The few problems remained are not Sharia law, repression of women, executions or poverty but but the chain on the elephant's feet at the Tehran zoo!

امروز از صدها هزار گذشته اند
قایقرانهای بی نان و ماهی

I had more tests done today.

Justice. 

Meet the Press

Jeff Jarvis writes: "Meet the Press has been the smartest show on TV. They can get anyone they want. They used to try a little harder to find someone smart.

Now their guests are as random as an elevator ride."

... بيچاره فريدون مشيری. بيچاره سهراب سپهری... سبز باشيد. منتظر حضور سبزتان هستيم. سلامی سبز... 

از
وبلاگ
پانته آ

When Death Comes

You play with people's heart
And forget that the heart can break
And at the Pennsylvania station
Mirrors reflect the strangers
Who will apart

When death comes
The rose petals -blown on the white pages
Followed by a plant of faithfulness
And a period of quiet
Will be sketches of a life not fully written

The frozen poetry
Or the color of dense smoke
In a New York bar
And Moscow club meetings
Worn on yellow pages of a comrade
Are just some old-fashioned storybooks
Thirsty to fly

Stepping off the station
You realize the endings
Remain with you for several days

It is true if you still think of me
When throwing the log fire and the yellow pages
Drop by drop making habits out of the inevitable action

Make one in marble
In either nature or man
As far as the eye can see
On the snow -not really knowing yourself

You wasted such a long walk to die!

Sheema Kalbasi

The only other regime that had surpassed the Iranian regime in terms of backwardedness was Taliban.

Sheema Kalbasi

Carry your cross and I'll carry mine...(Click to view the clip)

"Although Iran has been known as the second richest country in the oil reserves, 43 homeless people have died out of cold and starvation in the streets of capital-Tehran-within 21 days. This is while the Islamic regime is busy demonstrating against and blaming the U.S. (the great Evil), day and night."
eehum.com

Christmas Eve

for my daughter


If Danes' greatest sorrow was not my dark color
If my girl was a year older and my husband had lighter skin
If my kindness was not misread

Perhaps wordless in porous lines...



Look! Look! What a lovely world!
We can fly feather for arms...

Beautiful pearl, take your mamma's hand
And remember when nothing stops the cold
Shout: Where is my fishing boots?
I want to find the lighthouse.

Sheema Kalbasi

After her release from prison, Iranian journalist Fereshteh Ghazi was taken to hospital. She is reported to be physically and mentally weakened. (via freebatebi.com)

There are two type of rulers, the Leaders and the Killers.

sheema kalbasi

Happy Birthday dearest P...

Kisses and heart

Shadows lingering on the snow...

Imshin, my favorite Israeli mother bloges: "I am not a very sociable person at the best of times, and at the moment, it appears, even less than usual. Blogging, a sort of sociable endeavor, even without a comment option, seems daunting, when the preferred pastime is lying in bed, staring at the ceiling."

...and I...one exhausted and tired mama...agree with her!

... trying to keep my balanceon the snow covered stony stairs of this New England town library...

I feel a sense of belonging... longing... belonging...

تلفن زنگ می زنه و دکتر نفیسی می پرسن که خط سوم از آخر چی بوده...
شیما: ببخشید.. اجازه بدین نیگا کنم... این دختر کوچولو ترجمه مو اینقدر( مثل برق)
مچاله کرده که قابل خوندن نیست...
..........

بابا بزرگ و دختر کوچولو کلاشون تو هم رفته...
توی رستوران : بابا بزرگ خسته روی نیمکت می شینه تا نفسی تازه کنه...
دختر کوچولو روی نیمکت دراز می کشه
پاهاشم می زاره روی نیمکت و هی می زنه به پاهای بابا بزرگ...

توی ماشین: بعد از هزار بدبختی
دختر کوچولو بالاخره ( کشون کشون) رضایت داده بریم توی ماشین ...
شروع می کنه به غرولند ...
به محض اینکه بابابزرگ با لحن جدی می گه من پیاده می شم...
دختر ساکت می شه ... بعد یه مدت دوباره شروع می کنه که پاشو حتما هرجوری شده برسونه به بابابزرگ...

Tarja... a friend and a member of Amnesty in Finland, after reading my blog wrote: "Yesterday I read a poem by Po Chu-i, it was written in the 8th century or so. He talked about how the learned and enlightened people always are the first to go to prison - what has changed? It could've been written yesterday! It's so depressing, we humans have all the power and intelligence to make this planet a good place to live, but we choose not to. Century after century, decade after decade - violence, corruption, oppression, desperation, waste of lives."

I am not a nationalist but this is too good to not have it on my blog the Persian Gulf and the National Geographic Society...

Thomas Helmig... a Danish singer, is my little girl's latest favorite...

  کتاب تازه ام تحت عنوان سنگسار، مجموعه افکار و اشعار من است و تقدیم می کنم به همه صداهای خاموش شده، زندانی، پوسیده و آوارهُ ایرانی، به تمامی فعالان سیاسی اعدام شده، زندانیان زندانهای رژیمهای حاکم بر ایران، دختران و پسران جوان ایرانی که در اوج وطن دوستی اسیر سودای فریبکاران و تندروهای مذهبی، سیاسی و اجتماعی می شوند، اقلیتهای مذهبی اعم از یهودیان  تا بهاییان ایرانی اعدام شده، دختران ایرانی که در میان آتش خودسوزی می کنند و زنان و مردانی که به جرم عشق ورزی، سنگسار می شوند. این کتاب را به همه ایرانیانی که مورد شکنجه قرار می گیرند و به عنوان یک انسان حتی حق انتخاب در باورهای دینی، سیاسی، روابط اجتماعی و جنسی خود را ندارند تقدیم می نمایم.

شيما کلباسی

امروز با دختر کوچولو نشستم به نقاشی کردن ولی همه اش بازیگوشی می کرد. اول پاک کن، بعد رنگ روغن، بعد قلم مو روی زمین می افتادند که یعنی به من دخترک دوسال و نیمه توجه کن، نمی خوام نقاشی کنی، من اینجام... اینجا

اما بالاخره امروز اولین تابلو با رنگ وروغن رو نقاشی کرد

دیروز برای بازی دخترک رو بردمش پارک. از سرما تیک تیک می لرزیدم. بالاخره رضایت داد که بیاد تو ماشین و بشینه تو صندلیش تا کمربند امنیتیش رو ببندم که برونیم و بریم. ولی پارک رفتن همانا و تب و سرماخوردگی من اوج گرفتن همان. چشمهام دو تا خط. عطسه پشت عطسه. گلو درد. اما طبیعت در اوج زیباییست. بیرون برف میاد...

"Today while in front of the Ukrainian Parliament building, the Rada, I heard a man talking into his cell phone in a thick British accent telling someone on the other end that the crowd wasn't all that large." Scott Clark writing from Kiev, Ukraine.

Sheema: How is it in the town you are?
My brother in Ukraine: It's full of university students as you know and every one is out in the streets.
Sheema: Be careful when you are out.
Little brother: What do you suggest I should do...
Sheema: ... just be careful.

This evening Guido our Italian friend came over... and the little girl apparently likes Italian men very much!
*******************************************************************************************
When the little girl is at the day care... she sleeps for an hour or so (every kid... kind of has to sleep for 1-2 hours) so on those nights she doesn't sleep her usual 8 p.m. ...tonight being one of those... P, carrying the little girl upstairs... the little girl shouting on top of her lungs: I can'ttt laaalaaaaaa... then starts laughing...

P... has spoiled this girl so bad...

*******************************************************************************************
who keeps pinging me?...thank you! you are lovely.

نمی دونم چه جوری اینجوری شده اما این دختر ما یه جورایی خیلی لهجه آمریکایی داره... مثلا میگه "عاشگتم"... یا " ر" با تلفظ غلیظ که فکر می کنی مثلا تکزاس بزرگ شدیم

جمعه باید راجع به تحقیقاتم در مورد اعدام در آمریکا صحبت کنم...
تب دارم... گلو درد شدید... اینجا با چشمهای گر گرفته نشستم و می نویسم... تا حالا هم در حال مرتب کردن نوشته هام راجع به "اعدام در آمریکا" بودم....

 باد محکم به پنجره ها می کوبه
 امشب یه جورایی مثل کتاب بلندیهای بادگیره ...

...

الان وبلاگ شهرزاد سپانلو دوست داشتنی را می خواندم... می تونین صدای خودش و آواز مادرانه اش را با لیلی کوچولوش بشنوین...

