Best Iranian Poems
Masha Amini was an Iranian woman who was kept captive in jail for clamoring for Women’s Rights. Later she died in police custody under suspicious circumstances. Her death led to widespread civil unrest and protests. This is in the voice of Masha/ Civil uprising in Iran-Year, 2022
What crime did I do to deserve this?
To be brutally beaten and imprisoned?
When rapists, rogues and robbers roam scot-free
What crime did I do to deserve this persecution?
I am a woman of self-respect and dignity
I believe man and woman have equal rights
I wish to see my sisters walk in dignity
I can’t but rebel against all man-made manacles,
That bind a woman’s hands and legs,
Putting shackles on her mind, and body.
My mind revolts when we can’t walk free.
So offensive it is to cover our heads with hijab
And wrap ourselves in several folds of linen.
I feel it a blatant denial of human rights.
I am sure the unreasonable restrictions imposed,
Will smother and cripple the fair sex.
I am allegedly arrested and am now in prison bars,
For violating and disrespecting Iran’s ‘Modesty code’
The fanatics dream that with my death,
The clamor for freedom will die down.
I am sure it will only blaze fierce in future days,
Thousands will join, holding hands,
Pledging their solidarity for a common cause,
Drawing inspiration from me and women like me.
Again, our shrieks for freedom,
Can never be stifled or silenced.
In cloistered darkness, I wait,
Hoping to witness a bright sunrise.
(for The Beloved and in honor of Arthur Rimbaud)
… the magnolias are far away – still, I sing, begging
them for bridges to
brood with stanzas of butterflies
in the suffocation around and
heat mocking the sea where once we walked the shore
beneath the cruel commas of hawks
showering seraphimic curses,
pink roses upon storms
flung upward from spotted, inverted baskets, northern Iranian
mountains
aching
praying
wandering
the cavern between the olive-minuet of your eyes and
mine absconding their color from above and knitted by
anguished waves stumbling, floundering
into lunar mercury,
the slant of scouring rain
throwing blue into our faces
in cadences
dribbling from
lemons and leaves of tea, strong with riots
of black peppers hurting our tongues
along the central street
of our knowing, speaking
silence
without riddles
yet wrapped about our shoulders
with brazen mysteries hovering above
the staring magnolias
which now have crowded in...
… though I still sing
and always will...
… of you...
[“It nourishes the spirit and feeds the imagination” ~ Ryszard Antolak]
In the desert of Abarkuh
this magnificent cedar stands,
a symbol of beauty and happiness,
liberty and justice; the triumph of life.
Was it Zoroaster or Japheth
who planted this sacred Iranian tree
which has withstood the test of time,
defying nature’s most fierce elements?
There it stands, savouring memories
of distant years, witness to the birth
and growth of modern civilization.
It bears no fruit, but it feeds the spirit
and offers shade to those who seek it.
Age takes its toll. Weary yet defiant
it clings on to stubborn faithful roots
waiting for the master to call its name
while swallows huddle in its welcoming
branches, whispering, as the sun goes down,
keeping her company right till the very end.
--------------------------------------------------
Period of Time ~ a 4,000 year old tree
Contest: Punctuation Personified
Sponsor: Debbie Guzzi
They spied me in the sky, dropping bombs of love
on Ferguson, and bitchy women's rooms; and rednecks'
shooting range was next, the blooded boxing glove.
They spotted me in Tel-aviv and also in Tehran, collecting
Jewish kisses for the Iranian Imam.
They toasted me in the family courts, breaking hearts
I quickly soothed, and at their breakfast;Klu Klux Klan,
I spread their toast with jam.
They gifted me with patted back in Auschwitz and
Guantanamo, compassion was my hand; while Isis
and Seal Team 6, provided me a marching band.
They lauded me with accolades, the bankers and the poor,
while serial killers and the FBI, shot my name into the sky,
like Gotham on the screen.
