And the Sun was in My Handbag
A poem by Rosa Jamali
Translated from original Persian into English by Rosa Jamali

And the Sun was in my handbag
And the whole world felt heavy and on my tired and numb arms
Just the moment our bodies merged ever since
And I had devoured the blind branches
As if your crimson gold had poured over me
And I was the wildlife
And my voice was your silent arrow in the echo of my voice.

Screaming like a Banshee…

It is me who has been running over the branches
Has been living in you like a termite
And has joined the wildlife.

The Fern
A Poem by Rosa Jamali
Translated from original Persian to English by the Author

I was a seven-story being, covered in  scarce species of a plant
And it was a funeral ceremony
and I was the only single mourner
First I grabbed a gemstone from this very soil,
And then sealed and knocked it over my forehead
I returned and had a glance at my homeland again and I wept.
My father was the phoenix ; My mother a restless Goddess in Shusha and Hegmataneh and on the tomb of
Mordechai
But God was with me
My far-sighted binocular eyes are a camera in  this deep darkness, a whole dark loophole!
And I’m the dumb and voiceless Myth of clashes of spoons and forks at the dinner table
Deity of The Nawab Highway , heading the cemeteries
At East End of this city ... What’s pouring over your head blow by blow and nonstop, incessantly?
What is this entire dirt and filth in thorns and dust?
Which is covering things in a very slow pace, gentle and soft!
What's it like? What could it be?
The fairies had nested on my dark hair,
And I had washed the fairies, drained them, brewed them like rice.
You knew the time well , the moments are lingering, it's yawning and sleepy,
That very frozen moment and then absolute silence
While with my wounded nails on the stove, I was boiling over the saucepan!
When I covered the whole scene of the Revolution Square and erupted like a volcano
Perhaps I had just kept my face pale with bleaching ...

I am the Fern
The Orphan Land
The Stepchild
Fostered Land
Burned,
And forbidden
And infected with all kinds of diseases, fake gurus, lies and manipulations

What has captured your heart and attached you to this land, brother?
The country which has been completely burned, half buried and the other half contaminated with Lead,
The somkes are left...

The Fern I am!
The Goddess of growing wild flowers,
The Lady of thorn and thistles
Upon the sorrow of the Talisman woven into my country,
And how I digged the mountains,
What have you done then?
Only a handful of soil which has been displaced
Makes me bewitched forever
Ashes which have been sprinkled over Bozorgmehr and Yazdgerd and the Great Republic
My ashes which have been spread over the seas and over the far oceans
And I have been resided in the waters of the River Tigris forever
The stale smell of dampness;
The spider which has nested right over my head
And you had foretold all this ,
You had already seen it...

The Naming ritual is over.
Turn off the lights. Tomorrow is a Saturday,
Oh, I will not sigh!
Mirrors have grown over my index finger!
For I have wept the waters of seven seas in six thousand years
And I have taken refuge in the corner of a chair in fury

The sidewalks are deserted.
Passers-by are the perpetual dead
And this deserted Military Zone
Has no longer been residential.

I yielded to the winds
And packed
Giving away my body
And giving my soul to the windshields  
It came to pass in a second when I became a yardbird
A captive for thousands of  years
To the bitter end,
My words were ashes and carbon dioxide; coal...
The Fern is an ill-bred wild seed, off the rails that is not given a name, not called by a name
It's exactly like a lettuce leaf:  not happened to be named,
But it's peeled,
Misshaped, warped and deformed
Why should it be named in the first place?

My promised Meridian
A poem by Rosa Jamali
Translated from original Persian into English by the author

Could you possibly find the name of the City in my own personal riddle;
The Landmark starts on the hill
And my sculpture is the landmark on Koohsangi Hills
Take the letter "Y" as its name
A thousand miles above the Sea Level
Geographically archived on the life line of my Palms
You know, it's my third gravity
And makes the gravity less.

And this last landmark
As if it's a dreamlike bas-relief on KOOHSANGI HILLS
And here it is
My footprints on the earth
Left after me.

Is this the same Geographic Meridian
Or my own promised land?

Now look at my Palm again, notice the heartline
The whole Land mass
Its Gravity captured me
Triangles are reshaping into a curve
My whole life like the Sharp Winding Geometry of New Labyrinths
My garments are there
Stuck !

As if there is no pear here
And my dress looks like a pear
But dark
Shadowy
Oxygen of air
A glass of water
And how I love you
Like a lonely cherry
This land had a crush on me!

As massive as that dream
Quite dimentional
Three dimentional
Like your heartlines
Folded, steamed in the Laundromat
But this corner is not gonna get creased.

The Landmark at the end of KOOHSANGI Street
Like a ***** I had been trekking the city, every corner of it
Which has given voice to my coughing throat...

Is this the promised meridian
Or my own promised land?

What's the last memorabilia?
Is it my face whirling in the winds shapelessly?
I'm not there any more but my heartlines there after me...
My whole heart head to foot became the murals of the City
Prickly pears
Prickly pears
When the lines join, your fate's destined
And now I have a new face.

How symmetrical it is!  

The City Mashhad was the answer to my riddle
Very complicated
Never entered my Vagabound mind
And now I'm the poison ivy of KHORSASAN
My dress over the washing hanging
Growing over the walls of houses,
One after another
My collective memory could have never found the name of this City!

One thousansd and one nights have passed
I was restless to sleep
But tomorrow
Would be the first day of my life!

Long after
The city would be a double Cherry
And what would be left after allllll....
My face over the hillllllllllllls...