Hafez Moosavi / Now imagine

ART BY PARASTOU HAGHI

Now Imagine . . .

Written by Hafez Moosavi 
Translated by Hamed Abdi 
Illustrated by Parastou Haghi 

Published 6/4/2012

Now imagine: this is Baghdad

and this is a slender brook of blood
running from this temple of mine
to the white skirt of yours and      onto this soil

Now imagine: I have stretched a hand
so your hair
I remove it from the barbed wire

Now imagine all of this is possible
and you are resting your head here
upon this bosom
beneath this other temple that is not wounded
then for an instant you turn your eyes
towards the Tigris       and count:
One . . . two . . . three . . . ten
Boom . . . Bomb . . . Boom . . . Bomb
Then my fingers
you pick them up from the ground
Eleven . . . twelve . . .
And then you’d wish that I’d kiss you
How on earth can I ask then, “Where are my lips?!”

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Born in 1955, in Roodbar, Iran, Hafez Moosavi is a prominent figure in contemporary Iranian poetry who has published five books of poetry. In 2002, he cofounded Ahang-e Digar, widely known as the most important publication specialized in contemporary Iranian poetry. He was founder and editor of the first online poetry magazine in Iran,Vazna. He is also a critic and teaches poetry workshops. (Updated June 2012)

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Born in 1986, in Rasht, Iran, Parastou Haghi is a painter, illustrator and member of the Association of Illustrators of Quebec. She graduated from Tehran University in painting. She was chosen as the runner up at the 16th Noma Concours for Picture Book Illustrations in 2008 and her work was selected for the International competition of graphic design, Venice, Italy, 2010. She presently works as an illustrator and studies Art and Media in Canada. Her works of illustrations have appeared in numerous books and magazines in Iran and France. Her weblog could be reached at http://parastouhaghi.blogspot.ca. (Updated May 2012)

Composing under the nom de plume “Satah...,” Hamed Abdi is a linguist-translator academician now based in Dubai who has created an imaginary haven, “Dotland,” in his mind to creep into and away from the routines of the hectic 21st century. There at Dotland, poetry abounds and poets from all times and tongues get together to share their refined views of the fine prints in life. This is how he describes self in a minimal poem dubbed “SUBSTITUTION DRILL: Subject Pronoun.”

...I’m not the first n won’t be the last
The stage of life has an endless cast...

(Updated May 2012)

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This poem was originally published in Farsi, in:
Mousavi, Hafez. Bric-a-Brac of Memories and Poems from the Middle East [Khorde-rize khatereha va she'rhaye khavare miyaneh]. Tehran, Ahang-e Digar, 2009.

PARAGRAPHITI

Lauro Vazquez / 5.56 Nato

ART BY PEDROM TANAOMI

5.56 NATO

Written by Lauro Vazquez
Illustrated by Pedrom Tanaomi 

Published 5/23/2012

(1)   August 16: Morning

Luna Negra by arcadio hidalgo is playing on the kitchen radio:

Yo fui a la revolución, yo fui 
Yo fui a la revolución a luchar por el derecho, pa’ sentir sobre mi pecho una gran satisfacción

mas hoy vivo en un rincón, cantándole a mi amargura 
pero con la fé segura y anunciándole al destino 
que es el hombre campesino nuestra esperanza futura.

from the inside the dish-room is like a giant stomach/ there’s no other way to describe this/ a giant stomach/                     with people in it/
          like moist  intestines/a tripe-noose taut/ on the neck/

sometimes jorgito/         the pizza maker/
          the smile maker/ 
like when he says no mames guey! and I say no mames! / like right now

jorgito is making sculptures again/ inside jorgito/
          live seven sculptors        and who ever heard

of seven sculptors/          living off the salary of/ a single cook?

Luna negra, negra luna, ¡negra! Color de tu madre 
Luna negra, negra luna, ¡negra! Color de tu madre 
Color de tu madre, color de tu madre

and who ever heard of chirping/             inside a mixing-bowl?
                            his bowl sings/               pio-pio-pio/
pio-pio           all day/

all night/ 
some pio-pio rose/                            from the drains

(2)

mexican songs/ on kitchen radio

sweet sultry downpour
crushed hibiscus/ rainflower
sprinkled in the ear

pio pio
          pio
pio-pio-pio

(3)

August 22: Morning

           the dial on the kitchen radio is clicked to a mexican station/ on plastic trays the kitchen takes to the air/

            like a cannibal time-clock/

           /it eats away the day

           the radio leaps/ like a tiger         over the flames/

           becomes a tiger that roars/                  sing sing

there is no other way to describe this/

          our tiger/      moonbullet/ moonsong

           it  shoots/

/it  eats away the sun

ART BY PEDROM TANAOMI

(4)

August 25: Morning

voices race through the air like fiery greyhounds:

HELLO! HELLO! HELLO! NEWS.... FROM THE NEWS WIRE:

...every 3.6 seconds....…. one ▬▬▬▬▬▬ dies of starvation....

               usually it is a child under the age of 5....

               the total number...the total number today

…the total number.... of children               younger than five...living in france, germany, greece and italy:

10.6 million.... 