And now I rest my head this night, beneath the troubled moon,
for tomorrow I go partying, with venerable, Ban-Ki-moon
( Poem about Kurdish Iranian teenager attacked in Croydon)
Refugee boy
Just 17
Yet your eyes have seen so much
Now so far from home and loved ones
You thought you were free from danger
In your land of refuge
Life was routine again
College and a visit to the teahouse on the way home
It was familiar, cosy
You said you were lucky you were here
Just before…
A pack of ‘hyenas’ set upon you
You had invaded their ‘territory’
Drunk and vicious subhuman dregs of society
They kicked your slender frame
Again, again and again
They cracked your skull, your spine
And left you for dead
Some ‘hyenas’ circled
Watched and jeered
You are stronger than them
They could not break your spirit
You were meant to live, Godspeed
(The scene from Movie Ulzhan, Drama/German screened at 2007 Festival de Cannes)
( English Style)
I met, Shakuni, in a foreign land
He was a seller of precious words
He travelled a lot and the words he sold.
I met, Shakuni, in a foreign land.
Sold words like “Moksha” an Indian word
Meaning a peaceful death without bad deeds
I met Shakuni, in a foreign land
He was a seller of precious words.
I met Shakuni,in a foreign land
He was a seller of precious words
In words“O.K., Ciao,” not interested
I met Shakuni, in a foreign land.
He liked “saudade”, the Portuguese word
Meaning melancholy, longing andlove
I met Shakuni, in a foreign land
He was a seller of precious words.
I met Shakuni, in a foreign land
He was a seller of precious words
Sold “Dharma” duty and law combined
I met Shakuni, in a foreign land
Sold“Tarof” an Iranian word,
Meaning to refuse something of wishes
I met Shakuni, in a foreign land
He was a seller of precious words
==================================
Honorable Mention
Contest : The Troilet Movie scene of Andrea Dietrich
*Shakuni is a character in the Movie Ulzhan. Une Coproduction Franco-Germano-Kazakh.
*Shakuni is a villainous character in the Hindu Epic Mahabharata. Shakuni, a Sanskrit
word means a cheat, very skilled in playing dice.
He razzed Iran’s chieftain emir
Cotton's had his writing premiere
The paparazzi
Might call him a Nazi
But he's just a smart profiteer
Author's note: This young senator reminds me of someone who might have attended a Hitler youth camp. Fear is his opportunity. While he is strangely self-assured, he is on the same side of the nuclear negotiations as the Iranian hardliners. He doesn't go back and talk about the time the USA overthrew the democratically elected government of Iran and installed the brutal Shah. (Even if that information is critical to the relationship we now have with the Iranians.) If talks fail we know there will be a short term benefit to certain groups. Are you affiliated with them, Senator? Follow the $$$.
"Political power grows out of the barrel
of a gun" - Mao Zedong.
North Korea has nuclear;
current regime's fear
of falling out is clear.
China, Philippines, Japan,
and Taiwan all claim possession
of South China sea -
China claims it owns the sea
because it has the name China
on it.
Syrian warfare is like venom
of different animals mixed
together in a dark blender;
you can't tell who's ISIS, al-qaeda,
Hizbollah, Iranian agents,
Syrian rebels or Regime Forces.
A North Korean sub is missing in the sea;
no one knows what's next....
Russia and United States have differences
on how Syrian War should be handled.
Myriads of Syrian refugees cry at the gates
of Europe;
like Mary and Joseph in the Inn,
there's a few people letting them in.
Dalai Lama still cries for freedom
for the Tibetans.
Corruption still eats away economies
in African counties and national cakes.
Donald Trump wants an America
with no immigrants-
I think he's saying goodbye
to globalisation.
Boko Haram want to create a Caliphate
empire across West Africa.
Politics, the Grimm Reaper,
is here and listening!
That is truth,
in England
all people have looked as polished talents and genius,
even a driver there
or porter, or steward,
or begger, or trader,
or stealer, or priest,
or head of ministry
do not work without great quality and service.
There is, seem, only one stupid man - mister Bean,
who prevailed all brilliant persons given together.
They are all have made themselves
as they want and planned
through successful work
and competition
in various branches and activities
of high improved community,
while the others unlucky
inhabitant of authoritarian countries,
post-soviet states
and Islamic caliphates
as the Iranian regime
that must proud only with Omar Hayam
in last millennium,
have had a very small portion
of really famous and respected men
or just intrinsic professionals.
