Kayk-e Eshgh or Persian Love Cake
An Iranian recipe featuring rose water, cardamom, and pistachios.
For You
by Agha Shahid Ali
Did we run out of things or just a name for you? / Above us the sun doubles its acclaim for you.
Negative sun or negative shade pulled from the ground . . . / and the image brought in one ornate frame for you.
Dearest Shahid,
I took a stroll through Call Me Ishmael and came across the poem “For You.” Had I known I would be in shambles after reading it, I wouldn’t have entertained its coziness. The first couplet beckoned me to stop and take stock of the power of nouns. Whether common or proper, direct or indirect, they are vital. They ground us to the world and its landscape, the body and its experiences. I sobbed after reading the second couplet because of its delicious nouns. The second couplet shed light on people, places, things, and ideas that I forgot. Namely, Katie, the life she promised, the money she stole, and the heartache she left me with. I close my eyes, stare at the nouns in the frame, and realize a story is trying to come out. Thank you. I will, as Baldwin would say, vomit up the anguish.
Sincerely,
E.Y.
For You
by Agha Shahid Ali
At my every word, they cry “Who the hell are you?” / What would you reply if they thus sent Fame to you?
What a noise the sentences make writing themselves—— / Here’s every word that we used as a flame for you.
Dearest Shahid,
When you left New Dehli and came to State College did you ground yourself with the ghazal? I would have. Poets.org said you are responsible for introducing the classical form to American readers and writers. I skimmed elsewhere that the poets Mangan, Flecker, Rich, and Web previously bastardized your precious noun with free verse. In the first couplet, I imagine them chastizing you and then immediately eating crow. For me, American letters are the East and you are the Sun.
I must confess though I have tarnished the form too. It’s pronounced with an uh as in guzzle, not an ah. Maybe I’m more American than I thought. When I learned the word began in Arabic and roughly translates to “the wail of a wounded deer,” I had to dig even further. A ghazal busies itself with every gay man’s wheelhouse: god, grief, and unrequited love. When I read “What a noise the sentences make writing themselves—— / Here’s every word that we used as a flame for you,” I had to read it out loud. The sibilants gave you away. I’m a gay writer too, Shahid. Your t’s and s’s——flirtatious sweet-nothings——sound like toasted pistachios and dried rose petals. Please keep talking.
Sincerely,
E.Y.
For You
by Agha Shahid Ali
I remember your wine in my springtime of sorrow. Now the world lies broken. Is it the same for you?
Because in this dialect the eyes are crossed or quartz, / A STATUE A RAZOR A FACT I exclaim for you.
Dearest Ali,
And so it goes, a Persian woman fell in love with a man——her first mistake——and decided to bake him a cake. She infused it with a love potion that consisted of rosewater, cardamom, and pistachios. No one knows whether or not she succeeded. The ending is, apparently, unfinished. All we know is her second mistake: she baked a man a cake.
Have you ever loved someone so much that you pre-heated the oven to 375 degrees? Did you dress it with toasted pistachios and dried rose petals? Honestly, I wouldn’t suggest it. I did it for Katie and regret it.
She cut herself a slice, carved out a bite, and swallowed our friendship whole. I would be lying if I said it was buttery, delicate, rich, or floral. I never had the pleasure of having a taste. Regardless, I still believe all friendships should be Kayk-e Eshgh. What I mean is all friendships should be shared like Persian love cake. A slice for you, a slice for me, a sip of coffee, a splash of tea. I hate the passive voice and yet I was made to feel grateful for giving her sweets. As if that’s all I was made for. In her eyes, exposure and opportunity were an even exchange. She hired me to write recipes and promised to pay. I scrawled everything from biscuits to shortcakes, bread to buns, rolls to scones, popovers to muffins, cookies to bars, brownies to sheet cakes, and pies to puff pastry. I was expected to write a cookbook. And I didn’t make a cent because I couldn’t hold up my end of the bargain. I quit and nearly died from despair. Did I mention I was a poor gay writer?
One cookbook would’ve meant I was housed, meant I could kiss living out of my car goodbye, meant I could wake up and make a cup of coffee instead of begging the local barista for sixteen free ounces. When I think of her, I want to ask if “did you suffer” and wait for her answer. I won’t because I know it isn’t yes. The fifth couplet is rhetorical, the sixth a puzzlement. “Because in this dialect the eyes are crossed or quartz, / A STATUE A RAZOR A FACT I exclaim for you” confuses me. She left the cake out and it turned stale as stone. Lines between friend and colleague blurred. She doesn’t have the right nouns. If you can’t cut stone-cold friendship with a razor, why the fuck am I bleeding? Keep talking.
Sincerely,
E.Y.
For You
by Agha Shahid Ali
The birthplace of written langauge is bombed to nothing. / How neat, dear America, is this game for you?
The angel of history wears all expressions at once. / What will you do? Look, his wings are aflame for you.
Dearest Ali,
E.M. Forster told me to imagine all novelists writing their novels at once. He passionately described a vast company of writers, each belonging to a different era, seated at an impossibly round table, excitedly scrawling out their novels. Such a round image affords the writer and reader a sultry menage a trois. Reading the sixth couplet led me back to Alexander Chee. What a sensual verbose threesome. He wrote that “destroying art is practice for destroying people.” While teaching Americans to write ghazals, did you know you were challenging America’s unspeakable violence in Kashmir? I think you were. And I think you still are. Even though I am not your student, your style has gone to bed with mine. Such is the nature of reading another writer’s powerful work.
After leaving Chee, I returned faithfully to you. The seventh couplet led me to another gay writer, though, Rabih Alameddine. He made a distinction between an immigrant and an ex-pat in his novel The Angel of History. “You’re an immigrant,” Rabih Alameddine wrote, ”in a country you look up to, an ex-pat in one you consider beneath you.” Wikipedia.org describes you as the former though I wonder, secretly, if you felt like the latter. You had to. America was beneath you, you planted Kashmiri words, and let them grow. You played better games using better nouns.
Sincerely,
E.Y.
For You
by Agha Shahid Ali
A pity I don’t know if you’re guilty of something! / I would———without your knowing———take the blame for you.
Still for many days the rain will continue to fall . . . / A voice will say, “I’m burning, God, in shame for You.”
Dearest Ali,
Between mouthfuls of cake, Katie accused me of having little to no ambition. I wonder if that’s my damnable sin. My fantasies start and end with a two-bedroom apartment, a boyfriend that sexts me often, fresh baked goods on the dining room table, a record player that’s never been turned off, and a blue-eyed Russian named Louis. I shouldn’t have trusted her with my dreams. Can I trust you? I’d like to believe I can.
Venus is flowing toward Jupiter in Aries and an opportunity has come to my doorstep. I applied for a job that’s in my wheelhouse and have been given an interview. If I am hired (and I believe that I will be), a plethora of fiery opportunities will rain down from heaven and light me up. When the Israelites left Egypt and went through the Wilderness, God led them with a cloud of smoke by day and a pillar of fire by night. Ali, I close my eyes and see fire. Lead me home, okay? My back hurts, I’m hungry, and I’d like to snuggle with Louis.
Sincerely,
E.Y.
For You
by Agha Shahid Ali
Something like smoke rises from the snuffed-out distance . . . / Whose house did that fire find which once came for you?
God’s dropped the scales. Whose wings will cover me, Michael? / Don’t pronounce the sentences Shahid overcame for you.
Dearest Ali,
Your sentences are safe with me.
Sincerely,
E.Y.