Blog

Calling on America

The idea of a legitimate home, and in essence belonging to a place while concurrently defining oneself as a member of a diaspora community may

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Fresh water

I want to forget about the heartaches in the world. I want to think of you, just now, just this minute of writing to you,

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Remain my burning bush

Remain my burning bush I want to wear you like a pair of earrings so that your touch leaves me short breathed, so that when

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The dawn

The Dawn I am truthful to you, to my pen, to my readers. You can call these pieces part of my autobiography, a fiction, horridly

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All too soon

All too soon Do you think I will lose interest in you? Or you will have enough of me writing our story, enough of my

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Everyday

Everyday You suspect poetry to be non existential. You question my continuation. You arbitrate and exceed. You doubt your own name. Who does that but

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Open
Sheema Kalbasi

Hich o hast

In response — or in “estegbal” of — Sheema Kalbasi's poem “Astan az mast”

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Nothing

                                                                                         Nothing is all I am, Nothing overloading nothing, Closing the doors, Opening an extra into an empty space, Nothing ensues but a further war.

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Tehran

Tehran I She smiled and spoke softly of Tehran and her family, of her uncle who left to buy bread, never to return home again.

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On both sides of the pond

Silence, where the mute ones scream. Darkness, where the dim ones shine. One voice, one color, one banner; one past, one future — under the

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Terminology

A bird’s milk, ghasam-e Hazrat-e Abbas, A bird’s tail and some human lives! These are a few short phrases and nobody gives a second thought

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Open criticism

Since the publication of my article “Ayatollah Ebadi?”, I have received a considerable number of responses. Most of them were encouraging. Some were critical of

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Ayatollah Ebadi?

We Iranians usually don't listen to each other. When we do we usually hear only what we want to hear. I am not sure if

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September 11

The gray bird does not sit on the tall dry tree, the red fox is gone, the bulimic night will soon give way to the

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Come stand by my window

Come stand by my window where below we may watch the people move through the helter-skelter of the day to day throng and I find

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Sangsaar

Sangsaar ==> Stoning … Six paintings … * Send this page to your friends

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