دختر کوچولو-در حال جیغ بنفش کشیدن: ساعت... ساعت... ساعتم... ساعت پلاستیکی صورتی همراه با بچه مرغابی و جوجه های زرد پلاستیکی... توی آب وان شناور)

دختر کوچولو: مانی ی ی ی ی ی ی ی... کمک کن ن ن ن ن

ده دسامبر ...
جایی بین گورهای سبز و سنگی و گاه برفی
برادرم با سینی خرما می ایستد
زنی صوفی با گیسوان بلند طلایی و چشمانی سبز-آبی
شعری از دفتر پیر طریقتش را می خواند
جایی بین زمین و آسمان... دور از سنگریزه های مزار
به یاد هستی ات
تنها ایستاده ام...

Europe's Ritual Dance The Western counterpart of Iran's deception...

"They have huge financial interests tied up with the Iranian regime (billions of dollars worth of oil and gas contracts, plus other trade agreements, some already signed, others in the works); and Iran is the last place in the Middle East where they can play an active diplomatic role. This is particularly acute for France, which knows it will long be a pariah to free Iraqi governments, and views Iran as its last chance to thwart America's dominant role in the region. Sad to say, there is no evidence that the Europeans give a tinker's damn either about the destiny of the Iranian people, or about Iran's leading role in international terrorism, or about the Islamic Republic's joining the nuclear club."

Michael Ledeen, National Review Online

I hope for the day Iran will be a Liberal Democracy.

Yesterday was my day off from university and the little girl was at her day care (a good thing.) I was cleaning the little girl's mess in the living room when I tripped over one of her toys and almost lost conscious. I called 911 and pulled my body to the door and unlocked it. I placed the phone close and remained motionless.

My husband kissed me on the lips as he passed next to me in the kitchen. The little girl looked at us and said: ... silly Maaani... and giggled with a mouth full-of-strawberry-yogurt.

I guess living with/as me is not short any action! I had a fall today and called 911. I just got home from the emergency room... am a little dizzy... Not particularly from the fall or even the pain I have... but the ambulance ride in the bumpy high ways of the rainy New England!

اگر وقت ایجاب کند... ترجمه کردن شعر های کوتاه را دوست دارم...
شعر شعرایی که گاهی دستهای احساسی ام با... از دل- نوشته هایشان
تلاقی می کند... که چشم- نوشته هایشان...ما بین پلکهای من زلال خیال می شوند
و گاهی اشک-نوشته هایشان... از روی گونه های من به روی انگشتهای تایپنده ام پناه می برند...

تلفن زنگ زد دیدم روش نوشته خارج از مرکز ( هنوز توی دلم می خواد وقتی تلفن اینو می نویسه ...صدای آرامش بخش مامان توی گوشی پخش بشه) صدای زنگ
دیگه ای اما توی صدا پیچید و دکمه را فشار دادم تا خط عوض بشه. دکتر نرولوژیست بود و گفت عکس سه بعدی (ام.آر.آی) که یکشنبه گرفته بودم چیزی نشون نمی ده
و باید دوباره برم که ببینند درد شدید توی دست چپم و شانه و گردن در اثر چی می تونه باشه. تلفن که تموم شد... صدای مهربون برادرم اونور خط گفت: دختر کجا رفتی؟
بسته رسید؟ میگم نه عزیز دلم... بهشون زنگ زدم گفتن دوباره می فرستن! همزمان ... پشت در چشمم به یک کارتن افتاد. گفتم آمده! بازش که می کنم... توی یه سبد زرشکی پر از
لذتهای کوچک زندگی
به تعداد زیاد نشستن و چشمک می زنند. کارت رو می خونم...
می بینم... اسم زنی اما جا مانده میان
اسم- نوشته ها... دلم برایت چه تنگ است

چند ساعتی هست از بیمارستان برگشتم... وقتی تکنسین تخت رو توی کپسول هل داد... احساس خیلی بدی پیدا کردم. خواستم که بیرونم بیارن... پرسیدم بقیه هم دچار حالتی شبیه به من
می شن؟ گفت نه تنها حالشون بد می شه بلکه باید داروی آرام بخش استفاده کنند. یک لحظه تصویر پ و دختر کوچولو جلوی چشمم آمد که باز باید منتظر توی ماشین بشینن...گفتم نه همین امروز خوبه... زیر پلکهام اما قلبم می لرزید... لبهامو گاز می گرفتم... میخواستم بیام بیرون
... کیف کوله ای رو بندازم روی شونه هام و بدوم به سمت در...

زندگی!

It's been few hours since I am back from hospital. When the Technician got me ready for the neck MRI... I felt a little Claustrophobia running down my thoughts, lungs, nerves... I asked to be pulled out... It felt like a grave with my feet out... after a few minutes I decided to go back in... my heart was shivering under my eyelashes! I kept biting my lips... all I could picture was Sheema running towards the gates...

Life!

Maryam Hooleh and Hooman Azizi (Iranian poets) need their voice to be heard... Their life is in danger.

You know who you are... if you are a friend you will be happy for me... if your a foe... you will not!

*******************************************************************************************
Thank you to those of you... for the happy birthday well wishes. It means the world to me... I have had a difficult year (still have)... getting such positive e-mails; e-cards and phone calls made my heart melt from happiness. Thank you for caring.

*******************************************************************************************

With the Poetry of Iranian Women project, I intend to present the works by some of the most invisible yet most interesting groups in the world poetry circle. If you are an Iranian female poet... send me your poems... this project is from all of Us to the World... to hear our voice... our poetry.

The good things about life... you get to a) kiss those you love... b) see the smile on their faces... c) your heart bursts into laughter...

The good things about death... a) no loss, b) no heartache, c) no appointments...

feeling for your beyond...
even if this photo is computer made... the reality doesn't change...

Each day different aspect of loss is holding me. I will not conceal my feelings... the closer I get to my birthday... the immense pain of not hearing your voice gets stronger. Looking at my reflection in the mirror... seeing in conflict with the incident... are the on and off swelling... the two... moist... sad... inescapable eyes.

I had to write a research paper on the effect of TV on children and got hooked on these cartoons. I think Connie the Caw has the most delicious colors... If I ever get back to painting ...these colors are going to be what I'll be using...

...sunday I am going to hospital for MRI (neck)...

I got this e-mail from Sayeh Today. I asked her if it'll be ok to share it with the rest of you...

"Please contact Radio Farda and urge them to arrange an interview with Editor of National Geographic Map of the World Atlas. The Persian gulf and the name of the islands has been changed in their latest edition.

Thanks

Sayeh Sirjani"

برای تو مامان این لینک را اینجا می گذارم. باشد که دوباره عید فطرت را تبریک بگویم...
This link is for you Maman. Perhaps one day we'll meet again (My mother practiced Sufism.)

In the course of seductive pleasure of existence,
there was pain or sorrow wherever I emerged.
In the corners and angles of my body vessel,
there was nothing but the blare of cold waves to excel.

from the Anthology of Wish & Hope by Dr. Manouchehr S. Noury

ايران - اسرائيل - فلسطين، رسانه هاي فارسي زبان - عرفات براي نمونه، نيما راشدان

بدون شرح
همراه با علامت تعجب...

مدتی پیش مانا
برام از کتابش گفت و اسم کتاب هر از گاهی منو مشغول کرده. امروز که از دانشگاه بعد سه ساعت و خورده ای درس بر می گشتم (اسم این کلاس مرگ و مردن هست و دلایل شخصی مثل از دست دادن مادرم و نداشتن خواهر و مادر بزرگ و خاله باعث شد که این کلاس یکی از درسهایی باشه که این ترم برداشته ام،) ... در حالیکه مشغول شنیدن موزیک ( بدون شنیدن و چونه زدن پ و دختر کوچولو که همیشه یکی از این دونفر می خواهد اخبار یا بارنی گوش کنه)... و روندن ماشین گرم و نرم بودم (ماشینی که تو دانمارک داشتم از نرسیدن به اش، گهگداری مثل اژدها تنوره می کشید) اونم توی یک جاده آفتاب خورده در حالیکه برف ها ی دیشب و امروزصبح هنوز لابه لای درختها و زمینهای اطراف اتوبان خوابیدند ...باز منو یاد کتاب شاعره انداخت... توی دلم گفتم شاید اگه مرگ بوسه ای مثل این حال شعف من داشته باشه... اگه مرگ لبهاش اینجوری عاشقانه منو موقع بردن ببوسه ... توی دلم گفتم
مرگ اگر لبهای تو را داشت

شاید این

I am not an "ist"ic or "ism"ic ... but...

