Arts and Literature

How, Where, When and What?

How do you measure the weight of a second, felt upon your heart?

How do you count the miracles contained in an hour, witnessed by your eyes?

How do you price and pay for the moment of a first encounter, with your life force?

How do you define the feeling of the first kiss, and comprehend it?
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Mashhad

He fans the embers with a paper plate,
atop the balcony of his remote refuge,
many miles away from the Holy City,
and the surrounding hills are protective cloaks.
I stand in the outskirts of a city,
in a nation behind the scenes,
with a double scotch in one hand,
and a jujeh kabob in the other. >>>

ماه مشوش میشود

آه – چقدر
با فریب نشسته ایم
با فریب به رویا رفته ایم
با فریب نگاه کرده ایم
چقدر – ظلمت را
پاداش آسمانی دانستیم
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One more today

And sometimes we sit
thinking as others shuffle in
order coffee
chat about the election
and shuffle out
and sometimes we sit
just to get out and feel
somewhat un-alone >>>

Dirty business

I was spending my third night at the front line. I had already received a Klashinkov rifle with a magazine that could hold thirty cartridges and a few blankets to sleep in as Neekvarz had promised. That night it was cold and foggy. A storm was blowing from northwest raising sand and dust; making the air dark. Apprehensive about my sentries, I had visited all of them twice earlier at night either in Karamee‚s company or on my own. All of them were awake and vigilant; everything seemed normal except the storm that was lashing across the plain and the hill.>>>

روز های آفتابی

قاچاقچی های مسلح، که سیگار و مشروب حمل می کردند، برای رهائی از تعقیب قایق های حفاظت شرکت نفت، شروع به تیر اندازی می کنند، ولی به دلیل رسیدن نیروی کمکی کاری از پیش نمی برند و با محموله ی خود به دام می افتتند ....اما حاصل اندوهبار آن از کار افتادن قلبی بود که شور عشق در ترنم طپش های آن جاری بود وجز عطوفت و مهر ذخیره ای نداشت، و شوق انتظاری شیرین در آن موج می زد. >>>

Drawing the past

It is unusual for the French press to agree on anything, divided across the political divide as they are. But when it comes to hailing Marjane Satrapi’s new animated movie, ‘Persepolis’, they speak as one. From the right wing newspaper ‘Le Figaro’, to left wingers ‘Humanité’ and ‘Libération’ and centrist ‘Le Monde’, all have hailed Satrapi’s movie as a work of pure excellence and highly successful in breaking down stereotypes on Iranians and Iran. Gloria Steinem has even gone so far as to proclaim that with this film, Marjane Satrapi “may have given us a new genre” while ‘USA Today’ called it “a mighty achievement”>>>

خواننده ای درون من

در مثلث نویسنده، متن و خواننده، خواننده نیرویی خدایی دارد، زیرا اگر او متن را نخواند، هیچ چیز به وجود نخواهد آمد و نویسنده درون حروف بی جان متن خود گرفتار می ماند. به علاوه آغاز کار خواننده به پایان نگارش متن موکول نمی شود، بلکه نویسنده به محض اینکه قلم بر می گیرد خواننده ی خود را در ذهن دارد و تصویر خواننده هرگز در جریان کار نگارش ناپدید نمی شود. به عبارت دیگر، هر نویسنده، درون خود خواننده ای دارد که نه تنها به او گوش می دهد، بلکه هم چنین با او سخن می گوید، و حتی گاهی چون همبازی خیالی کودکان، دارای نام است.>>>

The Reader Within Me

In the triangle of author, text, and reader, the reader has a divine power. If one does not pick up the text, nothing comes alive and the author remains trapped in the lifeless letters of the text. Moreover, the reader's role does not begin when a text is finished. As soon as authors pick up pens, they have their readers in mind, and the image of the reader never vanishes during the writing process. Every author has a reader within who not only knows the art of listening, but also speaks and, like a child's imaginary playmate, sometimes even has a name>>>

Hold the Receiver

I know your ring; who else would call on the first day
of Spring to wish me Happy New Year,
with seven S’s laid upon a table I have seen
in photographs embedded in your email

I hold the receiver
flush to the ear that hears the clearest,
my right, lips pursed at the mike.
I would whisper but for static
in the line >>>

Recursions and resignations

You said, "I'll come back."
As the train was snarling and hissing
At first refusing to budge
Then abruptly yanking you away
And you waved and shouted,
"See you later, see you later."
Remember? >>>

Watch out, here they come! (part 4)

I met Kiosk's Arash Sobhani for the first time at Yoshi's (a famous jazz club here in San Francisco) through a mutual friend, Afshean. This is 5-6 months after I moved to San Francisco. Arash had moved to San Jose just a few weeks before, and was looking for a place here. I recalled I didn't know many people when I moved here, and out of empathy, gave him my number and told him he can call if he needs help to move his stuff. I was fool enough not to remember that he's a rock star, that he knows half of the Bay Area, and the other half he doesn't know, know him!>>>

Where peace begins

Nothing is as it seems, as they say. Plot twists reveal surprising hidden motivations, and in the tradition of sophisticated drama, each character sees the others more clearly than he sees himself. For example Kermani’s plea to save Iranians who would die in the impending war are countered by Muthada’s reminder that Kermani isn’t as concerned with life when it comes to the Islamic regime’s support of terrorism, and the brutal suppression of internal dissent. Sadly, Kermani does not put up a worthy defense. This is partly because the Islamic regime’s position is difficult to uphold in the first place>>>

Ey Yaarom Biyaa

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Poets and Pahlevans

I needed to find a ride back to Kerman. There was one taxi in front of the gate. I walked towards it and girded myself for another battle over the fare. The driver was old and disheveled, his mouth a mumble of pale green teeth. "You want to go to Kerman?" he said. "Yes." I was surprised he spoke English. "How much will that cost?" I grit my teeth. He quoted me a price that was suspiciously low, less than what I paid for the five kilometre trip from Shah-e Vali's shrine. "You will bring me all the way to Kerman for that price?">>>

انتها نيز کلمه است

* فايل صوتی

هر شب خواب آن ماهی را می بينم
که در تنگه ی غرق شده می گردد
و در دی. ان. ای ِ شرابی باستانی
نام تو را می جويد

نامت کلمه است
نشسته ميانه ی آفتاب
و هر که می گذرد از آن
عاشق می شود

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