Three Iranian Women Poets

Isn't it enough?
By Farideh Hassanzadeh–Mostafavi
©Farideh Hassanzadeh-Mostafavi, 2007

I gave up love
being satisfied with the quiet of shadows
And memories.
Time was past, lost,
moments exploded
by the rain of bombs.
At nightfall
I don’t brush my dreams any more.
At nightfall
I don’t care for the wandering sun any more.
At nightfall
I leave the frightened moon in the sky
to shelter under the ground.
I am neither a woman nor a poet any more.
Night by night
more and more,
I feel real.
Like the bloody sound of alarms,
Like the roaring anti-aircraft rounds,
Like the falling bombs and rockets,
which turn the ruins and ashes
into eternal reality;
I feel night by night more real
and old,
so old and real that in the mirror
I see nothing anymore
but an aisle of empty chairs.
Oh, isn’t it enough?
What does a man need
more than a loaf of bread,
a quiet night
and an armful of bleak love,
for giving up and being satisfied
with the quiet of shadows
and memories?


Love Song for my husband
By Farideh Hassanzadeh –Mostafavi
© Farideh Hassanzadeh —Mostafavi, 2007

Not the heaps of your love letters
In the velvet chest of memories;

Not the armful of flowers and fruits
You bring home in the evenings;

Not even the gold bracelet of 18 carats
You give me on our wedding anniversary;

The only witness to your pure love
this pale plastic bin heavy with garbage:

which you carry down from the fourth floor,
step by step,

refusing my sleepy hands to help you,
every night!




FEMINIST
By Maryam Ala Amjadi
©Maryam Ala Amjadi, 2007

I am a" woe-man "
And the man
Puts out
His cigarette of passion
Into my whole

I am a " woe-man "
And the man plants his heritage in me

I am a " woe-man "
And the man stands on my chest
And breathes deeply

I am a " woe-man "
And my name's Maryam

And I'm green
So so ever green

Things grow out of me

Love a baby a family

And a graveyard of serene doubts
And a blue blue silence

We are women
And the "you" in us
Could make such a fuss
For getting on the bus
That drives on the trail of Rights
And seizes the moments of might
In a siege of fright

We are women

And the "I" in you

Must see it through
The dark dark history tunnels
The light of injustice
That sounds so pathetic

So so tragic

We are women
we long haired
Short brained low intellect high heeled

We who share the "you" in "I"
And scratch out the "I" in "you"

We are the bad bad ones
In every every good

The women without a double "you"

Oh,
I am a woman!




I only speak to the flowers
By Sufi Mostafavi (1990-)
© Sufi Mostafavi, 2007

I only speak to the flowers;
For, whether they are awake or asleep
whether they are at home or at a party,
their clothes are always the same
and their words are always the same
and although they are silent,
I can hear everything they say.


I only speak to the flowers
for they are not like newspapers
or like TVs or tape recorders
and their job is not turning people into statues.
They are simply beautiful
and as I look at them,
I become beautiful, too.


I only speak to the flowers
for no matter when I speak to them,
they always have time for me
They are never late for work like my father
or behind their schedule like my mother.
I only speak to the flowers
who have nothing to do but living.




*Photo of Sufi Mostafavi, 17 year old daughter of reknown Iranian poet,
Farideh Hassanzadeh–Mostafavi. Painting by Sufi.
Here is an interview Farideh did with US Poet Laureate Billy Collins.

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