Send your e-mails to cbeidel@ngs.org

Dear Sir,

I am writing to object to the inclusion of the name ‘Arabian Gulf’ as an alternative to Persian Gulf on your recently published world map (8th Edition).

This action is causing considerable upset to the Iranian community around the globe. The Persian national identity is already under considerable threat and is eroded every day by the behavior and actions of the current Islamic Regime. We fear that using the proposed alternative of ‘Arabian Gulf’ alongside the correct name of ‘Persian Gulf’ will, in the long run, cause an actual name transition and result in the loss of a major association of our culture with this significant and famous part of the World’s geography.

I request that you amend this in your next edition to preserve our cultural heritage associated with this famous landmark.

Yours faithfully,



(via Halle)

• Last night as I sat next to my little girl on her bed, she said: Maaanie: Dooset Daram hamisheh (I love you forever.)

• As of last week I am the new poetry editor of The MAG.

• I am kind of withdrawn from people. The loss of my mom has been too heavy on me. I wrote to my poet friend Roger Humes that I can't stop eating chocolates. He wrote back, well at least you'll die happy!

...every time we are at a Starbucks...

Little girl: Maaaani ... showing the woman on the cup...

... other times she stands on a chair and...says: "Ladiz and gentemans girls and boys
I like to present you oranges, grape, Maaaani, fruit and desert."

Bowing... "thank you thank you very much"

Yesterday my little girl was insisting to be part of the Barney book... I was reading her. I had made a game by placing hats, etc. on the pictures and she was positive by pushing her feet she'd be part of the book! She is not even three and I think of the time she will go off to college and we may become voices on the phone! You see as a mother I enjoy reading other mother-bloggers... and the Iranian blogger Noushi is one of the few I read from time to time. What made me sad (so sad that I want to cry my lungs black) on her recent post... Noushi has let us know about her X taking the kids from her. She is asking for help... I don't know... who can help her? In a mismanaged country where the advocates of human rights and gender justice get arrested... a divorcee trying to have Child Custody in the Islamic Republic of Iran is Fighting an Uphill Battle.

Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests The dirt one day will cover the hands that sign such grief. Do you even fear the almighty you preach? Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests The dirt one day will cover the hands that sign such grief. Do you even fear the almighty you preach? Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests The dirt one day will cover the hands that sign such grief. Do you even fear the almighty you preach? Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests The dirt one day will cover the hands that sign such grief. Do you even fear the almighty you preach? Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the arrests Stop the

Dr. Mahboubeh Abbasgholizadeh, the Iranian woman journalist and civil society activist, a prominent advocate of human rights and gender justicewas was arrested in the Islamic Republic of Iran.

Please Sign the Petition.

Roger Humes and I have won the Harvest International award for Best Poem with "Good Night, Baby Girl". Roger e-mailed me this: "Damn we were good!"

I wrote the poem in 2003 and Roger helped me with the edits and a year later we have won the Harvest International award for Best Poem!

Identify your problem:

Sheema: What should I ask?
P: Ask for pest control (bees, spiders, other crap) and
FREE termite evaluation.


... now which one is the one we have ... in the basement... ! They all look the same to me!! I should have studied pest...ology!

Mojtaba Samie-nejad an Iranian blogger was arrested in the Islamic Republic of Iran.

Please Sign the Petition.

Drawings

The little girl's drawing, today
Walking with her father/ hand in hand in a Halloween costume...
And a rabbit, the Sun, a white home.

The mother's drawing but...
Showed her dad, dead behind the prison walls,
The soldiers with guns, the war and the cluster bombs.


Sheema Kalbasi

I click on your name... lean and I kiss your lips... unlike you... the face is cold.


...your son brought flowers to you(r grave.)

تولد

بیشتر از پیشتر
...انگشتانم را در پستانهایت فرو می کنم-بلند
سلولهای کشنده را
بیرون می کشم
مسیح مانند میانه ات را نفسی می دمم

زنده شو!

Birthday

More than ever...
Push my fingers through your breasts-long
And pull out the killer cells
Jesus like... into you I breathe...

Alive be!

-sheema

You never realize the last time you see someone is the last time...

October 31 is Maman's birthday. I've decided to celebrate her life by donating blood to Red Cross.

They are cursed to eternal hatred!

I am one the blogers who is threatened to be killed by the islamicarmy!

If the petition's link doesn't work, please go to www.stoning.webbyen.dk.

The punishment of death by stoning is not suspended in Iran. As a member of International Committee against Stoning... I ask you to Please sign the petition for the release of 13-year-old Zhila Izadi. The case is still pending and the abolition of this barbaric act needs your signature.

(The petition link via z8un)

My 2 1/2 year old daughter... after seeing her photo on the Iranian Times...
starts giggling and wiggling: Maannnnni (she calls me!) Bibeen...look maani...I am hiding in three! Pretty!

Last Saturday... P and I took the little girl for a 5 min. drive and ...and here are some
photos ... The New England's foliage.

update: I still have pain and the movement on my left side is limited...

درد امانم را بریده...

A 13 year old girl, Zhila is going to be stoned to death in Iran (via Halle).

برای دل خودم

دلم برایت تنگ است
برای فال حافظ و گلبانگت
بیا!
که میان حقیقت و خیال مانده
فریاد به حلقوم هجوم آورده
...


امروز... قریب کوی تو
این گامهای آهسته راغریبانه
لابه لای شاخه ها و گیسوان بلوط و برگهای انجیر می نشانم

همینجا

زیر این سایه طویل اما

از زجر نبودنت،
رشته های تب وبی تابی و بی مادری را

هزار هزار می ریسم




بی تو!

...برهنه- زنده در خودمی کشد

این شورابه اشک و لکه های... های های

گوشت و تنم را سخت می خورند

I had a difficult day. I miss Maman dearly and... especially today I don't feel... I have enough energy to write and express myself. I just need to say I very much enjoyed the debate between the two intelligent and self-made men, John Edwards and Dick Cheney.

امروز برای مامان
خیلی بی تاب بودم و روز سختی داشتم. انرژی ندارم متن بلند و بالا بنویسم ولی مناظره چنی و ادوارد - دوتا آدم باهوش و خودساخته
جالبتر از این بود که بدون دوخط نوشتن ازش بگذرم.

As the pain of aging is growing around my shoulders and neck...this product is becoming my number one friend!

I am turning 32 in November!

باید اسم مطلبی که تحت عنوان ادبیات مهاجر نوشته بودم را بگذارم: فغان-بلاگنامه! مقاله ونقد نیست ولی لازم بود که نوشته بشه و گویا هم چاپ کرده. چند جایی هم بهش لینک داده شده و راجع به اش بعضی دوستان صاحب نظر و اهل قلم برایم نظرات مثبت و منفی اشان را فرستاده اند.

Tuesday: I am invited to Roya Hakkakian's poetry reading in New York. I heard her voice on the phone... when I got the invitation. I have a class the same night and it is too far for me to drive and leave P to baby-sit our little girl, Dora the explorer!

ادبیات مهاجر

امروز که بنگارش این مطلب پرداخته ام برآنم تا کمی از آنچه در این چند ماهه اخیر مرا به خود مشغول ساخته بر چهره صور ریخته و به رشته تحریر در آورم. شاید که نسلهای آینده بخواهند دور از غرض حاکم بر جامعه ایران و ادبیات مهاجر به قضاوت بنشینند ومعقولانه از میانه فغان سخنوران ادبی و فقط برای رفع نیاز، کشتی اندیشه را بر ساحل مقصود بنشانند.

