Najva Sol, Queer Iranian Artist

Booyah, first page of google search.

People keep telling me they haven't met a queer persian before. I know there's a few of us out there...

My artist talk last night was nuts. I appreciated the questions, don't get me wrong, but I feel so inadequate, so under-informed to be the one telling a room full of people about the feminist context of the Qu'ran as a text or hijab in Turkey vs. Iran vs. Egypt etc etc.

Feels nice though, every time my worlds intersect.

Last Minute Show Announcement:

Photo by Najva Sol

'UNVEILED - Women & Power In The Middle East'

'UNVEILED Women & Power In The Middle East'
SAN FRANCISCO, CALIFORNIA – November 5 , 2010 – Femina Potens presents 'UNVEILED Women & Power In The Middle East' visual art exhibit exploring the themes of identity, politics, violence, sexuality and feminism within eastern culture. Treasure and support three unbelievably talented artists who all have roots in the middle east and currently live in the west, as they powerfully address the intersection of power, politics and personal history through their unconditional respect and regard for feminist artwork within a complicated culture. Artists Cassell, Roxy Farhat, and Najva Sol address these prevalent and omnipotent issues through their work. Join us to pay tribute to the 'UNVEILED Women & Power In The Middle East' visual art exhibit Opening Reception and Artist Talk on November 5, 2010 at 7pm – 10pm. Enjoy delicious refreshments in the midst of acknowledging captivating and compelling stories from the artists themselves. Show runs November 5 through November 28, 2010.

Visual Art Exhibit + Events

November 5-28, 2010

Opening Reception Saturday, November 5th, 7-10pm

Femina Potens Art Gallery

2199 Market St @ Sanchez

San Francisco, CA 94110

Hours: Thurs-Sun, Noon-6:00pm

www.feminapotens.org

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All workshops are free to FP Members!

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On Crying

It's those moments:

bare ass planted on cold porcelain thighs not tense mind drifting to rivers and niagara falls and
bubble gum bubble so big jaw sore you take one more breath and
caught glance across the room while that girl talks about the reading like a conspiracy of metaphors and it's funny and
stomach muscles tight and butt-cheeks doing the opposite of birth but then the car hits a curb you roll down the windows and
printer finally making smooth sounds the paper goes in and
under-water-longest contest and a forest fire in your tonsils, heading up and
glitter on the table forgot the lid and she speaks with her hands gestures, makes contact and

moments before explosion
before expelling

you need to cry, you walk all day in a haze of it- of all the almosts
anything can tip you over,
paper house on a gusty cliff
perhaps it'll be the tv show fight with the actors with too much makeup
or the whiskey ginger laughter that lasts too long till eyes tear anyway
or the self professed shaman from LA complimenting your purple aura
or the letter your mom sent with that yellow flower paper
or pictures of the oil spill or san quentin or the shelter or your text message about peter pan

any of these, even worse,
things like a brown feather or a rusty bike part
or a deep wrinkle

things I wont admit to

My eyeballs a red button
waiting to be pressed

let it out let it out let it out

and when you can't
like that orgasm
you spend hours searching for
post bike home drunk through the fog
and turn on your hitachi
pray your walls are thicker, just tonight
and buzz for 30 minutes before
catching head-droop and thinking pathetic

this stumbling towards but never finding
black underwear midnight contacts off
hand groping

I want this
I need this

all these almosts.
I carry almosts in my backpack and try to spin them into conversations
as though there is no statue of limitations for that which can be

in emergencies
I call you buy ben and jerry's chocolate chip cookie dough
wear grey sweatpants consume guilt and
all those movies that are like diuretics

we lean shoulders when we finally burst
I lick my tears they taste like relief

Daydreams

Photo is a portrait of Noemi Castro, who took part in my Secret Pen Pal Project- Results & more info coming soon!

---------------------
Lately,
I hand bind books about glitter
and talk fancy about the super powers of parsely.
I make to do lists
about the to do lists
I should make
and daydream about being
a poet rockstar.

Can you imagine PTV?
Poetry Television with a hot nerd babe host
who quotes lyrics and the romantics
in one sweet breath?

We would count the top ten of the week.
Voters could vote via cellphones--

the tech-savvy age of poetry.

Everyone will gossip about the poets
they want to bang the most
and the poets will be followed by paparazzi.
Poet x drinks 7 cups of coffee!
Poet z had sex with 3 people!
Poet r never left her house this week!

Quotes from the readings will be printed on posters
hawked so far and wide that men with faux leather jackets
will sell black-market versions on Canal Street.

Poems will be played over the speakers at starbucks.
People will buy tickets to poets weeks in advance.

Poets get paid while living.
Nobody ever lacks for the right words to say.

Nostalgia

My old description for myself- came upon it. Thought I'd share.

i will judge you based on your musical taste.

i will have an idea of you it's hard to live up to.

i like laughing so hard i cannot breathe.

i have a game named after me that consists of kissing as many people as possible in one night.

i like the naked female body. more than the male one.

i like clove cigarettes.

i am trying to breaking your heart.

i will do anything sober, that i would do drunk, including you.

i like stargazing.

i am in love with love and lousy poetry.

i bought records but i don't own a record player.

Tell me about the room you slept in last night:

I lie with my lover sitting on my breastbone.
Actually, she's two inches to my right. Inches like a Mason Dixon line.
Inches so far apart that cross-country texting seems closer.

Me, rigid in my thoughts. My un-enhanced eyes stare straight up at the ceiling- an out of focus darkness before a movie flickers on. There's too much focus on focus, and on laying aligned on your back.

There, with your arms by your side like the end of some yoga class, like the last repose inside a coffin. The symbols of the shapes we sleep in.

I turn to curl: that knee-crouch-blanket-hug of the fetus.

Every time we sleep-
birth or death.
Birth or death.

I sleep under you,
inside myself.

Poem and a Picture

Poem for the unfinished

cliff hang her
cliff hanger

third grade reading lesson

not everything ends
sometimes we just don't see
what happens next

I was so angry
young soft fingers curled
in balls

and now you curled
young soft ball
from my nipple
to knee

our story is mid-sentence
I am writing it
every day
another sequel
What if one day
I wake up and


Portrait of my sweet friend Amylin Loglisci who makes the pretty art you can see in her background and pronounces things cutely.