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Mahnaz Badihian



Drawing by Ario Mashayekhi

Dr. Mahnaz Badihian is an American/Iranian poet. Her artistic journey began in elementary school, where she wrote poetry and short stories and painted with whatever materials were at hand. Her path has been marked by diverse experiences—dental school, art school, revolution, immigration, and motherhood—but her identity as a poet and artist has remained steadfast. For the past twenty years, she has devoted her life exclusively to art and literature.

Badihian has published numerous collections of poems and translations in both Persian and English. She has exhibited her art internationally for decades, with her most recent solo exhibition held in 2018 at Live Worms Gallery in San Francisco. Her latest poetry collection, Raven of Isfahan, garnered critical acclaim upon its release in 2019. She completed her MFA in Poetry from Pacific University in Oregon in 2007, and her poems have been featured in over ten international anthologies.

In 2020, Badihian edited and published Plague 2020, a 300-page collection of COVID-19 poetry and art worldwide. She is an active member of the Revolutionary Poets Brigade in San Francisco, a member of PEN, and an acting member of the World Festival of Poetry. Her novel Gohar is scheduled for publication in 2025, and she has been nominated for the San Francisco Poet Laureate for 2024. She is Editor-in-Chief of MahMag.org, The first online Persian literary magazine. Badihian is an active member of the literary scene in San Francisco. Her websites are Mahmag.org and  Badihian.org.



Dinner With Death

Death lingers close,
I can almost touch its hat,
Each day, as I climb into bed.
But the desire to live
Spreads wide—
Like the colors in my paintings,
The boldness of my lipstick,
The glory of being a woman.
I see death beside me daily,
Ensuring I’m not forgotten.
I’ve promised him time
In solitude—

But only after I’ve quenched
The thirst of every daffodil,
Sung to every poplar tree
In my hometown,
Fed every hungry bird,
Finished reading my mother’s diary,
And after my hands
Can no longer caress.

I’ve told death—
One day, I’ll invite him to dinner,
And we’ll go to bed together.



The World Over

Let’s change the world before injustice's fire
Burns the little buds growing up.
Let’s redefine humanity anew
Before tension erases the human race.

Let’s rediscover the power of unity,
Forming a strong circle around the globe.
Let’s leave behind alienation and poverty,
Abandoning paths paved by tyrants.

Let’s rethink ownership with everyone in mind,
Dividing luxury houses sitting empty,
Welcoming the homeless to move in,
Giving life to lonely homes without tenants.

"The World Over" was chosen by Mark Lipman to be flown to the moon, a great honor.



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

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