Soft song of rain,
I dance,
With the moon
The son’s favourite dish
At the table
Mother and his picture
City roofs,
Wet from the night rain
I walk with memories
Saturday 3 October 2009
Tuesday 18 August 2009
Ocean and me
The ocean doesn’t want me today
But I‘ll be back tomorrow to play
Tom Waits
The ocean doesn’t want me today
Trying to leave , I can’t stay away
Every morning ,every night
It’s roaring invites me from far away
From far away still so near
So near that I can eagerly hear
The temptation right in my ear
Roaring ,whispering ,far but near
Its spell fills me with dark fear
The ocean doesn’t want me today
I know it wants me to be clear
It wants me to go and be back
When my desire is without fear
April 2009
But I‘ll be back tomorrow to play
Tom Waits
The ocean doesn’t want me today
Trying to leave , I can’t stay away
Every morning ,every night
It’s roaring invites me from far away
From far away still so near
So near that I can eagerly hear
The temptation right in my ear
Roaring ,whispering ,far but near
Its spell fills me with dark fear
The ocean doesn’t want me today
I know it wants me to be clear
It wants me to go and be back
When my desire is without fear
April 2009
untitled
The grace of a white chador
The cheek of a red miniskirt
one part of me in a sewing class
the other in a forge
the martyr in a state cemetery
the mojahed in a mass grave
one part of me dancing in Qunie
the other discoing in Manhattan
in a basement
filled with purple light
Translated from Farsi by the author and Hans-Christian Oeser
Published in London Magazine September 2008
( Not satisfying anymore! )
The cheek of a red miniskirt
one part of me in a sewing class
the other in a forge
the martyr in a state cemetery
the mojahed in a mass grave
one part of me dancing in Qunie
the other discoing in Manhattan
in a basement
filled with purple light
Translated from Farsi by the author and Hans-Christian Oeser
Published in London Magazine September 2008
( Not satisfying anymore! )
Durham
1
Where is my pony?
Where is my pipe?
I am going to Durham
To drink its beauty
Deep and ripe
2
His eyes are as old as the North Sea,
Yet as young as spring,
His wrinkles tell lots of stories,
Yet as silent as a proud king
April 2009
My first English poems !!!
Where is my pony?
Where is my pipe?
I am going to Durham
To drink its beauty
Deep and ripe
2
His eyes are as old as the North Sea,
Yet as young as spring,
His wrinkles tell lots of stories,
Yet as silent as a proud king
April 2009
My first English poems !!!
Monday 17 August 2009
The Travel
I pack my suitcase
– your last kiss,
some drops of water from the Karoon,
some droplets from the River Limmat,
some lines by Saadi and by Rumi,
some flashes from a lightning
that has not yet struck,
some flecks of dust from the pulverized corpses
whose blindfolds have not yet decayed –
The tall lady in black
is waiting for me at the door.
Halfway I remember:
Hold on, I must go back,
I left my ticket
in the drawer of the table.
– your last kiss,
some drops of water from the Karoon,
some droplets from the River Limmat,
some lines by Saadi and by Rumi,
some flashes from a lightning
that has not yet struck,
some flecks of dust from the pulverized corpses
whose blindfolds have not yet decayed –
The tall lady in black
is waiting for me at the door.
Halfway I remember:
Hold on, I must go back,
I left my ticket
in the drawer of the table.
Sunday 16 August 2009
Far away
Far away from the women wearing black from head to toe
Far away from the fingers searching body and mind
Far away from the chopped-off breasts and sewn-up lips
Far away from the polluted streams and poisoned fish
in your garden
on the carpet you have spread beneath the poplar tree
I drink tea
a butterfly alighting on my palm
Translated from Farsi by the author and Hans-Christian Oeser
Friday 14 August 2009
Tuesday 11 August 2009
Freedom
By Mandana Mashayekhi
Every day
Your lovers,
Fill your goblet with their blood
O’ Freedom
Who are you drinking with?
Every day
Your lovers,
Fill your goblet with their blood
O’ Freedom
Who are you drinking with?
Saturday 8 August 2009
The Soldier
The soldier sits and has a cigarette.
With one paff
his gun changes into a guitar.
And with the next
the guitar turns into a gun again.
The children walk back
from the mine fields,
their legs turned into stumps.
In the moonlight they dance
to the strains of his guitar.
Translated from Farsi by the author and Hans-Christian Oeser
With one paff
his gun changes into a guitar.
And with the next
the guitar turns into a gun again.
The children walk back
from the mine fields,
their legs turned into stumps.
In the moonlight they dance
to the strains of his guitar.
Translated from Farsi by the author and Hans-Christian Oeser
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)