Poems of Iranian Poet, Roja Chamankar
to English by M. Alexandrian
around my silly eyes
to grow big,
open their mouths
and devour you wholly
|The prophet I created with these hands
is now become a giant devil.
None of us will allow him to paradise, no,
nor the moon
and nor the window to which he had beckoned…
the Sounds Should Have been Passed Through This Path
|Beside the horse
a lover’s image
neighs from lime coated paths.
All the sounds
should have been passed through this path
for the crevice has fallen in the route and
might have died under a rock and
storm will erupt
and the room
will be full of the scent of wet pitcher.
come from eastern roads
kiss me; please
I want to
|In my palms
there is no line
not a line to show my longevity
not a line that can predict my future
neither one that can take me to somebody
all the lines in the world
in my eyes
so that I can sneer
when I see the Palmists’ dumb surprised look.
lives in the tableau
and her tresses
smell after the sweet odor of chips
she lays on a red leaf
with green capillaries
twists around her bare legs
and the sun
rises from behind her breasts
on the pure breathing of colors
on the lingering long silences of life
and breathes, with her wooden looks
sometimes, she splashes color on her face
sometimes she weaves
she sneaks out of the tableau
crosses the windows
and returns again
She can live
wherever she wishes
in the tableau.
|Night, whistles in my brain
when the sea smelled the rotten corpse of a dog
I crept under the bench
And I chewed my fingernails.
the first school session of geography
the window was open and
the girl, who is not in her childhood nightgown.
I remember you only one night
you were my guest
and you dropped into my right eyelid
used to have a pair of orange eyes
that made you loose your breath
in the bed.
the moon circle
The curtain shakes with the wind
the smell of burnt turnip and the rotten corpse of a dog and
the bed of a girl that grows salty
creep under the desk and chew my fingernail.
The first school session of geography
the teacher won’t allow me
two thirds of all waters of the world
on swollen desks.
I am obstinate to myself
and I’m scared of my strange inside power
the smell of roasted ringdove, my heart burns
the screaming red braking line
on a lineless sheet of a paper of the first school session of a man, who carries his bride
my breathing is cut in the middle
fragments of my hair
sinks under the water.
smells after roasted ringdove
the moon, doesn’t affect me.
am obstinate against a strong power inside me
I look crooked in my painting paper
It is whistled
the bell rings
a lost one suffers under the fig tree.