….the total number of children ▬▬▬▬▬▬ who died from preventable ▬▬▬▬▬▬ in 2003 before they were five:

10.6 million....

….investigators in arizona have released a tape of the 911 call made during the deadly home invasion robbery that claimed the life of 9-year-old brisenia flores...

... you probably have never heard his ▬▬▬▬▬▬ ...but you likely know something...…about how nine-year-old ali mohammed hafedh kinani died.... he was the youngest person killed by blackwater forces at nisoor square...

these and other auschwitzs ...other exclusives... are brought to you...endowed to you

by the tv guides... the wall st journals.... the academic journals of the “poetic I”

(5)

5.56 mm nato/  bullet wounds

nine year old ali kinani died from a bullet
bite to the head
in the nisour square massacre
meanwhile the sun went red/
and the mercenaries
unfurled their fists with tenderness
or drew/ sweet/ three-legged cows/ for their children
or a little gasp or bird/ flew from ali’s little mouth like a bullet
fired at death/ that lovely lady
oh little bird that flew and ate and gouged little ali!
oh little bird that drank/ flew away/ little ali!
and this happens every day
it happens like that
the blood of children falls
like blood of children

nine year old brisenia flores died
from a vigilante’s  kiss to the forehead
and her smile went red/
blood smiles from brisenia’s bullet wounds
and this happens every day
the sun goes red
the warmth of children smiles/ spills/ evaporates brisenia
your bullet wounds or little suns glow red red red
in your tender skull ali

blood of children glows/ red
little brisenia goes red/ dissolves/ falls
or is swept away/ by brooms or sand
and this happens every day
this happens every day
it happens like that

the bullet bites/ kisses the skull
splinters the children’s sleep/ and nothing will come from there
no/no / nothing/ no little bird
no poetry or three legged cows
and this happens every day
it happens like that

ART BY PEDROM TANAOMI

(6)

September 2: Morning

what they say must be true... i am smart but i have a bad attitude....

they ask me, do you want to work the food line? do you want to learn to cook? do something you like to do they tell me. life is wonderful when you like your job.

sharks and bears and eagles like their jobs i tell them

(7)

September 8: Morning

i hung a sign on the dish-room saying:

“do not disturb me when i’m at work/ dreaming
and sleeping and swimming like a shark”

(8)

dishboy

you finish cleaning out the dust and the ashes
doing all the errands:
mopping the restrooms/ scrubbing
the shit off the toilets
peeling the potatoes/ washing/
wiping down the tables
taking out the trash/ doing all the dishes
finish eating leftovers in a corner of the kitchen
you go and hide in the restroom
you look at yourself in a shattered mirror
and you laugh and grow ecstatic
you laugh at yourself in the mirror
and you grow ecstatic looking at yourself
you laugh through your pores and knees
and you smile from/ soon to soon
you imagine a smiling revolution
you play at being a guerrillero/ like camilo or fidel
you imagine a kitchen liberated
by a syndicate of revolutionary carrots
look dishboy you’re brave and even at times courageous
but wash your hands and stop the foolishness
they’re running out of clean plates in the kitchen!

     

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Born in Cosamaloapan, Veracruz, Mexico, Lauro Vazquez, grew up in the California bay area. He is a CantoMundo fellow and an MFA student in poetry at the University of Notre Dame's Creative Writing program. He is assistant editor and contributor at Letras Latinas--the literary program at Notre Dame's institute for Latino Studies and maintains a regular blog at granmaforpoetry.blogspot.com. He lives in South Bend, Indiana, where he has taught a poetry workshop at South Bend Juvenile Correctional Facility. (Updated May 2012)

Pedrom Tanaomi was born in Tehran, Iran. He studied graphic design at Azad Art University and also studied painting with the renowned Iranian painter, Aidin Aghdashloo. He has worked as the Art Director of MUD, Art Director at Tehran Music Company, Graphic Designer at Bazi Theater Company, and Art Director of ICRC (International Committee of the Red Cross). (Updated May 2012)

PARAGRAPHITI

Ali Akhavan / The Story of the Man Who Didn't Have Dirt to Bury His Lion

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ART BY SIAMAK POURJABBAR

The Story of the Man Who Didn’t 

Have Dirt to Bury His Lion

Written by Ali Akhavan 
Translated by Alireza Taheri Araghi 
Illustrated by Siamak Pourjabbar 

Published 4/8/2012The lion who

looked after me
for years and
looked after me in free time and
looked after me in the forest and
slept by my head at night
the lion I hair dried
his mane
in the evening
the lion who made me loveable by
and for . . .