همچنان که شاهد بودیم در سالهای پس از انقلاب اسلامی، تاریخ ایران بار دیگر متحول از مهاجرت جمعی ایرانیان گشت. آنچه که مرا به عنوان یک شاعره ایرانی و زنی مهاجر، امروز برانگیخته تا این خطوط را بنگارم اهمیت این برهه از زمان در شعر معاصر فارسی می باشد. شاعرانی که دور ازمام وطن، بار تمام رنج ها و محنت های زبان را می کشند تا رنگ درد و غربت را با قلم فرهیخته هنر بیالایند. آنچه که کار این دسته از شاعران را اهمیت می بخشد همانا قدرت خلاقیت است که سعی دارد عاری از تظاهر، عا لمی از معانی را به خواننده عرضه کند. لازم به تذکر است که اکثر شعرای جوان مهاجر تحصیلات خود را در ایران به اتمام نرسانده اند. البته این مورد نه تنها ادبیات مهاجر را متمایز می سازد بلکه دانش فارسی این دسته از شعرای دور از میهن مخصوصا آنان که صاحب نام شده اند را زیر سوال می برد. قشر فشرده ای از نویسندگان و منتقدین، دانسته یا نادانسته دست به تک چهره سازی می زنند و به مداحی اشعار افرادی می پردازند که گاهی شعرشان حتی عطش خواننده را فرو نمی نشاند چه رسد که بخواهد تجربه یک نسل مهاجر را به تصویر درآورد. نتیجتا خواننده برای شناخت شعری خوب یا نقدی بی پیرایه، فقط می تواند به تحقیقات و علاقه شخصی اش اعتماد داشته باشد. واژه های موزون کنار یکدیگر نهادن و از سر دوستی نقدی نوشتن تا شاعری را خوش آید و پاره سنگهای نوشتاری را تحت عناوین بزرگترین شاعر مبارز و مهاجر به خواننده عرضه کردن، فقط نشانی دیگر از فضای ناسالم حاکم بروطن و ریشه در فرهنگی گنگ دارد و حرکاتی چون محدود کردن شعر شاعری توسط متبحرین نقد زبان فارسی فردا به گرفتن صدا و جان انسانها ختم می شود.

بارها و بعمد مشاهده شده است که برای جلوه دادن به اشتباهی محض، از تکامل ارزانٍ سبب و یا حساسیتهای فردی استفاده شده است. اکنون من خود هم به عنوان خواننده و هم شاعره ناچار به ذکرم که اصطلاحات و عبارات بعضی از شعرا و منتقدان زبان، به مراتب فاقد شور و شعور ادبی اند. گاهی این افراد که خود را مرکز جهان می دانند آنچنان فردیتشان را صاحب فضایلی والا می بینند که آدمی انگشت به دهان می ماند که این قدیسین و رجاله های شعر و ادب چگونه خود و خواننده را اینچنین به ریشخند گرفته اند! مگر با چندین کتاب چاپ کردن، از خطای فاحش در قصاید و یا ارزانی نوشتاری اینگونه منتقدین بی رکن و شعرای به زور معروف شده کاسته می شود؟

البته جای بسی خوشبختی است که آنچه اکثریت این نسل مهاجر می آفریند با نادیده انگاشته شدن این دسته از مهملبازان از پای باز نمی ماند و به اسارت این تراکم جانفرسا و انبوه معانی پوسیده در نخواهد آمد زیرا که این تنها شاعر و شعر ایرانی مهاجر نیست که نادیده گرفته خواهد شد بلکه تقویم ملتی است که ادبیاتش ارزش خواندن و شنیده شدن دارد و بنا بر این نمی توان از این مهم غافل ماند و احساس و اندیشه و یا صنعت شعر را با کلی گویی و فرهنگ مداحی از پای بنشاند.


با خواندن این مطلب به راحتی می توان پی برد که اعتقاد من به راستی در نگارش و درستی در آفرینش است. در این نوشتار سعی نموده ام که بدون فرمولهای ریاضی و یا استدلالها و روانکاوی نویسنده و یا شاعر خاصی و با رعایت حرمت و به دور از گزافه گویی کمی به نقش شاعر مهاجر و اهمیت شعر این گروه در ادبیات زنده بپردازم. حال اگر این نوشتار افرادی را خوش نمی آید یا صدای ضمه درگوشه ای از این نوشته جای مانده و کلمه ای به غلط تایپ شده، بر من ببخشید زیرا که تحصیلات دبیرستانی و آکادمیک خود را در ایران نگذرانده ام و آنچه آموخته ام همه را ممنون ادبیات بدون رابطه و کتابهای غنی زبان مادری و مهمتر از همه علاقه و تحقیقات شخصی ام می باشم.

شیما کلباسی - آمریکا
اکتبر 2004

1
دیشب جلوی در دانشگاه روی نیمکتی دراز کشیدم. پایین پاهام دوتا دختر سیاه پوست آمریکایی نشسته بودند و آواز می خوندند. سرم رو به نیمکت تکیه دادم. موهام از پشت روی دسته های سبزش، سیاه ریختند. با دخترا آهسته شروع به خوندن کردم... شعرای کودکی شونو می خوندند که با شعرای مهد کودک دختر من هم آهنگ... ولی با شعرهای کودکی من زمین تا آسمون فرق دارند. سروده های دختر کوچولو، پر از شعارهای انقلابی نیست... زیر فشار و اختناق هم خونده نمی شه...

چشمام رو بستم تا رخوت شیرین آزادی وجودم رو گرم کند که...

یک بوق آهسته... پ و دختر کوچولو آمدن دنبالم
خنده خواب آلود دختر قشنگم و بوسه مهربانانه پ ...

2
...چند روز پیش دستم رفت لای در

دختر کوچولو: مانی! چی شد؟ درد می ده؟
شیما: آره عزیزم درد می کنه.
دختر کوچولو: کجاشه؟ ببینم...
شیما: اینجا س عزیزم.
دختر کوچولو: لباشو می زاره روی خط سرخ و بوس صداداررر.

آخ که دلم رفت!

Earlier today I was talking to Sayeh Saeedi Sirjani regarding Kianoosh Sanjari's health and well being. As some of you know he was found in suicidal conditions. Sanjari along with Manoochehr Mohammadi, Ahmad Batebi, Akbar Mohammadi, Dr. Farzad Hamidi are just a few of many of the young men who have been charged for their involvement in the Iran Democratic Front. Since 1999 they have either disappeared, are in the prisons of the Islamic Republic of Iran or like the regime's latest victim are forced to commit suicide. What Sayeh emphasized on was that Sanjari repeatedly told Sayeh: I love life!

You can come to your own conclusions. You can choose to believe what you want but I know if one has the basic human rights s/he would never in his or her right mind do such a desperate act.

I am neither a precious angel
nor intend to leave a legacy.

I am who I am.

Sheema Kalbasi

jumbled up thoughts...

تکه تکه های خستگی

پشت ویترین یازده سپتامبر سیاه
همه آماده
منتظر دو قلوهای تازه سازند
تو، این وسطا دنبال
یک مشت- مال دبش

یک سلایس پیتزا
مانیکور و یک تیکه کیک
خونه ساکت بی سر و صدا

اگر روز مادری بود
همون روز- مادرای قدیم
توزودتر از پدر می دویدی واسه مادر
گل مریم می خریدی
اما حالا وقتی خودت مادر شدی
یک مشت-مال

یک سلایس پیتزا
مانیکور و یک تیکه کیک
خونه ساکت بی سر و صدا
روز مادر مبارکت باشه شیما!


می دونم امروز روز مادر نیست ولی این نوشته را که لابه لای نوشته هام پیدا کردم گفتم برای خودم اینجا بگذارم که یادم نره منم هستم.

The recent conflict in the Iranian literary community in Diaspora is both distracting and distressful. Like everything else this circus shows the readiness to kill in order to win! Forget Bahaies, Mojahids, Communists, Nationalists who were executed by the Islamic Republic of Iran... lets bite each other's head off in the name of Persian poetry!

I walked slowly and silently beyond the night's deep sigh... and now that the night has passed and the sharp fingers of realization are replaced by P's smooth touch and his embracing and joyous spirit... I open my eyes from the night's blinding sorrow. I try to cherish this moment instead of being dead among the living.

It is a gorgeous day.

The world of words,
Crushes their falseness
And they try to conceal
their dishonesty and the ignorance.

Alas! Their bitterness is over a badge of fame!

Sheema Kalbasi

I had not heard any thing this absurd! "A plane bound for Washington from London was diverted to Maine on Tuesday after passenger Yusuf Islam --formerly known as pop singer Cat Stevens-- showed up on a U.S. watch list, federal officials said."
CNN Tuesday, September 21, 2004 Posted: 10:18 PM EDT (0218 GMT)

"What in me is dark Illumine,
what is low raise and support
That to the height of this great argument
I may assert eternal Providence,
And justify the ways of God to men."

-John Milton

EMROOZ

NOTE: The following posting is by no means an indication of my agreement with the contents of Emrooz or Rooydad or with the view points of their publishers. It is merely based on my belief in freedom of expression. A belief which is probably not even shared by the publishers of these sites.


It is Monday Morning in Iran. My name is Sheema Kalbasi and am hosting, translating and posting a few links from "Emrooz".


Saeed Motallebi is released.

The political activists, journalists and university students’ letter on the third anniversary of September 11.

