Illustratie: Elliott Banfield

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Ik mis…


Ik neem in ontvangst

een nieuwe titel

en voel

iets warms

een gevoel

in mij borrelen,

dat ik zo graag

wil delen.

Ik zoek

vanuit hier

op het podium

met mijn kleine ogen

tussen de grote menigte

een oude geliefde

mijn adelaar der beminning

en ik vind

een opgezwollen leegte.







It’s 8 in the morning

Final exams have started

My eyes are sleepy

But I have to analyze

The problem states:

            “How to optimize?”

I have to derive

            But the brains are still

                        Yawning inside

Two hours later

            The time is up

                        Four questions are unanswered

And I think I’m done





It’s called a crush


The rain has just stopped

I’m sitting on a bench

Listening to the music

Played by the notes of the fountain on the campus

I look at the water

It used to be very calm

Until someone turned it on

Now it jumps to the sky

And makes a free fall to the ground


A classmate runs to catch the train

A stranger shivers from the cold

A cigarette burns between my fingers

But the fire is inside my heart

Some one special has turned on the flames

It started with a glimpse

And turned me into a warrior

For a fight between mind and feeling

“Why is he special again?”

Both parties of the battle are out of answer!

But that is just because

He has that effect on my concentration

Called: crushing it!





Love and Pride


She is smoking

Outside Menza

At the same spot

Where you waited for a sign

And she passed you by


She is regretting

Inside Menza

Next to a window

Where she can look at

Your empty spot

And her holy pride





My land


My land

is that lady who searched

from the moment the sun woke up

until the moon took over

for twenty years or more

every prison in my nation

to find

her executed husband.


My land

is that child

who was given birth to

in a prison cell, last year.

Or maybe the mother

who shouted out the pain

while bringing the embryo to life

by cursing the baby’s father

-the man who raped her-.


My land

is the man on TV

from exile

who encourages me

to boycott the elections

in the hope for Americans to help

by bombing my land,

Or the old man

who is watching TV

and hoping to find

some radiation of light

in the face of the speaker…


My land

is the student

who cares

for his home and landmates

who participated


in a wide demonstration last month

and got arrested,

put in a cage,

but no one cares to know

what happened since then.


My land

is the girl from the countryside

who came to study in Tehran

and turned into a faded rose

sleeping every night

next to a new man

who will pay for her services.


My land

is the writer who was imprisoned

many times

either when the lions ruled

or when the vultures came.


Oh my land,

You are so lonely my land.

You are alone my land.



Farinaz Aryanfar, campusdichter 2008