My lion
died of
wounds that would never heal.

“Ah,” loudly he said and
ended with a narrow smile
like Indians,
“Goodbye my friend
Goodbye”
and then
died
and then I
tried to
throw some dirt
on my dead lion’s body
tried to
keep a fire alight
for a little while
tried to plant a few flowers
but
there was no fire
there was no flower
and no dirt
there was nothing there
because my lion
was dead.

Ali Akhavan was born in 1977 in Tehran, Iran. His poems have been published in Iranian litrary magazines. He runs www.4040e.com and co-manages www.bipelaki.com with Shahram Shahidi (both sites in Farsi). (Updated Apr. 2012)

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Born in 1976, Siamak Pourjabbar is Creative Manager at Eshareh Advertising Agency and a member of the Iranian Graphic Designers Society. He has participated in several international exhibitions including the Hong Kong International Poster Triennial (2010) and the Chicago International Poster Biennial (2010). He has won a number of national and international prizes including second prize at "4th Block," the 7th International Triennial of Eco-Posters, Kharkov, Ukraine (2009), and prize for Poster for Tomorrow, Freedom of Expression (2009). (Updated May 2012)

PARAGRAPHITI

The books that made me / Carol Ann Duffy / ‘I wish I’d written Harry Potter, obvs’

Carol Ann Duffy

Books

that 

made me

Carol Ann Duffy: ‘I wish I’d written Harry Potter, obvs’

The poet laureate on her deep shame at not having read Don Quixote and always laughing at Cold Comfort Farm

Carol Ann Duffy
Fri 8 Jun 2018

The book I am currently reading
The Poem: Lyric, Sign, Metre by Don Paterson. Reading it, your estimation of your own IQ incrementally diminishes. There are diagrams. Also Jay Bernard’s Ted Hughes award-winning collection Surge: Side A.

The book that changed my life
Allen Carr’s Easy Way to Stop Smoking – about 30 years ago. Hurrah!

The book I wish I’d written
JK Rowling’s Harry Potter, obvs.

The book that influenced my writingInfluences in writing, for me, seem to have splashed in early, in teenage years, and continue to ripple out. All poets, from different times, still making waves.

The book that changed my mind
I was hugely moved and provoked by Jimmy Boyle’s visceral A Sense of Freedom when I read it in my early 20s. A book that not only revealed the (continuing) barbarity of our prison system but also demonstrated the humanising redemption of art and literature.

The last book that made me cry
The one that made me cry when I first read it, and still does, is Elegies by Douglas Dunn; beauty crafted from grief after the death of his wife. Wonderful poems. More recently, Denise Riley’s stunning Say Something Back, which also deals with bereavement, truly moved me. She’s a terrific talent.

The last book that made me laugh
Ma’am Darling: 99 Glimpses of Princess Margaret by Craig Brown. The riffs on her fictional marriage to Picasso and her “Christmas Broadcast” are tears down the cheeks hilarious. Still making me laugh, on every rereading, is Stella Gibbons’s Cold Comfort Farm. Amos Starkadder’s sermon – there’ll be no butter in Hell.

The book I couldn’t finishJames Joyce’s Finnegans Wake. As the poet Paul Muldoon has remarked, a classic example of a typo. I must try again again, again.

The book I’m ashamed not to have read
Don Quixote by Cervantes. This is a deep shame that I am dealing with next May, when I’m away to write, read and tilt at windmills. He’s widely regarded as as great as Shakespeare, died around the same time, and Shakespeare probably read him. I am a disgrace.

The book I give as a gift
Depends on the recipient. Generally, I give poetry collections. Most recently, to my daughter, Alice Oswald’s The Thing in the Gap-Stone Stile. I’ve long thought she’s the best UK poet now writing, bar none.

The book I’d most like to be remembered for
New and Collected Poems for Children. Joyful years.

My earliest reading memory
The first book I read alone was Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland by Lewis Carroll. I still have the copy, signed by my grandfather in August 1962. So I would have been six. I read it in a tree, eating an apple.

My comfort read
The eternal prose maestro PG Wodehouse’s Jeeves stories. In fact, I’m suddenly in need of comfort after answering these stressful questions, so I’m off into the garden to read one now. With a glass of sancerre. Toodle-oo.

THE GUARDIAN

Piedad Bonnett / A Matter of Statistics

A MATTER OF STATISTICS

by Piedad Bonnett
BIOGRAPHY
Translated by Nicolás Suescún

Piedad Bonnett / Cuestión de estadísticas

They were twenty-two, said the report.
Seventeen men, three women,
two children with bewildered eyes,
sixty-three shots, four Creeds,
three deep, muffled curses,
forty-four feet with their shoes,
forty-four unarmed hands,
a single fear, a hatred that sizzles,
and a thousand silences putting on
bandages on the mangled soul.