Reza Kianian, a famous Iranian actor on the edge of arrest.

The Iranian judiciary and the disgrace. Who has earned his degree from the University of Hawaii?

The friendship: Hosni Mobarak and Khatami?

Journalists without frontiers: Release the three Iranian Journalists.

Mafi: An Iranian woman as the new governor of Shemiranat/Tehran.

The future of Presidency in Iran.

Zohreh Aghajari on the Iranian women’s Hijab: This generation is not imported!

The mullahcracy in Iran needs serious amount of kickboxing... for us... to get rid of them but to practice democracy and to show respect to the Iranian blogger sisters and brothers, on Monday... Sheema Kalbasi (myself) will be hosting, translating and posting the news from the two reformist news websites, Emrooz and Rooydad.

Free Saeed Motallebi, Ghafooriazar, Rafizade and Mozroui...

what a joke: 2,500-year-old charter of human rights to revisit Iran... and it is to revisit Iran when the nation is choked to limpness!

People should know about the recent arrests in Iran.

Stop Such and Such Crimes...

When you read about the murderess and serial killers in the West, you think to yourself how can one person commit "such" crimes- to slash another human's throat or choke someone to death. When "such" acts are done collectively by regimes "such" as the Iranian government, the criminals are rewarded by the European countries, get recognition by the Islamic nations and ridiculously threatened by the poorly organized opposition groups outside the country.

These powerful-dragonhead-men will never get arrested or persecuted and punished for their crimes against humanity. They continue arresting; executing their victims and the rest of the nation is choked to limpness! The recent arrests of Motallebi (a film maker,) and three other journalist/ poet/ bloggers are only some examples of the ongoing crimes committed by the regime in Iran.

My little girl apparently loves going to the daycare. This morning you could hear the pride in her voice when saying goodbye to her dad on her way to school.

We can lie in the language of dress or try to tell the truth; but unless we are naked and bald, it is impossible to be silent. - Alison Lurie

Free Said Motallebi...

2,500-year-old charter of human rights to revisit Iran


"I wanted to scream and tell him that taking the life of a human should not be turned into a street show where everyone is welcome to watch; this is against every principle of humanity, crucial principles that do not recognize whether you are Iranian or American. I am against all forms of capital punishment." This is part of an article by Mr. Saffari on the Iranian Times.


also: PersianMirror it's the modern magazine for Persian weddings, culture, cuisine & community.

and: I know this kind lady and here is what she'd written in Dec.2003 when... I lost my mom (in Persian).

I translate this line from the blog of Motallebi's daughter-in-law (this is just to portray the torture of Motallebi family at Home and in exile).

"Today is Mani's birthday but my heart is not set to write. It's Wednesday... dad, Where Are You?"

Said Motallebi...

Condemnation of Child Executions in Iran

After I left a "Help us" note on Michael J. Totten's blog, he signed the petition. I like to thank him for caring. David, from the comment section... has labeled me a peacenik. Well Davidson, believe it or not Petitions do work. Last year... Sina Motallebi, an Iranian journalist-blogger was released after being arrested for blogging!

Sign the Petition, please.

on another note:

Derakhshan blogs:

Sina's dad arrested
September 12, 2004

"The angry judiciary officials have now arrested Sina Motallebi's father. I guess it's because Sina flee Iran and didn't remain silent about what had happened to him during his 21 days of detention."

Said Motallebi...

Today I don't know what to write... or see or say...

Today I learned Sina Motallebi's father is got arrested in Iran. He is arrested because his son is a journalist/blogger...

...and read Maryam's story...

In English you can read: Amnesty's report or in French

Stop Censoring Us

Three more journalists/bloggers (Ghafooriazar, Rafizade and Mozroui)have been arrested in Tehran/Iran.

Three more journalists/bloggers (Ghafooriazar, Rafizade and Mozroui) have been arrested in Iran.

Names of 4483 political prisoners executed in 1988 in the jails of the oppressive regime of Iran!

My 30 months old girl and her Barney are off to school (I am chewing my nails from worrying for my girl.) I drove there two hours after I left her (and the Barney)at the day care and called an hour later. P is even more concerned and has called three times-so far. The difference between P (my husband) and Sheema (myself) is that I loved going to school as a child and he did not and each are looking at the little girl's first day... with our first day of school memories... Sheema: happy and smiling... marching to school, P: not wanting to leave his Mama.

Sedaayeh Eshgh

okay! I just did this Leader Test and the results show that I am not Sheema Kalbasi but

What Famous Leader Are You?
personality tests by similarminds.com

(link via In Bill's World)

I just got back from my evening classes (I am back to school... had some time off since Maman passed away...) anyway I wrote this poem earlier today and sent it for Akhbare rooz. Here is the link...to The Last Supper.

I tell my brother (the eldest of the two) I am sad. I miss Maman's presence in my life... he says: az miyaan rafte mothar vali az bayn narafte (she is not among us any more but she has not gone from within.) she is closer then a breath of fresh air.

Mystic Silence

From each, Love demands a mystic silence.
What do all seek so earnestly? Tis Love.
Love is the subject of their inmost thoughts,
In Love no longer 'Thou' and 'I' exist,
For self has passed away in the Beloved.
Now will I draw aside the veil from Love,
And in the temple of mine inmost soul
Behold the Friend, Incomparable Love.
He who would know the secret of both worlds
Will find that the secret of them both is Love.

Farīd ud-Dīn Attar Abū Hamīd bin Abū Bakr Ibrāhīm

Heritage


Eden,
Fire,
water for the rice,
human...
boil in the pot

Before the execution
the memory of his mother
may be the last imprisoned wish

After the dinner
-at the prisons back yards-
the butchered bones,
make the garbage piles
on the slimy floors.

Sheema Kalbasi

Years of living away from my birth country makes me struggle with constant fear of loss but it is nothing compared to what others may experience living under a totalitarian regime. Sometimes I can't even grieve over my mother's death when I think of people who are hanged at the age of 16, executed for their religious and political beliefs or are under house arrest. I sit to write but the words come short. I need a language that can echo the ache, the pain, the hate, the misery, the loss, the need, the passion, the love, the lust, the hope, the desire and the dream.

I just read Negar's Aug. 4th post! I can't stop laughing. This is true. We probably are cousins... (our great grandfather's -when living- may have been brothers).

I wanted to link to her but never knew her name and now I KNOW.

...is it mother's day in Iran? Wasn't it in Dec? Anyway I don't have her to send flowers... she, keeping them even dry.

Right this minute I ask myself, Sheema how far do you need to drown in your grief before you know your hair is floating around your face. Your eyes, ears and mouth open to the cleansing water hoping for your heart to accept the absence, mother's death. Now did you hit the bottom Sheema to start over? To push your feet, pulling your body to the top, hands swimming towards the light, your hair traveling back and forth as you move to the surface? And the mermaids clapping for you to succeed? No! I haven't hit the bottom yet. I sit here with fingers that up until a few minutes ago were rounding ground meat for supper, placing the golden-party-crown on top of the little girl's head, helping P to find something for the garden, awaiting the gusts to arrive tonight. No I haven't hit the bottom yet.
I am black and blue with mother's memory but fake a smile as if her body is still living fresh. I wish mother... it was me pushing my luggage through the gates and you, my beloved woman...were floating outside the airport window... with your eyes looking at me... awaiting me to arrive...

Right this minute I want to be in that graveyard in Copenhagen, lay on top of your grave, lay as if forever, mother.

Congratulations to Shahrzad Sepanlou and her husband Dr.Amir Fassihi. They are the proud parents of a baby girl.

The rape of the innocent

Within these words
none can reach out
to take the clock back
or the knife that bruises.

Nothing means Nothing
Tremble, Shake, Exile
Execution, Stoning
Killed, Dead, Shut.

Sheema Kalbasi

This too will pass.

In a few days one of my best friends will be visiting from Denmark. We will be traveling to-in Canada for 8-10 days.

Life sadly enough is been divided to chapters of before and after. "Before" Dec.2003 when Maman was a living soul and "after"... which continuously hunts me.

a few links to a few of my resent works...

Na! and Larry Jaffe, translation from English.

Roger Humes, my dear friend... I like to publicly thank you for your continues support.

When I am all tide up in my own thoughts... knowing you are only a breath away from me... is the breeze of cool air on my face.

