only lyrics
that drain his rage,
replenish light,
but the lips
giving them life.
Taste the mind
that burns
for beauty;
flesh built
to excite and please
me. Breath, eyes,
knees, feet.
Drum, lute,
turntables and fluted
horns, piano keys,
words whose rhyme pace
time, show blood-
flow within; dark vessels
carry color, rhythm,
song, vision.
Lust for not
just the sounds,
but the cells from which
they spring.

Filed under: erotic poetry, experimental, feminism, gender, inspired by music, life, love poetry, men, multimedia works, music, poetry, sex, short poems, talking back to media, the male species, Uncategorized, women

smoke-free artistry: notes on SOUL FRAGMENTS

tahminah zaman, m.f.a. — Thu, 17 Feb 2011 20:18:38 +0000

no igloo of smoke to hide inside, only the natural world around me. intoxication and breath are no longer one except as imagined and real beauty. the body presents itself as potential and actual movement; fire and clay, elixir of vocabulary — new languages of rhythm and response. physical poetry. the stillness within dance.

words jump from page to page like migrants attempting to find their place. the body is here, too, the whole body’s force, manipulating their song, fingers exchanging, transforming, sliding their currency of meaning. a wealth of music, extravagant choreographies of thought and sound. soundtrack of death and living.

the expression itself becomes the retreat, reclusion into the flesh; feeling the blood, the bones, the sinew and heat of pain, resistance, release, power. there is no one alongside me, i am not isolated. only an invisible film around me, penetrated by all i allow myself to experience. walls are unnecessary now, natural boundaries suffice to regulate everything necessary. food, water, speech, thought, breath.

as the cells rebuild themselves, sleep eludes me. when i dream i am announcing myself to the world as if my voice is only now being heard. surrounded by reflections of my inspiration, artists in celebration. and in the background, my two enraged, subdued sisters watching from a distance, their eleven children scattered into the joyous crowd.

two sisters my elder and estranged, the loss that made these creative works vital, grief that could not be expressed except in the abstract, explosions of syllables and rhythmic exaggeration. my words are not angry but punish with truth. by the time i am done talking we are alone together, the three of us, without the disguises, without the other people we use to draw distance between ourselves. the silence is louder than everything that came before.

identities strung together by genetics, blood tangling history’s limbs, birthdays and personalities repeat to incise the inherited fear of self we mirror in one another. circles of time go incomplete, spiraling into uncrackable codes, unreachable meaning.

put one foot ahead, turned out at the toe. fly.

Filed under: ancestry, belly dance, cosmology/mythology, creative non-fiction, death, east bay poetics, feminism, gender, inspired by dance, karma, life, long poems, love poetry, motherhood, music, parapsychology, poetry, prose, psychology, self-love, short poems, south asian diaspora, south asian politics, south asian women, talking back to media, the creative/writing process, Uncategorized, women

my hips write a poem

tahminah zaman, m.f.a. — Fri, 14 Nov 2008 10:06:59 +0000

i write a poem with

my hips

a calligraphy in flesh

movement of oriental script

circling cresting undulating

under your watching gaze

my torso becomes a hungry snake

my spine a pillar of fire

body a wand of desire

craving you

calling you with my rhythms

coins clang upon my belt

against eternal buzz of thighs

we hypnotize each other–

performer and watcher

the stage a glimmering sky

between us

Posted in ancestry, bangladesh, belly dance, bengali poetry, cosmology/mythology, east indian diaspora, east indies, erotic poetry, experimental, gender, hip hop poetry, india, inspired by dance, iranian poetry, love poetry, multimedia works, music, pakistan, persian poetry, poetry, sex, short poems, south asian diaspora, south asian women, the creative/writing process, Uncategorized

the 27th return of scorpio

tahminah zaman, m.f.a. — Tue, 11 Nov 2008 10:08:56 +0000

27 autumns. turns of the earth around the sun. 27 years of walking through gardens, finding myself at intersections in unfamiliar worlds, carving my destiny as if from soap. the path is unpaved. toward my 27th birthday, hands full of polished pebbles, i begin to lay the lines of my journey into the ground that gathers in the arches of my feet.

i have only begun to learn. i have moved with resistance to change, escaped terrorist states of fear and boredom. i teach the little i believe i know to anyone who will agree to hear me. i have glimpsed the darker parts of my nature, claimed my faults alongside my desires. i walk into a purple sky bloomed from a mirror above my altar, i know nothing and relearn only through the movement of oxygen through my lungs. into my blood and out with my words, my gestures. i want the world to see me more clearly with every exhale.

i have only started to give. the stillness of these last years of solitude will remain with me, have stained my very bones, inhabit my memory. unable to forget now that nothing is permanent. nothing without its attachments.

the 28th year of life, beginning on the 27th birthday, brings a return of the planet saturn to its position at the time of birth. the somber realities of everyday life and the obstacles rising unpredictably into the moment make absolute necessities of non-attachment, non-reactivity, and either flossed teeth or an electric toothbrush. the saturn return is a time of weighty changes and a once-every-28-years opportunity to find inspiration in the mundane.

an altar and dedication to saturn will take place on the first saturday of my 28th year. the season of capricorn carries the winter solstice, a solar new year to be observed with a day of silence and a spirit of contemplation.

