The HyperTexts
Mahnaz Badihian
Drawing by Ario Mashayekhi
Dr. Mahnaz Badihian is an American/Iranian poet. She grew up in
Iran and has lived in the United States for nearly 30 years. She has an English
poetry book, From Zayandeh Rud to the Mississippi, that can be
purchased at www.amazon.com, Barnes and
Noble, and other booksellers.
Her poetry offers a blend of Middle Eastern and American sensibilities, which makes
her poetry both germane and intriguing to our world today. From Zayandeh Rud
to the Mississippi is the "emotional
journey ... of an Iranian poet influenced by her Sufi poetic
ancestors but grounded in her contemporary appreciation of the world she
lives in." She is "A poet to bring poetry back into the heart of America."
Dr. Badihian has been a frequent contributor to Simorgh
(a literary magazine) for the past seven years and has published two volumes
of poetry in Persian and a translation of Pablo Neruda's Book of
Questions, which has been a best-seller in Iran. She currently resides with
her husband in San Rafael, California where she runs a Persian/English
language literary website, www.mahmag.org.
As the first poet laureate of Iowa, Marvin Bell has said, "Mahnaz, you have the heart and soul of a poet."
Zayandeh Rud
Where am I from?
That my dress smells
Like the tarragon from my
Father's garden,
And my cheeks are as red
As the flower of a
Pomegranate tree.
Where am I from?
That my hands are the
Stem of a delicate tomato plant,
And the taste in my mouth
Is the taste of pussywillows
In my mother's tea.
Where am I from?
That all my dreams
Are blue, the same
Color as the Caspian Sea.
Where am I from?
That in spring, the
Apple tree buds
In me.
You know, you know
I am from that proud
River,
Zayandeh Rud,
From the tall mountain,
Alborz.
From the land that
Reaches to Zoroaster:
The first poet on earth.
Originally published by
www.mahmag.org
Autopsy
This is my will to you
When I die, Come
Come and autopsy my corpse
With your hands
First shave my long hair
The hair that my father loved
And my lover cursed
Open my scalp
Touch the cells in my brain
It is swelling
Take the moth out
Which was eating my brain
Touch my cheeks burned from fever
Kindness marks the act of eternity.
Stop!
You reached my lips
Don't worry.
There is nothing to mention
You see?
Those two proud birds
Are my breasts
Which have swollen.
Feel them
erotic, exotic.
They are still trying
To celebrate life.
Open!
Open my heart
And stick your fingers
In its dreamful atria
Empty my ventricles
Of coagulated blood
They are soddening
My dried dreams
Be slow!
Slowly open my skin
Be gentle!
Look, no longer
Your fingers can experience
The excitement of the
Fifth symphony
on my skin
Cut my dried womb
piece by piece,
little by little
Maybe the cells of
my ancestors Bidel or
Oppressed, grand, grand mothers,
Khorshid and Khavar
Are visible there.
You reached my feet
Don't wait
Strength turned them to stone
Make a bridge of them
As a symbol of strength.
Autopsy me
Piece by piece
And see how inside
Is outside
To the thickness of Life,
And the regret of
sorrow and silence.
Originally published by
www.mahmag.org
A poem by Nadia Anjoman
translated by Mahnaz Badihian
No desire to open my mouth
What should I sing of...?
I, who am hated by life.
No difference to sing or not to sing.
Why should I talk of sweetness,
When I feel bitterness?
Oh, the oppressor's feast
Knocked my mouth.
I have no companion in life
Who can I be sweet for?
No difference to speak, to laugh,
To die, to be.
Me and my strained solitude.
With sorrow and sadness.
I was borne for nothingness.
My mouth should be sealed.
Oh my heart, you know it is spring
And time to celebrate.
What should I do with a trapped wing,
Which does not let me fly?
I have been silent too long,
But I never forget the melody,
Since every moment I whisper
The songs from my heart,
Reminding myself of
The day I will break this cage,
Fly from this solitude
And sing like a melancholic.
I am not a weak poplar tree
To be shaken by any wind.
I am an Afghan woman,
It only makes sense to moan
Originally published by www.mahmag.org
The HyperTexts