Yesterday... I finally rearranged some of Maman's cloths, books, notes, poems and letters she had written to me over the years... we lived apart. The emotional exhaustion was beyond words. I could have left them packed in the suitcases forever but for how long? While cleaning I sat down time after time with her Sufi songs and prayer books, makeup box, her notes in my hands... bending... my head almost touching the carpet... my face in her cloths...
Sometimes it is too hard knowing she has died... sometimes all I can do is to put my head on my hands and let the tears fall unseen... unheard...

Later I took a shower to feel the running water touch my naked body, warming it when nothing and none can fill the cold emptiness.

Today I am sad.

at times... I love you so bad that I can't hear my thoughts.

I am traveling again

I am traveling again
I need to find my documents,
Those that do not present my black hair
And black eyes but
A tall and blond girl.

This time I have to make up my mind
Which passport should I take?
The blue? The brown or the green?
I have to take the right one, a passport
That can take me anywhere without the humiliation
Of my colored face
- Ironically I am a Caucasian
- who knew a Caucasian is a colored girl!


When I was born an Iranian
My identity got lost
At the emigration line
Where I stood nameless
For three years without a mother to nurture the teenage girl
and a shaky refugee status that kept me from
remembering what my home looked like when I left
my room and the paintings my father had painted
and the books I had inherited from his childhood.
- when I left, father never sat by my bed and never told the stories of the Persian kings again.
- and mother closed the door to my room and never dusted it as if I never once lived in that Iranian home.



I am traveling again
Soon I have to paint my eyebrows blond
to replace these that I borrowed
from a grand mother who long ago
died in a taxi on her way to visit her son, my father in exile.


I have to find the right face
to go with the passport this time around
Back in December 2003,
they asked me at the airport gates
why my Danish identity doesn't look right?
I had to tell them my mother has just died
And my identity was lost on the hospital bed
Where she pushed me for hours,
thirty years ago, without knowing
she was dieing on a hospital bed
faraway from her homeland.


Ah! Sheema!

Sheema Kalbasi

"...Take away my lollypop, little incident
Raise me on the lap of your fascism
so in you I can reach the right to choose.
Rights are meaningless unless you don't have them
and are facing those who do.
I will not burn you because my roots will turn into ashes
I command you, fascist incident!
Let there be the monster, single-headed and double-eared, upon the earth..."

Maryam Hooleh's revolutionary poem Inferno, Inc. in many ways is the tale of the Iranian people's struggle. Her honesty and strength in poetry is beyond gender definition. You can read the Inferno, Inc. on the Iranian Times.

P: it's so delicious to watch movies with you, Sheema.
Sheema: how come?
P: cause you get so excited and start jumping (and running back and forth) and I can't fall asleep. Very expressive.
Sheema: the other day dad said...he still can't watch movies with me.

Motionless sky...

What Religion Do You Practice? I sit uprooted, ready to open my mouth for the fire to come out. I feel a dragon is trailing inside my body. I answer polity to a very personal question! 

Having the elements of madness means you are a genius.
Having the elements of madness means you are a genius!
Having the elements of madness means you are a genius?

I can spread my hands and legs free and uncensored. I am enjoying looking at my traces... poetic, delicate, instinct driven. I can play with my craft... clever! I can influence my own climax without hiding in a rabbit hole. I can spit at my own writing without having to bear the pain of humiliation. I can hate these words murderously without fear of others' judgment. I am without love and all rationality or am full of innocence-rated kindness, making love to the prose I write. There is no listener but my own eyes to read and I may ultimately discover a new Sheema without the guilt of infidelity.

Morality challenges my childhood.

he asked: what is it she wants.

I said:

What is it she wants?
Pig noses,
Confidence!
His shoes!
Secret rendezvous

She wants.

It is 5: something in the morning and I woke up to check on the little girl. I am sleepless now. I start reading my e-mails. I have some good ones and then Partow Naderi's . He informs me of Laila Sarahat's death. She was one of the great modernist poets of Afghanistan.
She died in Exile.

A kiss.

Sometimes the creation takes over and the creator loses herself in the imagery creation. Sometimes someone arrives and becomes the creation and then takes over without knowing or desiring to. Sometimes someone like me who writes with her blood and soul cries and loves and laughs with her writing. She jazzes her sentences with episodes of her visions. Some are true and some not so absolute. Then the time comes to say goodbye to the creation and the creator wants to continue the writing. To burst forth the emotions, tampering with the thoughts, with the lust with the song.

She resembles no one and every one and it is hard to simultaneously be both the girl and the woman.

To the woman, he (the creation) represents nothing and the creator exhausted from continues struggle of the girl and the woman wants to stop. The girl continuously tries to convince the woman that he once did represent something.

On my feet, reassuring of the presence.

Say it... say something mean. The worst thing you can say to me. I need to know how bad I am and then tell me something kind... the best thing you can warm me with.

A few days ago an electric power switches off and the after shock is heavy. I could avoid writing about it like sleeping on a hard bed but I have to express these existing emotions. It is good I am also rational or I would dig a hole and hide for a while.

I am not pointing my finger at you... I am exhausted with my own emotional struggles. My own loss, my own... To me you are a child but I am not your mother. I was a giver. Rejoiced? Don�t humble yourself. The ocean is too deep. My spirit is hungry and your words satisfy the hunger. I am never to march to you. I am not here to be taken for granted.

I am already gone.

On my feet, reassuring of the presence and the elegant flight of the pigeons.

Something is melting inside my fingers. It is my heart... after losing her.

Nothing is half-measured. People are connected.

And the story ends.

You are not.

Being and the other.

The world of dreams and the world of reality. They collide and separate but never disconnect. They now embrace one another in sensuality. The warmth and profound feelings in admiration of each for the other. They no longer need to approach. They do not fear abundance or flammability. They are dance partners seeking possession.

I paint my lips red. I make them even more desirable. For a woman who is not fond of
make up and is almost always naked from paints, this is a new way of pretext.

You bring me the expectations?

She never arrives at my dreams. There was only one time... when I was digging mother's grave with hands. Taking her out. Dragging along... I was taking her body to the surface. Kneeling next to her, her skin aged under my fingers' touch. I had to take her back to the grave and then the story repeated itself. I, dragging her out, her body in my arms... aging cold. Finally her Sufi Master stood next to me. She stood facing him naked with her usually serious face. The Master said nine days, nine months or nine years from The Day; she would had died, as we all are one day. She looked at the Master and said The Truth exists and walked back to her peaceful place.

We learn nothing new. We have the source of knowledge in our spirit, as I know now I have always loved you. I speak truthfully of my thoughts my beloved, of my desires, my sensuality and heart. The voice of life, I call it. My voice free at last. Nothing to hold me back. In simple words, I love your smile, your eyes, your hands, your mind, your words, and your thoughts. Simple words absorbing my inexperienced dependency on your attention.

However vivid!

The innocence.

Matina, my Greek artist friend gave me one of Athena's symbols as a gift. It is an Owl necklace presenting wisdom.

Wisdom.

This suffering. This loss of a parent. 

Italian friends:
The wife: We have to buy it for our boys.
Sheema: It's a difficult toy. It was a gift. I wouldn't have had bought it for the little girl. I don't think it is designed for toddlers.
The husband: Ah, Il Difficile. My sister and I used to call it 'The Difficult'. It was difficult to push the shapes in to the box. This is a modern version of that.



....
Sometimes I want you to stand next to me... like you used to. I miss you mother.

Il Difficile.

A funny god you are, God! I ask for the seasons to change. I ask for the Summer to arrive and the Spring dies!

You once said you are the wind! I believe you now.

My beloved,

I am "too much" for your days, I will let you be. I don�t know you to know where to begin or not. I don�t know who you are or have been except for a few things that I have read. It is your words that have driven me to the unknown of your existence and knowing your existence is what I had sought all my life. These rich clouds of your absence is hovering me from the presence of my beloved�s silk-tender hands.

I hear the sounds of rattling snakes at your absence and the darkness falls on my soul. The cry of my heart behind the doors of expressions that I write and my lips that cannot lose their secret.

Allow me to have greater heaven.

Then to the rolling Heav'n itself I cried,
Asking, "What Lamp had Destiny to guide
Her little Children stumbling in the Dark?"
And--"A blind understanding!" Heav'n replied.

Omar Khayam

Elham writes: I love your prose poems.
Roger says: You should lay off the Coffee.
I think to myself: Only if they knew.

Elham writes: You remind me of Jo(Josephine) in Little Women (by Louisa May Alcott). Remember you gave it to me to read? I say yes. I remember. I think to myself�I remember the day Maman came home and gave me the new books she had bought me. The Little Women with a black cover. I read it and loved it and gave it to Elham to read.

