Photo: Masoud


Pegah Ahmadi


Pegah Ahmadi
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!
Donít 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 doesnít 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 orÖ
This ! this which is that 
Or that ! that which is this 
They knocked severely at the door in my poem.
Donít 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 doesnít climb the mountain
My shoes arenít 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.
Didnít 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 donít remember 
Crying doesnít 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: 

Iranian Contemporary Poets

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