And their waste majority
looks like as screws in clock,s engine,
or as soldiers in training camp of rebuilding empire,
or as religious fanats in Friday namaz
or as new slaves
in collective farm and weapon producing factories.
They have not any chances
for arise to personality
in terms of quality and standards
so usual for British community.
Pakistan is weeping now
weeping Burmese burnt dreams
weeping Cubans in Darfur
weeping Venezuelans
North Korea is weeping still
weeping Iranian uranium dream
weeping Chinese in Tibet
weeping Russians
the world wails
waning
and We sleep to dream
As the first rays of the sun pierce through the clouds,
daylight accends upon the land laid in shrouds.
Warmth now greets all the corners of the small town,
earlier the mists had their task to wash down.
Fresh scent of roses from balconies emerge,
in the town square the villagers begin to merge.
Men now frantically on their way to work
as hawkers with their fine wares begin to lurk
Pretty women,with their shopping bags in tow,
small children following behind in a row.
Vicker makes his way across the cobbled street,
along the way meets mayor and town's elite.
Police patrol areas that are their routes,
on the outskirts, a bunch of hiking boy scouts.
A typical nice day in little Ole Town,
evening calls, stop at the pub, the Triple Crown.
(Persian Mathnawi):
Mathnawi or Masnavi is normally poetry written in rhyming couplets. It is believed it emerged from an Iranian form around the 4th - 10th century, and the name is Persian and is not Arabic as some claim. The subject is usually heroic, romantic, or religious. Some Persian Mathnawi are especially significant in Sufism, Rumi's Mathnawi-i-Ma'nawi is an outstanding example.
Most Persian Mathnawi are normally eleven (11) syllables, occasionally ten (10). There is no limit to the number of couplets.
It has a rhyme scheme a. a.. b. b.. c. c. etc
21st June, 2012 (c)
In Chicago, my summer of '70 was spent working with a program seeking to rescue drug addicts, alcoholics, and street gangs. The following
summer of '71, found me on the convention floor at the McCormick Place in Chicago where I was a counselor providing guidance and spiritual instructions
for those who had accepted Christ as their savior at the Billy Graham Crusade. In May of '72, I was graduating from a Bible College in Chicago. In June of '72
on a Saturday noon, I was saying "I do" at the altar of a church and by next morning I was on our honeymoon in Central Wisconsin. By the Fall of '74, I
could be found in the Mississippi Delta pioneering a little church and during missionary work among the children in the community. I also had a job doing
social work among the senior citizens in that rural farming community. This is also where I was when a peanut farmer, Jimmy Carter, became President of
the U.S. in 1976. After driving 2000 miles across the country, life continued on the fast moving track and found me on the Streets of San Francisco in the Fall
of '78. Not long after arriving, my attention was glued to the San Francisco Chronicle and the local television stations bringing fresh and up to the minute
news of The People Temple, its leader Jim Jones, and the mass suicides in Guiana, South America. Then there was the assassination of the San Francisco
mayor and a supervisor and the riot that followed. In the fall of '79, there was the 'Iranian Hostage Crisis" and take-over of the American Embassy.
02212018PSContest,Honorable Mentions Contest Worth Mentioning, Richard L.
Hannah Crockroft has cerebral palsy from her birth,
And having CP myself, she’s kind of special to me,
Because CP is not derided anymore, much, as alien,
But is called brain damage, not your own currency.
She was born on the 30th July 1992, West Yorkshire,
In Halifax, and fought two cardiac arrests after birth,
The doctors said she’d never walk, talk, and function,
Or outlive her teens: but you just determine yourself.
She did lots of school sports and made the talent day,
By the BPA at that good old sports and tech university,
Loughborough, where she met Tanni Grey’s husband,
Dr Ian Thomson, who made her into racing authority.
She’s a wheelchair racer in the T34 class of sprints.
Her father, who she’s very close to and is a welder,
Built her first racing chair which was fast and neat:
He takes her out every morn on the Yorkshire felder.