20 prayers for my 28th year of life:

1. a gentle, fruitful return of saturn

2. spiritual learning with my lover

3. happiness in returning to school

4. fortune, fame, and humility

5. a deepening of friendship and love

6. song, dance, beauty, and joy everyday

7. release and surrender

8. wisdom, balance, and integrity in all realms and endeavors

9. silence, manifestation, and understanding

10. patience, compassion, humanity, generosity

11. health, wealth, and tranquility

12. excitement, movement, LAUGHTER

13. a beautiful, safe place to live

14. security and peace in all areas of my life

15. unconditional love and remembrance

16. fluidity, creativity, stability

17. self-confidence, openness, mental acuity, endurance, sensuality

18. reconciliation, honor, forgiveness

19. togetherness

20. expansion, rhythm, communication, reflection

Posted in cosmology/mythology, creative non-fiction, experimental, life, long poems, love poetry, music, psychology, religion/faith, self-love, teaching/pedagogy, the creative/writing process, Uncategorized

notes on the creative/ writing process

tahminah zaman, m.f.a. — Mon, 18 Aug 2008 05:14:41 +0000

my writings this summer are unpredictable and scattered. some days the pen never touches paper. it seems i won’t write as long as i have money to distract myself from the writing. it’s leo–a social four weeks–and i’d rather be kickin it, making love, perfecting my bengali recipes, designing and creating jewelry, reading psychology of the erotic, researching astrological data, and indulging my body in movement. all the years of work and study nonstop have brought me to this moment, full of space and time in which to fit all my competing desires. leaving the old habits and impulses behind me. redesigning my home to accommodate a new lounge area and home office. belly dance and salsa–my hips are waking up to the truth of joy as they separate, isolate, undulate. open. new beats against which to mold myself. falling in love with hip hop again. i’ve written a flow or two, a joke or two, a hundred short poems i won’t show anyone yet. i read ten novels this summer and started wheels of life, continuing the chakra work i started who knows when, concentrating on the orange of sexual desire and the green of cultivating heart consciousness. learning (again) that romance and sex aren’t just part of a high-pressure love affair but can exist outside of convention, like anything else. moving toward my true desire and adjusting my entire universe to accommodate this new knowledge. wisdom wasn’t enough until there was this release, this acceptance of my limits, this departure from outdated norms. how long has it been since my last onstage performance? a showcase of my work in san francisco next month and minimal preparation so far. time to call up the grounded rhythms that drive my writings. the subtle heft of my words, the gravity and comedy of my message. mantras and curses and songs in praise of all the workings of the universe. an unexpected manifestation of lust threw me off for a moment but then i let it in. to see where it could take me. leaving all fear behind to welcome the ecstasy for which i’m destined. sleeping in each morning and giving thanks for the rest of these summer months. showing gratitude for the emotional intensity, intellectual fire, and devotion to my spiritual path for making this arrival possible. embracing the realities of saturn as i near my 28th year of life. i walk into this test of my strength, flexibility, and consciousness with eyes open, palms facing upward, beckoning the serpentine waves of kundalini through my bones and toward the sky. i feel her power penetrating my roots, deepening my vision into ancestry, into history and the continuity between every moment before and after this one. i’ve recognized my teaching career as an exercise into demonstrating the interconnectedness of everything, even as i find i must remove the veil of illusion over and over to uncover the myth of separateness between things. between people. between one place and another. one era and another. reconciliation is a state of being. transparency. communication. divinity and the thousand facets that reflect each living thing. and next? the leaden adventure of reality. an inner revision of sorts. an evolution of the spirit through the toil of growth. continuing the slow journey toward myself. the book. the show. the music.

gettin away with

tahminah zaman, m.f.a. — Fri, 13 Jun 2008 04:58:41 +0000

i put my babies to sleep
before hittin the dance
floor / do my homework
in the morning
right before class rehearse
my presentation on coloniza
tion / fix dinner from scratch
in ten minutes pour some red
into a glass / celebrate with
a song & bare feet on back
yard concrete

oh momma momma i don’t give
a good god damn
i don’t give a good

i wake up late make my students
wait in the hall / forgot my keys
again feelin the breeze blowin
thru middle school doors
i teach spanish without a degree

you know what i mean
i be gettin away with shit
makin it look good
at the last moment
makin it taste gourmet

ay mommy mommy i don’t give a good
god damn
don’t give a good god damn

his beats

tahminah zaman, m.f.a. — Wed, 26 Dec 2007 10:16:16 +0000

his beats come up thru caramel wood

floors/ his beats slide &

slither into cracks of my walls

bass, treble tumble like water

bring wetness thru flamingo

pink satin 2 jeans

buttoned at the hips

unfasten me from being

anything but open