All these years we have been those little women growing in to a world of unexpected lives. My friends of 20 something years are all little �iranian-women grown in to hardworking professionals. Only if the lives of these little women from a country overruled by a cruel and corrupt government were anything like the peaceful days of Ms. Alcott�s Little Women, then we all were not living in exile, inside the homeland or outside.

And I think to myself: Only if I could tell them about my beloved!

loving you is no sin. it is what it is. we are alike�you are only wiser in the years and purified in words. we both wake up. we eat, we work, we live... only separate. there is no sin in loving you. Strange word: sin. used by the weak... like religion, to fear the true seekers. Sin!

This seditious existence, this voluptuous consistence and fascination, these hindrance thoughts that keep... I from me... I want to dismiss.

I know not how this unknown took place, this persistence of lust sprinkling my soul...

I am torn to pieces from seeking of sweet-blind desire of your love. Distance lands of your unknown.

This awakening.

Do you hear the whisperings? The sound of my exiled heart? The sinful beats of my longing?

Tonight, I want the seasons to change.

Mehrpouya

...one of my favorites.

That I promise you my love. I Will sensualize with my voice as you kiss down between my breasts...


I know I am an adulteress. I don't desire solitude but you. You are my place of worship. Cursed by the gods I am but I fear them not. I wish to pour my soul into your hands for the morning to appear.

and... promises are meant to be broken when tomorrow awakens the night...

unless.

Sweet dreams and dream of me, he said.

I think to my self... dreams never come true
I never got the red shoes... I was 5.
The bombing didn't stop... I was 8.
Mother doesn't return from her grave... I am 31.

I want him not in writings, not in dreams. I want him as the day aches night.

A lightless dawn, if it never happens and he...never knowing me leaves me without a word.

doubt.

then this moment shall last forever, he said.

I will not fight it. I cannot fight it. I embrace my faith. You say it is Karma.

You are right. Relationships do change. As ours perhaps will over time. We may become friends or lovers.

Life goes on and we live and we die and perhaps no one will know this desire and longing that I so passionately feel for you, ever existed. The mystery of you happening to me, you not knowing I was.



Nothing is eternal except for what I feel for you at this moment in time.

what a scandal if he loved me as I, him!

I said: goodbye? goodbye.
He said: NO

My thoughts: His love is my story.

Confusion exists. I don't love him any less. I want to smell his hair under the rain.

he said: Sheema.....


I said: words cut me hard.

Understanding: a cold word.

I write what you can't write, my name: Sheema.

July 21th. 2004


resting shamefree.

Exile

My grandma
A beautiful woman in her younger years
-with long hair and small feet-
sat in a taxi,
and died in the back seat.

surrender

dim light


your eyes open to mine
-black against the white-

blood through the main

stream of love.


Sheema Kalbasi

and they read with their bag packed on their back...

I

I faint from the pain


Not having you

You,
caressing me

in the morning

if.


II

The smell of your hair under the rain... I said.


i like to walk in quiet rain... He said.


III


I touch your lips



writing



hope.


Sheema Kalbasi

The smell of your hair under the rain... I said.


i like to walk in quiet rain... He said.

Your love is my story.

Confusion exists. I don't love you any less. I want to smell your hair under the rain, just.

The first books Dad gave me were OLD MAN AND THE SEA and For Whom the Bell Tolls and from the age of eight, I started reading literature. Today while cleaning my drawers I found the notebook dad had given me to write the numbers and the names of the books.
I look at the first number and the name. It said, The Ten Commandments.


I went to the Vegetable garden. Thinking the little girl may remember me standing in this garden.

The house smells of flowers and basil. They smell of Home.

He kisses me. They smell of you, he says.

The little girl is all dirty again. She has to go to bed soon. I need to finish a translation. Earlier today I listened to the song you used to sing Maman. I miss you. I want to forget.

The little girl is sleep. I have time to brush my hair. In the mirror I look. The woman I do not know.
Maryam writes: You work hard my dear. Roger writes: Your starting to drink Coffee, is part of getting old.
Sepideh calls to see how am I doing.
Elham sends a message: isn't it late to be up so late (she is 2 hours behind.).
My brother says: I love you sis.
P: I love the little girl so much. We are good parents.
The little girl is sleep.
I brush my hair. In the mirror I look. The woman I do not know.

The beloved.

I breathe you so hard that my hair is on fire.

No! Friendships are not eternal. Nothing is eternal. Not family, not friendships, not love, not lust. Nothing... not even the wandering eyes that will read these lines in wonder.

I don't care if you are you and I am I. I am not some exotic flower. Whatever coat you have on, I will put it on to warm me... and the shoes however small... I will walk in them to balance our height difference. You don�t need to convert for me; I have already converted to you. You see I never had a religion to begin with. I was born naked from all religions but your love.

I know that was not the point. I know there is no conversion. There is no coat, no balance, no shoes but the naked truth of me finding you first, not you finding me. You, whom will never know who I was when I was sitting on the white sheets.

Y o u, not b e s i d e m e.

And the words that are already written. The words that are already said, are already felt, and are already gone.

And I try to take them back into my empty bowl of hands. To put my hands on the chest. The chest into rest. The rest in to the heart. The beat back to the soul. The soul, back to what it was before you.

Alas! I am 5.7


Sheema Kalbasi

Sinful bursts of fire...

Some things are not meant to be
my guess is
life is 99% made of painted faces
and just a flat piece of glass.

sheema Kalbasi

Words...

Just got Justin Barrett for the OV. I like his poems.

It's midnight and I am still working!

What is it you say my dear poet?
That I am the god and you are the poet?
Cocoons are broken and have come forth,
What does it matter if you write or don't!

I will continue reading you...


What is a straw in the heart?
Where there comes this sudden blow of light?
Silently a thousand ruby petals of words,
Lift the blood...sipped from the poet to the mouth of god.


Your poetry sits under my eyelashes and the heart is drunken poor.

Busy translating Larry Jaffe's poetry.

In white or black or sighs...

Cutting celery!

Iranian regime and its political corruption!

Orkut Orkut Orkut!

The loss of my mom is unbearable at times...

Access denied


I drill the heartache

Suppress the emotions

The thought
Of a distant heaven

And immortality

Are desirable for
The fools to believe.



Here inside me
Something has broken
And the brush against
The canvas of my life

Has a hard color
And the weight of loss
Wears my soul out, Mother.

Sheema Kalbasi

New England

Children are playing next to the ocean coast
and sand castles are built with their digging
hands symphonized with their joyous laughter.
Near the beach, sea rocks are thirsty to move
from sitting next to the New England attic rooms.

The air is cooling down and the little kids
are now nesting on the rocks, trying to get away
from the cool summer breeze, chilled afternoon winds
and the dancing waves.

My little girl is one of the children, and with dreamy eyes
she is pretending to be waving at the Beluga Whales,
the wave makers of the sea�from coast to coast.

The beach and the people are getting ready for
today�s close-up and I hear my voice: "Dokhtaram, Bia!"
we have to say good bye to the sea and the whales.

Her little body fully clothed floats across
the air, arms in the hands of her father
and after two more rotations, is satisfied to close
her wings for the evening ride.

She slips the shelves and shadows of
her new found friends within the
walls of her night's dream before
another summer-morning lights the start of the day
for her to watch the length of her footsteps
on the sands next to the whitewaters and dancing waves.

Sheema Kalbasi

Dokhtaram, Bia: in Persian it means �come my girl�

...my blog was hacked for a while ...and I have ...been working on Dialogue of Nations Through Poetry in Translation which is a new Project.

Roger Humes: Too many Iranian poets that I read who write in English are too enamored with the shadow of Shamlu or have become too immersed in Western poetics and forms or too artsy-cutesy. You, my dearest friend, have remained true to your Iranian heritage and the accompanying voice that goes with it. You have developed a unique poetry that transcended both worlds. I would have to label you a true poetic genius. As you grow older and deeper into your poetry you are going to write poems that will be truly earth shaking.

Hooman Azizi is a brave writer to stand up for poets & poetry of those whose works go unrecognized.

(October, 2003) On the Invitation of August Highland the editor of the MAG, I Guest Edited the mini-MAG outside the ordinary the March 2004 Issue is out on the net.

I've been in some kind of shock these past few months. I miss mother dearly.

