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

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! )

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 !!!

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.

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

The sea

Your fingers speak

like the sea on a winter afternoon.

My fingers –

the song of birds above.

Freedom

By Mandana Mashayekhi

Every day
Your lovers,
Fill your goblet with their blood
O’ Freedom
Who are you drinking with?

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