22 Elegies in the Month of Tir, a new collection of poetry about post election events in Iran, has been published online // read the translation here

Sunday, October 11, 2009

Poem 28 / Sailor of The Streets

The game is over
and they killed you in the game.

Saturday, October 10, 2009

Poem 14 / Poems for You Who Would Never Hear

Of the chairs
none were missing,
we set the table
pulled the chairs forward
placed your photograph
over your empty spot
and stared at each other

like some horses that suddenly
listen to the faraway shivers of an oncoming quake.

Poem 16 / The Gardener of Hell

Having returned from the journey
the journey doesn't return
from me.

Poem 13 / The Gardener of Hell

I like the nighttime rain
midst of night
bright lamps of parks
and a car that is rushing away
at the speed of life.

Tuesday, July 21, 2009

Poem 1 / 22 Elegies in the Month of Tir

For Neda
My girl
it was their tradition
to bury you alive
you were killed
a nation gets buried alive.

See how calm he lays his head on the pillow
the one who got money from your death
eats halal dinner.

you were just standing
and watching optimistically
to return to your home
but never again you will see your small room my girl
and plenty of pleasant future thoughts
wing on its door and walls.

Like a halal chicken, you were trapped
an astonished chicken
that was searching her hunter's face anxiously
you were trapped
like a cluster of grapes
that was crushed under feet
and is turning into forbidden wine.

Who are these
hidden behind windows, on rooftops
who are these in the dark
that bark
with the voice of a housebird.

They killed you my girl
they killed you
so there would be one less person
but how do you get multiplied.

Oh my dear Neda
the red rose that had grown on your neck
and clothed the map of Iran in the humming of its petals
and those who are raising their voice*
are nightingales
millions seating around a flower
and calling your name.
Does it mean it's possible you don't hear their voice which sings for you
does it mean they closed your window so you won't even hear the sound of your own victory
see how calm he lays his head on the pillow
the one who eats the halal prey.

*Neda means voice or calling. This line can both mean those who are raising their voice or those who have gave(lost) Neda

Wednesday, July 15, 2009

The Presence

They are present everywhere
in the buzzing of the bees
taking wing
and pouring honey on your shirts for free.
between two raindrops
that remain unsure for a moment
where to sit,
between two space stations
that only
ghosts and demons seem to commute,
in the space between two fingers
that we spread in our hearts as a sign of victory
while in line, ...
they are present everywhere
under our shirts
inside our mobile phones
now this is an invasion to the privacy of others hell


was I a soldier of the motherland
but my body is
an orchard full of explosive traps.

In no front-line have I fought
but the one who was being killed repeatedly
was me
all along.

what is my remainder
other than a wooden piece of freedom flag
for playing golf
in the minefields.

Poem 20 / Sailor of The Streets

Solitudes are deep
like face of the dead.

How lonely are snails
other than their shells they don't have a companion.

Solitudes are deep, my tiny nest!
And you shine in my darkness
in fire and light you shine
and me I love you so much
that I forget
goes on only by devouring the living.

Poem 39 / Notes For The Wooden Nightingale

How juvenile you wait for my guest innocent pear!
how cheerful you are waiting
you that in an hour
in a small plate
will remain cut


Poem 37 / Notes For The Wooden Nightingale

What simple things that a man forgets

The world is beautiful my darling
and we who didn't know
don't have a chair
for life to sit beside us

So it wasn't for no reason that for so long
singing of nightingales
seemed like delicate crystal laughters


Poem 15 / Notes For The Wooden Nightingale

The nest of the wind is a closed door
your tomb
suddenly makes us worried
the thought of the key
that we've forgotten
at home.


Poem 25 / Notes For The Wooden Nightingale

Speech about freedom is undone
when not even a breeze
the dead
to shake ants and grasses
with pride
from their dark eyelashes.

Speech about freedom is undone
when martyrs
don't open up their lips to speak.

Speech about freedom is undone
when you stand in line for bread
and the opportunity to vote
is gone.


Poem 41 / Fifty Three Love Songs

Wanted to be a song
that school children memorize
sea upon hearing
hides its storm behind its back
and leaves of grass
compose their notes of colliding
from my voice.

Wanted to be a song
so fountain murmurs me
with cymbal and kettledrum
sings me

But I'm a sad song
and the sea, at dusk
gathers its children so they don't hear my voice

My notes undone
did you leave me

September 2003

Monday, July 13, 2009

Poem 22 / 22 Elegies in the Month of Tir

No symbols or allusions
in between
Newspapers all get corrected
lines (are)
rows of crushed roach corpses inside publishing houses
Goya's painting
on newspaper stand's shelf
seem to stare
at blank newspapers
and review
their hopes and what has remained in their hearts

July 2009

Poem 6 / 22 Elegies in the Month of Tir

Yaghoob Barvayeh was my student

With a robe and a cane death wings towards you
Run away Yaghoub Barvayeh run away

Glitter of joy in your eye
won't let you see the face of death
Yaghoub Barvayeh run away

You had gone to the street in praise of life
Death they gifted you
Run away
Yaghoub Barvayeh run away

July 2009

Friday, July 10, 2009

Poem 16 / 22 Elegies in the Month of Tir

Have we mistaken
On this bench
under these pine trees you were sitting
wasn't it you waving your hand
and cinder of sorrow was pouring from your hums

Are we mistaken
that you too one day have seen this house, street, bakery, market
But why did you turn into a candle mass
on the wooden bench, under the trees
and above your head, from the strands of your hair
a silver smoke is raised

July 2009

Poem 14 / 22 Elegies in the Month of Tir

Now my breakfast is you.

The piece of cheese that I take like a bullet to mouth
is the foam of the sea
when your mouth remained open
like the mouth of a little fish on the coast,
As I break a piece of bread
I touch pieces of your shirt.

All over my day is you.

solely at nighttime
like an invisible leopard
I stand on a silent valley
and I see the cardboard moon glowing
and I hear the crickets
muttering in their underground workshops
and secretly, sewing their little chirps
into an armor
like many fugitive soldiers
in a jailed streamlet
on a spring midnight

July 2009

22 Elegies in the Month of Tir

"22 Elegies in the month of Tir" has been published on Wednesday July 8th, 2009 as an online mini book. It contains 22 poems events surrounding the post election Iran. You may download the poems from here. (in Persian)