Loss Lingers
for Sheema on her mother's loss


touched by frost

the last rose wilts

folds in upon itself

seeks solace

in winter slumber



touched by loss

the soul wilts

folds in upon itself

seeks solace

in solitude



frost and loss

both wilt

but for most

of a given year

there is no frost;

loss lingers

a grief

for all season


Alan Corkish

Immortal

I envy you Spring
with your wild flowers and flourishing smiles
with your elegance and your almond-tree of thoughtlessness
that does not know of the bitterness and pain of my loss.

I look out of the window
I look out of the window
and I wish for some Muguet de Mai
to arrive at my door
and to hear my mother's voice
calling me at the entrance: Beloved daughter
here I am, arrived with the Spring and healing balms.

If this happen,
I promise to embrace
the message of the spring and the Iris
and I will plant a Wild Rose-tree
for the entrance to the house of my heart
so that every one knows of my sensitivity
to the unfading remembrance of her love.

There are times that I am questioned
for my not-crying eyes
so for those who do not know of
my grieving heart, I write
to voice the bitterness and pain of my loss
in the language of every-lost mother-child,
so when the childishness of this heart
is sometimes toxic to the hearts of those
who do not know me and the Marigolds of my love,
even they will bring me
bouquets of Sea-lavenders and love.

Sheema Kalbasi

1Immortal: This refers to the Immortal flowers, which represent unfading remembrance.
2Muguet de Mai (Lily of the valley): means return to happiness. This flower is handed out at special events.
3Healing balm: is the same as the Rosemary flower.
4Wild Rose-tree represents a poetical person.
5Marigolds (zempasuchil): is considered the symbolic flower of death to the Aztecs. This flower is used as a marker. The scent of the pathway aids the returning soul in finding his/her way home.
6Sea-lavender: This flower represents sympathy.


The interview with maniha ...

Dancing Tango

Oh, Orlando!
Remember the night we danced
quietly on the sands where music
was played? Your words were
wonderers, said quietly
in the pockets of my ears.

Oh, Esphahan!
With your turquoise blue mosques
and lovers hiding under the sands
by the Zayandeh-rood and its haunting
blue skies. Still the words did
wonders when they were said quietly
in the pockets of my ears.

Time is eternity, my dignity
resides in yours and your
words are wonders that I count
as precious coins kept quietly
in the pockets of my tears.

Sheema Kalbasi

A poem by Maryam Hoole:

I can't but I do

I can't but I do
I do but I can't
what a selection of strife is my life!!
what a stupid life is my strength!
at my half ...

walk in my half!
half of my shame ...
half of my love ...
half of my lie ...

I can't but I do
I do but I can't

successfully I repeat my half
exactly I'm all of my many halves ...

come near ... to me
come to one of my parts!
with another part of my lie I love you!
with another part of my love I lie to you!

bring me back to my first part
I don't know myself!
myself is scared of me ...
go back please!
and take my first part
give it to me!
oh ... my mirror!
go back please!

Jahanshah Javid: "Did I mention this before? I was just thinking about this, again. It has preoccupied my mind quite a bit. In "Monsieur Ibrahim", Omar Sharif had a lot of good lines that made you think. The one I keep remembering is this -- it's not an exact quote: "If you keep it inside, it's lost forever." Think about that. All that you and I hold inside will be lost forever if we don't talk about it, if we don't show it, express it, share it. Think about it. Once you and I leave this world, everything we know is lost forever. There's no greater loss."

Noam Chomsky has a blog now.

The poem The Blessed One is turning into a dance performance in CA. There will be DVDs of the performance - well that's the news for now.

On top of the black velvet of despair
I lay dreaming of a golden love
and the white satins of a safe shore
and a life where falling stars
are not just some objects that are
far from my short knitted hands
to catch and hold and pair
with the moons and the Sun.


...mama you're that safe shore. I miss you.

...and happy one year of blogging to me.

for my mother

When my palms were still growing

When my palms were still growing
to reach the white berries
on the carved tree of memories
with one heart and two initials...

I remembered her eyes
behind the car window
knocking with two fingers
and a great wide-open smile
with a pearl necklace sitting inside her mouth/ calling my name: -
in a quiet voice, so that no one heard her
-not even the wind... that was touching/ teasing her face-


she is lost
she is lost forever
and forever I have lost
that woman who knocked on the window with two fingers
and a mouth full of white pearls...


In a parking lot
where I sat and remembered
the woman who knocked
on the window with two fingers
and a mouth full of white pearls/who quietly called my name
-so that the little girl would not wake up
in the back of my dreams- is now covered in white roseleaves.




...And in the parking lot
pinching the white off memories
the white berries turn purple from my grief.

I am a woman from the third world

and my poem
is the words of one
whose hands were cut
by the ax of oppression
from her body.


freedom
remain

All that is me (Even From This Distance)


1.

Even from this distance
I feel the icicles of sadness
hang deep from your tears
as you walk alone
in the Garden of the Lost Hearts

and I watch from the bower near the entrance
which is covered in roses and dust,
your shawl placed over your head
so that your mourning is lost
to the shadows that cling fingers of loss
across the landscape of your life.

When you will return I do not know
but please do remember
that looking over a certain happy alley
there is a certain window
where sits a single lantern
that cuts through the shadows
to illuminate the place
where we stood
with our fingers entwined.


2.

All that is me
is an atom in a box,
one who is merely a minute unit,
powerless and insignificant in the ways of life,
who has yet to give birth to my Jericho

but first I await my longest of walks
beside the river-road
with baby Jesus in my arms.

I will hand him to you
to hold and love
but first I must find you
in the crowd of pilgrimage
from a distance where
the icicles of sadness
hang deep from my tears

while I walk alone
in this Garden of the Lost Hearts
as I watch from the bower
near the entrance which is covered
in roses and dust,
my shawl placed over my head

where my mourning
sits a single lantern
in the shadows
of loss across the landscape
of a never-returnable journey
for her to find the way.

Sheema Kalbasi and Roger Humes

Jericho: Believed to be the oldest city in the world. Today a thriving market-town near the northwest shore of the Dead Sea with the archaeological remains of a 7th century palace and ancient synagogue.

The Heart Melts To Stone In The City Of Glass

In the City of Glass the sky is either
slate-gray cold weeping the tears of God
or washed pale-blue beneath the iron-gold
of the unrelenting sun that sucks the marrow
from the bodies that move upon its streets.

In the City of Glass the faces all blend together
as one, all alike, no difference in thought,
action, or deed, the faces utter the same words,
the faces move with the same step in a land
where one learns that when people have everything
in the end they discover all that they have is nothing.

In the City of Glass the stones, sleek, cool, and full
of malice are thrown at those who dare draw
their curtains, are thrown at those who dare to question
that when everyone slides toward conformity
there is no way they could be any more different.

In the City of Glass the lanterns light the shadows
in long sweeping arcs and burn so deep, so deep within
the soul that unquestioned unhappiness is a foregone
conclusion, and if any attempts to raise his head
above this rut into which they all trod those wrapped
in the cloth of righteousness crucify him
with the unrelenting passion of the damned.

In the City of Glass the heart melts to stone.

Sheema Kalbasi and Roger Humes

Maman,

Ever since I opened my eyes into yours
my love for you has evenly spread in my body
like when spirits grow into humans
and become mothers and daughters...

I died as a mineral and became a plant,
I died as plant and rose to animal,
I died as animal and I was Man.
Why should I fear? When was I less by dying?
Yet once more I shall die as Man, to soar
With angels bless'd; but even from angelhood
I must pass on: all except God doth perish.
When I have sacrificed my angel-soul,
I shall become what no mind e'er conceived.
Oh, let me not exist! for Non-existence
Proclaims in organ tones,
To Him we shall return.

Rumi

A toaster morning!
I am exhausted: The little girl has a new found love. She takes off her cloths and I have to run after her to put her clothes back on.

As we say in Persian: The night is young...

Souls who knew me,
Are now wandering at night
Hovering over the blue mosques
Brushing away the sound of Azaan
From the navy sky of a suffocated town.

Shirin Razavian

you can listen to her poem.

One can't escape the loss of a beloved and I am dealing with it one day at a time mother.

Today my little girl sang her first ever lyrics: Come ee Yami Yami...

I open her closet to smell her clothes but her scent is fading away.
She passed away 33 days ago.

Send me a map Mother. I can't find my way. I need to know the next turn. It is snowing on your grave and your flowers are frozen.

Denmark 


Yesterday dad and I biked to the cemetery where mom is buried. The cemeteries in the West are unlike the ones in Iran. In Iran graveyards are far from the cities and are the saddest place one can imagine. In Denmark cemeteries can be used as a park where people walk with their kids. The cemetery where my mother is buried is a beautiful and peaceful place.