Zanmi Lakay

We are all aware by now of the events that have taken place in Haiti, and the hundreds and thousands of people who have been affected by this. I had the privilege of attending a yoga class, a benefit for Haiti, and met an amazing woman, Jennifer Pantaleon, who runs a non-profit organization called Zanmi Lakay. Jennifer has been going to Haiti for years now, helping street children by improving their educational and economic opportunities, as well as providing photography workshops as a means of self expression for them. Things were bad before the earthquake, and now leaving for Haiti in the next week, she's not sure which of her kids she will find when she gets there.

I know times are tough right now, but things could be a lot worse for us all, so I'm asking you to donate anything you can to the work of Zanmi Lakay (Jennifer is a volunteer, so all your donations would go strictly to the kids). Below you'll find a link to the website as well as a donor link, please let me know if you have any questions or problems with your donations. Also, if you can please forward this to your friends and family it would be greatly appreciated. Thanks so much for your time, and I'm sure we can all take a little step to make a big difference in the lives of these children.

Best,

Shideh

https://zanmilakay.donortools.com/

http://www.zanmilakay.org/

Like Your Hips Sway - A Poem For Haiti

The bones were found under the rubble,

the once swaying hip bones of yours,

the parts of you already suffering,

even before the ceilings crumbled, the

buildings collapsed into your bodies,

because there was never enough food to eat.

There is no medicine,

no room in the hospitals.

Dead bodies on the streets

lay still uncovered, even after a week

of the after shock.

Where do you put them? Where is there a

place big enough to fit all this sadness?

And here, we say Namaste and do your

Afro-Haitan dance moves with our eyes closed

on yoga mats placed two inches apart,

because there is not enough space

in this room for everyone’s love for you.

We give everything

we can, not because we know you,

but because those are your bones, your houses, 

your country. Because we want to see you dance again,

to rise from what has fallen, let your hips sway again

like the wild winds of this shaking Earth.

Feeling Kind Of Sexy...

 

One Night Stand - A Love Poem

He fell down the stairs in my apartment tonight,

because the lights were off and all he could see

was his own reflection in the mirror across

from the stairs. I thought it was the way to the

bathroom, he says, hopping his way

back into my room. 

You would know where the bathroom is.

You would have things in my bathroom.

A toothbrush, the pages of my magazines

folded where you think the girls are hot.

A special mirror to see things closely with.

You would have your own shelf filled with

the floss you forget to use.

His pain is not turning me on. His pain makes it difficult to enjoy

any of this. And now he’s next to me in this bed

where you used to sleep, where you used to put your

hand on my belly and tell me you wanted to plant things in there.

He’s naked under my covers with

an aching knee. Painful, I’m sure, but he just won’t shut up

about it. I start touching him so he will, below the waist where

it counts, and he gets quiet. But it doesn’t feel right

in my hand. And when I kiss behind his ear, he doesn’t

seem to like it the way you do, keeps trying to pull me towards

his mouth. And all the time I want to taste the crystal salts

of your skin again, like being pulled under a wave and my feet

not touching anything, to know that you keep

a space for me in your life, maybe even the size of the

crescent moon of a clipped finger nail, or perhaps a whole

finger, or one of your hands, just in case things are

different one day, just in case people do change and you

think of planting things again.

But this guy. This guy whose name keeps

slipping my mind, like a bar of leftover soap,

all tangled up with hair, and his aching knee,

his horribly aching knee, it all feels a little, a little unlike

you. You’ve never broken a bone. Never twisted any

part of yourself.

And I think for a second what the point

of all this is. If only to feel loved

for just one night? If only to write even one poem?

Look At These...

