Tapping two fingers in cream, Anti-wrinkle it promises, I smooth it over The familiar surface Of my face Caressing with gentle strokes Lines that reveal

I looked down the throat of loneliness Reached in And   Ripped out her tongue So that she would stop complaining. I lie awake Listening

UPDATE: A SNAKE'S TAIL, an Iranian film made in London by Bijan Daneshmand has received 2 nominations: one for Best Foreign Picture, and the other

  It is bursting spring today Time to cast this sadness away Baptize myself in the song of birds With these simple approving words. Not

  Observe the symptoms Of a heart breaking: Ache and pressure On and around The heart That beats Faster and faster As if running away

I was a little girl when I met Betty Freidan in Tehran.  She was attending a women’s conference organized by the Saazemaane Zanaan, the Iranian

I first met Zinat Javid when I traveled to Shiraz some fifteen years ago.  I had just married her grandson from her first born son,

President Ahmadinejad’s visit to the United Nations was closely watched for clues to Iran’s next move in the standoff over uranium enrichment with the IAEA. 

I finally decided to move from Tehran — once more. The first time I had made such a decision I was fifteen. I found myself

Eyes So wide they make You dive Inside And swim in their Watery zeal Lips So full Pressing Eager kisses Here and there Hands Big

Daughters, wives sisters and whores shedding tears that are so very old Living stories that stay untold Unfinished phrases, lives on hold Silent pleasures, the

Fondled often not enough by too many. Still beating to the rhythm of some far away yearning. Pouring desire into every trembling nerve. Pumping hope

Open the door to a thought And get lost In the warm folds of its possibilities Open your heart to another And listen to its

Yasser Arafat died and with him the era of secular terrorists or freedom fighters, depending on your politics. For those of us who grew up

Little people. All my life little people have hurt me. Now, don’t get me wrong, these people are not necessarily physically small — sometimes they

“… it is hardly possible to take up one's residence in the kingdom of the ill unprejudiced by the lurid metaphors with which it has

Once again Iranian exiles and émigrés are bickering over political differences as watershed events unravel in Iran. The past week saw the most serious and

I find myself in the middle of a mountain path sitting on a familiar rock. I have sat here before, breathing in the fresh air,

If you go to where the mountains speak in the purple hued whisper of our foremothers, where you can mark the time in long drawn

If you go to where the mountains speak in the purple hued whisper of our foremothers, where you can mark the time in long drawn

I find myself in the middle of a mountain path sitting on a familiar rock. I have sat here before, breathing in the fresh air,

Behold this love that has no bound. Even when it reaches the end of the world, The edge of a percipice, It simply turns on

My mother entered the room and said, “Remember Samaneh? In shomal? Well, she's getting married with some taxi driver and hardly has enough money, not

This poem was emailed to iranian.com on September 18, 2001 The world came to an end a moment ago. But here in this bit of