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Pegah Ahmadi
Poet
Iran
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Born in 28/6/1974, Tehran ,Iran
BA in Persian Language
Pegah is one of the known poets of the Iran's new generation. In the last 13 years, until 2004, she has been involved in it professionally and she has published 3 books:
- On The Ending G
- Cadence
- Annotating The Home Wall
Pegah Ahmadi has also translated Sylvia Plath's (American poet) book into Persian. Further more, she has published variant articles, critics and reviews in different well-known magazines, journals and daily newspapers in Iran.
Fear, 2001
You can commit the crime of walking with me
All agree here is deserted
The fear pull down the drape
Only the loops of hanging ropes are remained
And escape is apparent on life's feet.
This long street is getting alike my memory
The winner is the boot
And the tree which is driven to the mouth of alley.
No ! you ! big banners!
Nothing excelled
Except GISH's whore houses, night containers
And run a way terminals!
Nothing remained
Except us having lived in this city
Fearing public gates
Fearing university gates and unknown taxi drivers.
With the blood in canals, torture cables
And disconnection wires!
Don’t fear anymore
My sisters went to the sea with dollars
And my brothers were wrapped in a grass and
Were smoked circle by circle to the air.
Here we are missed
And over there, the smile is dropping from the picture they sent us.
I fall down
You should increase the dose of my tablets
The night doesn’t fall me asleep
Till the blue tablets be a poet
I'm not a poet ! never!
This is the matter!
The park puts loud speakers searching for the lost
The fountain puts up to say loudly that
All the fountains are closed
They knocked and knocked at the door
Exactly like this
Like this or another
In this way or…
This ! this which is that
Or that ! that which is this
They knocked severely at the door in my poem.
Don’t fear!
My hand is too little to close
When the child is sleeping in the whole of the door
Which just one eye
They encroach on the scene of satellite!
My hand is too little to take hold of
My air doesn’t climb the mountain
My shoes aren’t similar to my life
I take my fear in to the taxi
Take the taxi to the city
Take the city to the capital
But its peasant
I gave up the poem with my shirt, my blanket, my cardigan, my dress
And it went.
Didn’t I?
The sentences were deserted flowerpots
And my reason was a big cloud
When it rains
I draw a poem similar to my mouth
They locked it!
I have enough reason
The lost one was crying in a shirt which I don’t remember
Crying doesn’t go with me any more
Now, I'm in another place
The loud speakers make me loud
And the branches of trees make me short
I fell in love with a woman
Not to write feminine poems!
I grow to make everything small
And I'm too big for my mind
They painted my footprints to the air
And all I had on the earth is lost
I'm searching for the reason not the cause
I'm searching for the cause not the provider of
The doer is some one poor who has been eaten by the act
I have eaten my words
And my verses hide behind the wall, door and in the wardrobe.
Whose fault is it?
When I came to be instinctive as a cow
I have many things to say
They knocked severely at the door in my poem:
Stop!
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