Iran
Mother who nurtures you
in one gesture weans you
and cradles the world.
I am my mother in ten thousand attitudes in space.
The warp of hands flailing in desperate spasms
finally lifted to the loam of gestal home:
the slip of Scheherazade’s fables
of kingdoms broken and old men returned.
In the infinite mutations
there is the single you
opaque and eternal.
Our tones flow from your fountain
who are not other than
the white-kissed mountain I summit in dreams.
Your hands that soothe me with rose water,
your eyes I trace in blue damask among the stars.
Though I left you in distant memory
my peregrinations only describe your centre
I wandered about but never touched you,
absent as the hand that wove worlds
like an attic oracle perhaps Darab recalled
or a burning phoenix likely to rearise
in the snow caps of Damavand.
Arman Kazemi is a writer and arts organizer based in Vancouver, Canada. His poetry has appeared in Canadian and US-based journals such as PRISM International and Inverted Syntax, while other writing has been featured in the Globe and Mail, CBC, the Georgia Straight. Arman's writing focuses on immigrant identity in the context of his Iranian-Canadian settler identity, tracing personal history through the lens of collective myth. He is also a co-founder of MENA Film Festival which he has co-directed since 2019. A forthcoming collection is in the works with funding from the Canada Council for the Arts.
The walls speak. Now, they are asking me to speak as well.
A grandmother, but also something more—the balance, the fixed point one can return to with every turn.
There’s a pain in the heart as if it’s sore from walking too far past mountains,
looking for another cavity to beat in
My country, though I wasn’t your birth-child
you still folded me in
where I took root
Tell me your name
so I can write it in the blank lines between stars
جنگ که شروع شد، من تقریباً هیچ کاری نکردم جز ماندن. نه قهرمانی در کار بود، نه فرار، نه پناهگاه، نه حتی اضطرابی که بشود اسمش را ترس گذاشت.
This body of work navigates the paradox of holding on and letting go, preserving fleeting moments of home while accepting their inevitable disappearance.
I said I’m not a poet.
A writer, but not the poet kind.
I know, I know. It’s strange to hear.
از ساختمان سفید سنگی که بیرون میآیم، لحظهای متوقف میشوم. چشم میدوزم به برچسب ویزا که وسط گذرنامهام جا خوش کرده.
Mother who nurtures you
in one gesture weans you
and cradles the world.
با نگاه به عکسها خاطراتی از لحظات آن زمان برایمان تداعی میشود که دیگر قابل تکرار نیست ودر واقع این عکسها هستند که آن خاطرات را جاودانه کردهاند. در اینجا با تأکید بر همین موضوع لحظههایی از زندگیام را ثبت کردهام که با دیدن آنها میتوانم خودم را در عکسها پیدا کنم و روزهایی را که سپری کردهام به خاطر آورم
Lost in the cloud of the internet blackout, a black cloud that has been hanging over the Iranian plateau since January, anything becomes internet.
All throughout the blackout, I would screenshot any picture and video coming out of Iran which sparked familiarity even if I had never been to the area depicted.
It was only January. Ears could hear the seething wind through faintly yellowed cypresses standing starkly in the vast nothingness of the plain that was keeping poppies hidden under layers and layers of white.
I recall the past to untangle the present, to understand how glimpses of possibility and promise can be muddied by forces outside of our control.
Arman Kazemi is a writer and arts organizer based in Vancouver, Canada. His poetry has appeared in Canadian and US-based journals such as PRISM International and Inverted Syntax, while other writing has been featured in the Globe and Mail, CBC, the Georgia Straight. Arman's writing focuses on immigrant identity in the context of his Iranian-Canadian settler identity, tracing personal history through the lens of collective myth.
He is also a co-founder of MENA Film Festival which he has co-directed since 2019. A forthcoming collection is in the works with funding from the Canada Council for the Arts.