When Long Beards Meant Patience - An Experiment In Words

Sun. Stronger than Los Angeles. Hot and wet in Cordoba. Still the gypsies. They wear thick layers. No matter how rosy their babies cheeks get. They ask for dollars. We give coins. No. Dollars. They say. They are greedy. We learn to give nothing. To ignore. Their voices. We live here now. We learn like locals. To not find sorrow in such pleas. Tea houses are of the past. Kept on cobblestone streets. When the Muslims. The Jews. The Christians. Lived here in peace. 500, 000 inhabitants in the latter half of the tenth century. Then most populated city in Europe. Perhaps the world. Time when learning from each other took place. Before bus bombs. Midnight raids. Before long beards were something to be afraid of. When they meant wisdom. Being a patient man. Over past few years over 3,000 immigrants have died en route to Spain. More security systems. They take more dangerous routes now. 

Water pipes. Hookah. Shishah. Nargeela. Pots of tea. Refilled by our Morrocan friend. Asden. Suenos de Andalucia. Like a dream. The tea relaxes us. Makes the tiles on the walls more blue. Seem closer to our faces. Makes everything seem like a dream. I ask him in nervous Spanish. Where I can find hashish. He smiles with small teeth. Says here. Asian girl from San Diego. In my program. Tells us little kids pull eyes with their fingers when they pass her on the streets. They say. Chino. Chino. Her family is from Thailand.

The mullet is back. Even handsome men. With mullets turn ugly. Cold beer. Olives in a bowl. Afternoon snack. Half of non EU immigrants in Andalucia from Morocco. The Moroccans sell scarves in the plaza. One looks like my dad. Has same round belly. Jolly smile. He tells me he’ll give me a discount. Only if I buy two. I buy three. Mostly for the discount. Simpsons in Spanish. Same stories. Voices higher pitched though. Throws everything off a little. We watch this every day over lunch. Maria is too young to be my mother. But here she is. Making me ham and cheese sandwiches. Frying everything. Re-using grease. As if something precious. There are no vegetables in this house. Today instead of Simpsons. A family stands on a roof. A neighborhood sinking in New Orleans. 

            Asden invites us over to his house. Further than where we usually go. No cab will take us. We take the bus. He wears a crisp dress shirt. A table covered. Feta cheese. Warm pita bread. Chorizo. Hummus. Dates. A bowl of grapes. He’s taken his time with this. I eat the feta with fingers. Think of my mom. Her loss of appetite. How many more months of chemo. Windows open for more air. Asden rolls hashish joints. Four of them. Passes them around our circle of five. Almost one for each of us. As soon as one leaves my hand. Another arrives. Feels like we are sitting for too long. Everyone feels like their own planet. Made of different things. Far away from me. My planet. Through the windows a loud flapping noise. Three of them. Too loud to be birds. We duck. Run into the other room. Watch Asden hit blurred black with pillows. He looks like a warrior. They fly back out. He closes the window. Bats he says. Just bats.

More things fried. Still the family stands on the roof. Someone videotaping this. Someone watching this close enough to help. Someone can show us this. Someone can get  higher ratings because of this. But without touching this family’s planet. Someone can put their hands out and reach. But doesn’t. Everything is covered in water. 

Once, Once

Once, she said this hot sun

hit her head so hard, fired up

all the molecules inside of her,

all it did was make her think love.

Once, she wrote a poem about

this folded neatly

in an envelope she sealed

with her saliva for him, all

the time wishing it was a kiss.

Once, there was a kiss,

but also there was nothing.

Once, before everything was,

the sun conversed with the still

black moon, wondering what lonely

means, if life could exist

under such a pitch black night.

The sun said, I will pour

everything into you, so when I leave

this place you will not forget what

light feels like, you will not forget

my hot lava love.

And so there was a marriage,

With candles everywhere, stars really,

no minister or witness to clap or to cry,

the sun’s bright arms stretching, wrapping

itself around the dark moon, and

only the Earth, watching, waiting

for a kiss between the two.

Once, not too long after,

the moon feel in love with

the pull of the ocean.

Once, he got an envelope, opened wet

edges, read words, ate them up

like expensive oranges.

Once, love grew forth from a mouth

like a tree with too many leaves,

covered all things like a warm mother’s hand.