At the Worlds 2011, in Christchurch in New Zealand,
Hannah won gold in both the 100 and the 200 metres,
And then, the Hurricane spry in 2012 London scored,
When she took gold in these two events again - litres!
She took gold at Lyon at the IPC Worlds, two, 2013,
Then in Swansea at the Euros she again took two,
And then 2015 at the Worlds in Doha she won three,
And now at Rio in the Paras she’s homed three due.
She breaks all the records with WRs, ERs and PRs,
Demolishing her personal best most times to achieve,
Ahead by 10 metres, 6, or even 4, she’s my stat hero,
And studies sports and media at university, to sleeve.
Rhoda Monihan
_________
I am extremely sad about the tragic accident which happened today in the cycling road race at Rio on a downhill stretch of the course. Iranian cyclist Bahman Golbarnezhad, aged 48, died of a cardiac arrest which he suffered in the ambulance after sustaining a brain injury when he crashed. My thoughts and love are with his family and friends. He leaves behind a wife and a son.
so much precious existence
found me rooted with mouth ajar
as sigh asper the dentin-cementum
so mud dear reader (with dem perfect
enameled pearly whites), aye har bar
envy for those with a complete set
of eight incisors, four cuspids (i.e. canines),
eight bicuspids, and twelve molars
(including four wisdom teeth) tabulating
many hours in the car (engendering
saddle sore bony tuckus)
plus regarding chunk whereat,
pernicious cementum funk
viz distraught psyche, when muss self as a lil monk
key decades after being examined
by family dentist Doctor Marcus (NOT WELBY),
excellent practitioner (button irate pulp pill
people ' especially children) eater – the grump,
whose private practice located
in Levittown, Pennsylvania,
and when prepubescent underwent
pertinent more explicit focused
intense noninvasive procedures
asper subsequent cause of speech impediment
determined why air didst jump
thru nostrils, (speech therapist at Henry Kline Boyer),
neither thin nor plump
informed parents
of Lancaster Cleft Palate Clinic –
fifty plus miles one direction),
where chief prosthodontist
Doctor Mohammad N. Mazaheri, DDS, an Iranian
whose expert reputation, sans strict manner didst trump
his aura, karma evincing clipped commands
forceful as a vocal whump
before launching into meat and potatoes
of crux comprising real aim
constituting modus operandi
(and cresting away from details indirectly tide
into main intent, nobody aye blame)
for thine dental debacle quandary
(managed by gumshun,
whereby eons hyperbolically toted beyond google),
and despite the optimistic stance
wool worth anesthetized numb skull claim
nascent malocclusion faintly affecting,
hinting, pointing toward Periodontitis
(despite diligence attending to oral hygiene frame)
the manifestation of major looming crisis compromising,
forgoing, instigating, et cetera loss of teeth,
this (after agony in league with separate occasions
twice wearing braces, concomitant Extractions
of wisdom and removal of crowdsourcing –
closeup toward the front of mouth teeth - game
(A Piece in Triplet Addressed to Dr Monir Táhá)*
Yes, we’re mountains, all together yet alone,
From foot to crown of rock and with hearts of stone.
Unmoved by all, moving none, we’re on our own.
To this song on the way of love that you hear
I’ve listened too for an age, year after year,
And have shed tears as from an arrow or spear.
I don’t beg for love now that I’m old and grey,
Melted away in solitude, but I say,
Like the waters, one by one we drift away.
1.31.’13
* The renowned Iranian lyricist and chairlady of the department of the Italian language & literature, University of Tehran, who used to stop on her way to stare at me for several bothering, lengthy minutes in the corridors in mid-1970s and who did something most abhorrent to me in an Italian course final exam; just to remind her how
Everything alters
And one by one we drop away
— Composed while still listening to “The Way of Love” by the late Egyptian singer Umm Kulthum which I listened to in solitude shedding tears when I was a teenager, and having in mind Matthew Arnold’s poem “To Marguerite — Continued”, W. B. Yeats’ poems “When You are Old” and “The Old Men Admiring Themselves in the Waters”, as well as a poem by the late Iranian poet Shámloo the title of which I can’t remember
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