The ground—hard, yet soft and mushy
much like my heart on many days.
The sun shines bright,
Its kindness a matter of chance and fortune.
I stand here, facing the tennis court
and strike the yellow balls:
back,
forward,
left,
right; a sharp stroke,
an overhead smash.
So many stories
flowing behind these strokes;
Those quieter moments,
that yellow silk garment upon me
fluttering against my skin;
The sun delights in this moment.
Those wild, tumultuous moments—
the sound of tanks, helicopters,
oh, the sound of weeping,
screams,
a war-torn night in Kabul;
Russian soldiers—lean, with green eyes and cold faces—
I stare straight ahead.
The balls, yellow,
round,
like that dream I once had:
Two golden oranges sprouting from my chest.
My mother would say: "Quick, cover them up;
It is shameful for a girl to be beautiful on such dusty ground."
I smile, a feverish stir within.
I strike the yellow ball;
It soars, high over the net, again and again.
-
Author:
Shahla Latifi (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: October 3rd, 2026 12:49
- Category: Reflection
- Views: 8
- In collections: NEW POEMS.
Offline)
Comments3
A picture painted in words beautiful images. Nicely done
Thank you very much.
You are very welcome Shahla
Such a mixture of images flood the poem: Russian soldiers, Kabul and history; the sun by contrast and puberty in the oranges. Overall the tennis match which linked the whole dream together.
I enjoyed the richness of your write.
I am deeply grateful for this descriptive, analytical critique. Thank you so much.
The speaker in the poem continues to reach beyond the boundaries of her painful past.
Thanks for your input on this poem; I believe anyone keenly aware of their surroundings will feel others' pain.
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