Poems: Poetry can be a Crime in Iran

by Mehdi Mousavi

translated by Mohammad Hosseini Moghaddam

The dark clouds are ominous

The shadows are ominous

The cola is full of poison,

the poison of

carnage In the court of

condemnations

I swallowed my

cry While I was sued because of

loving you Here you should

whisper gently There are many

ears, there are many rats Even if

our Iran is a cat You should

remain off You should remain in

the gutters in the ashtrays and in

the radio channels Tomorrow they

will all broadcast your confessions

The pain of solitude is worst than

what batons cause That’s why

they drubbed you with me in our

last nights You knew there is no

way There is no way And freedom

equals death But when the loser

was waiting for the referee to end

the game The fans were clapping,

the fans were just clapping The

jungle had a dream and had a

love Burning in our brains And

there was a burnt cat In the hands

of bully boys The good students

were graduated from

springhouses With many

manifestos with many manifestos

I wanted to tell you that I love you

But the machine guns could not

understand this It was the son of

Adam who had apple I just had

sorrows I did cry and someone in

the mirror had poison You are not

here And I will not go to that café I

will not have a soda with any one

any more I will not have a black

soda any more All the life there

was a blackness hidden behind

our white dreams And the curio of

the clouds was acid rain Last

night they put saddles on their

bikes And took us and took the

sun to the prison of Evin The

oriental sun suddenly became

something bad And tomorrow for

sure they will broadcast sun’s

confessions aw well We are dead

and who are alive are fat And in

all the news papers, the columns

of sophistry are fat Their

stomachs is now full of our bloods

What a pain! And to whom I

should cry my pains Even God is

fat Lashes or prison for life? We

are condemned in advance The

love is forbidden And the emotion

is contraband What is left to say

when all my friends are dead?

And the cat of this country is now

eaten by the rats

 

 

by Fatemeh Ekhetesari

translated by Mohammad Hosseini Moghaddam

- run

 A voice passed by me. And

someone just ran inside my

confused mind - run The streets

were crowded and crowded - run

The cars were honking in an

endless night Honking after many

years of forgetfulness Entering

my ear and confusing my mind I

heard them honking And I kept a

torn up picture in my hands I

heard the sound of being lost in

all the dead-end streets I heard

the sound of tears slipping down

the rocked eyes I heard the sound

of tear gas and cigarettes all

stinging I heard the sound of

batons meeting backs and heads

And I heard the shadows running

behind me -run Two silences

made a voice The voice of our

hands separated from each other

The voice of yours passing by me

The voice of yours becoming the

voice of people And the voice of

mine lost in all those bad days I

was sticking to a postern Sticking

to my office to my job Sticking to

my pills in all those nights of

insomnia And sticking to all those

duplicated mornings I used to

wake up and practice my laughs

and practice my cries With a

duplicated mirror I used to put my

impatient signature in the bottom

of official papers I used to look for

one thing in all the newspapers

impatiently And I used to come

back from the office in all the

afternoons of impatience Coming

back to the silence that welcomes

you in every room Coming back

to the cold hands that keep the

hot cup of tea Coming back to the

bad days followed by worse And

Coming back to me waiting to

welcome my husband Like a

happy wife who waits to welcome

her husband Waiting for him to

throw his socks in the living room

- run My house is filled with the

thrown away sounds -run

Someone touched my shoulder

You should run to the streets of

madding crowd And to a woman

in Arabian veil You should run to

those two shadows behind you

And to the fear of keeping a green

wrist band in your hand You

should run to yourself stung by a

hot bullet And to your fingers of

the V sign You should run to the

clotting blood in the corner of our

lips And to the night which is our

sad resumption To the incomplete

night of liberty And to yourself

dying in my arms To yourself

being alive among the deads

And to our hands meeting each other

again Call me I am you I am as

cold as your hands Call me I want

to come back to the streets Call

me to whisper in your ears with

love Call me to lose myself in

your arms and in my dreams

Come back and resurrect the

memoires Call me

And rescue me from myself.