Tara Mokhtari

 

Tara Mokhtari is a published poet/playwright/academic in Melbourne, Australia. Her work can be found in issues of Heat, Visible Ink, and fourW. Her main interests are verse novels, Stevie Smith, death in poetry, old V8s and scotch whiskey.

 

Tara Mokhtari's Blog: taramokhtari.wordpress.com

 

the darkest blue

I wish I were at some bar in hell

where the whiskey burns

but I'm drunk and I'm dead

and the heat is a charring change

from this place

in the darkest part of the blue

ocean before the dawn

three-sixty degrees of blackish horizon

clutching a shard of floating ice

corners not cutting frozen flesh fast enough

ice not melting fast enough

no ship passing fast enough.

To slip and drown to the centre of the universe

fires to subdue the forfeit

make the numb skin feel again,

demon bartender company

(who could cure this soul better?)

and timelessness.

Bright white timelessness.

 

 

 

---

 

 

a new one

Docile slumped into the bed head

hangover two days old

twelve-past-ten nausea

neighbor's Sunday movie special

penetrates thin walls

between the blues track

on repeat

eighteen revolutions and counting.

Is this it?

Is this the plan?

Writing psychic letters to god

agnostic prayers ask:

send down something bigger

hit me

destroy me

rip my heart out

tear me a new one

break me.

The New York Times article

says poets peak early

write alone

says poets are mentally ill,

alcoholic, drug-addicted

die young

and I'd believe it.

 

 

---

 

suburban rain dance

I took to smearing black kohl

smudged round my eyes

to judge my success in happiness

at the end of each day.

Today was 

heavy mist

cool and quiet atmosphere

here in suburban summer Sydney.

After days of

heat melting black asphalt dribble

dripping down brick

and concrete driveways,

by dusk they set

tonight they wait for an overcast promise

to rain them in.

I'll look in the mirror

later after

I wait with the streets

for a little shower

(secretly wishing for an electrical storm)

I'll find black streaming

kohl running down my cheeks

and I'll know for sure

I'm a happy girl

for following my heart

and dancing in the rain

after dark.

Never mind the neighbours

peering out from heavy curtained

windows pelted

with wind swept waters

glancing at me and my whiskey

spinning and swigging

soaked summer dress

upstanding nipples

fast-wearing slippers falling off

and a madwoman's grin.

This is the northern suburbs

bland and bored.

They should thank me tomorrow.

 

 

---

 

the first stage

This is the first stage.

Racing 'round blue highway

bends delight, in waiting

migrating north and upwards

mountainous inland

to see you in a sweet jazz band.

And the room seemed huge

that night, darkened with the hordes

sitting, listening to the strum of chords

each string plucked

right out of me.

Outside, afterward

May mist and cigarette smoke

cold and hot,

a thousand clicks above

the level of the sea,

by the hotel rooms

where I knew you'd be

smoking the jitters away.

We'd spend 'til the next day

in your suite upstairs

truth or dare with fire, inspired

by the red light night heater humming

above the bed.

Words of love never spoken

I left and wrote to you a poem

in the stairwell on the floor

slipped it under your door

the morning light rising

triumphant, slow

time to go 

it's time to go.

 

 

---

 

 

like it never happened

You rest your head against

my belly and breast

in the dried ice

smokey mirror-ball light.

My slight hand stroked your hair

you touched my thigh,

you didn't want beer, so

I went to buy you

a scotch and dry at the bar.

The thought of how far from me

your head became, a missing game

all six steps heavy

in my chest

as I held my breath and counted.

I turned unaware

to find you there beside

astride a bar stool

just like the first time

we spoke, and you ruled

my heart as it broke.