۱-بهترین ومو…

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سلام دوستان،

ویدیوی جلسه چهارم کلاس داستان‌نویسی و داستان‌خوانی خدمت شما. در این جلسه داستان «باغ گذرگاه‌های هزارپیچ» اثر بورخس مورد بررسی قرار گرفت. به سوال‌های شما در بخش کامنت‌ها جواب داده خواهد شد.

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این ناشران، آثار نویسندگانی را منتشر می‌کنند که نماینده‌ی ادبی (ایجنت) ندارند و یا اولین بار است که کتاب چاپ می‌کنند. وب‌سایت آنها را در اینترنت پیدا کنید و اگر کاری آماده به انگلیسی دارید برای آنها بفرستید.

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نوزدهمین دوره‌ی کلاس‌های تمرکز، کوچینگ و خاطره‌نویسی روز سه‌شنبه اول سپتامبر ۲۰۲۶ آغاز می‌شود و پنجشنبه ۲۵ نوامبر ۲۰۲۶ به پایان می‌رسد.
پیش‌شرط شرکت در برنامه‌های «کارگاه ادبی کولی‌ها»، عضویت در ساب‌استاک منیرو روانی‌پور است. این عضویت می‌تواند به صورت ماهانه یا سالانه و به انتخاب شما انجام شود.

برنامه‌های کارگاه ادبی کولی‌ها به قرار زیر است:

اتاق تمرکز:
اتاق تمرکز فضایی مجازی برای گردهم آمدن دوستان از کشورهای مختلف است که از طریق اپلیکیشن زوم برگزار می‌شود. کسانی که می‌خواهند روی پروژه‌های شخصی خود به صورت متمرکز و پیوسته کار کنند، می‌توانند در اتاق تمرکز، در هر دوره‌ی سه ماهه شرکت کنند.
این پروژه‌ها می‌تواند شامل نوشتن داستان کوتاه، رمان، خاطرات یا یک تحقیق علمی، اجتماعی، تاریخی باشد.
درِ این اتاق مجازی از روزهای سه‌شنبه، چهارشنبه از ۸ تا ۱۱ و پنج‌شنبه‌ها از ساعت ۹ تا ۱۱ صبح به وقت کالیفرنیا به روی شما باز است.

کلاس‌های کوچینگ:
کلاس کوچینگ، دومین و چهارمین پنجشنبه هر ماه از ساعت ۸ تا ۹ صبح به وقت کالیفرنیا برقرار و به پرسش‌های اعضا در جلسات پاسخ داده می‌شود.

کلاس‌های داستان‌خوانی و خاطره‌نویسی:

اولین و سومین روزهای پنج‌شنبه از هشت تا نه صبح به وقت کالیفرنیا روی داستان‌خوانی و داستان‌نویسی متمرکز می‌شویم.
در این جلسات، یا داستانی از شرکت کنندگان کلاس تمرکز خوانده می‌شود، یا اثری از یک نویسنده‌ شناخته شده انتخاب و روی آن بحث و بررسی صورت می‌گیرد. تمام جلسه‌‌ها ضبط و
در ساب استاک و پیج خصوصی داستان‌خوانی فیسبوک منتشر و در دسترس شرکت‌کنندگان کلاس قرار خواهد گرفت . متن داستان نیز یک هفته قبل از شروع جلسه در این پیج پست می‌شود تا دوستان بتوانند برای نقد و بررسی آمادگی پیدا کنند.

شهریه شرکت در کلاس‌ها برای همه کسانیکه در سال گذشته با گروه کولی‌ها همراه بوده‌اند، به شرح زیر می‌باشد:

- کلاس‌های کوچینگ ۲۰۰ دلار
- کلاس‌های خاطره‌نویسی ۲۰۰ دلار
- کلاس‌های تمرکز ۲۰۰ دلار
- شرکت در هر یک از دو کلاس‌ ۳۰۰ دلار

شهریه شرکت برای شرکت کنندگان جدید:
- کلاس‌های کوچینگ ۳۰۰ دلار
- کلاس‌های خاطره‌نویسی ۳۰۰ دلار
- کلاس‌های تمرکز ۳۰۰ دلار
- شرکت در هر یک از دو کلاس ۴۰۰ دلار
پرداخت شهریه:
برای واریز از طریق پی‌پل، از ایمیل زیر استفاده کنید:
moniravanipor@gmail.com

معمولا پی‌پل برای انتقال پول از دریافت کننده کارمزد کم می‌کند. لطفا هنگام پرداخت، گزینه‌ای را انتخاب کنید که کارمزد از دریافت کننده کسر نشود.
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با آرزوی موفقیت برای همه‌‌ی دوستان
کارگاه ادبی کولی‌ها

Today Ken Paul Rosenthal talked about a work-in-process screening of the film on the life and work of Berkeley poet Julia Vinograd.Between Spirit and Stone. Also we had presentation and discussion by Mildred Faintly, who created The Annotated Book of Jerusalem.

This film was supported by the San Francisco television station KQED, and we have to wait and see when it will be released to the public. The film is about the life of Julia Vinograd , an American poet, during the Vietnam War. Some of the friends who were at today’s group session knew her more closely.

the film’s director, Ken Paul Rosenthal , and Mill, who annotated the book Jerusalem, talked about Julia, the rebellious woman and extraordinary poet.

Ken talked about how he made the film and about his relationship with Julia. Bruces also shared memories of her and read a poem about her, and Mill

gave it his all, talking about the poem Jerusalem and Julia’s beliefs and ideas.

Six years ago, when I received an email from Ken saying that he wanted to make this documentary, I never believed that one day we would all gather together and watch the film before its release. What was interesting to me was that when Ken talked about Julia, he suddenly became emotional and began to cry…… With every word he said about Julia, he struggled to hold back his tears… I’m sharing a photo of this documentary-making friend here, hoping that in the future he will always smile. Thank you, Ken. Thank you, Bruce. Thank you, Mill

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اولین جلسه کوچینگ خدمت شما

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Moniro is dissident Iranian novelist who experienced extensive repression and attacks from the Iranian regime.

.Moniro’s books in English include The Drowned, which made her famous in Iran and defines the genre called Eastern Magical Realism. Click on the underlined italicized titles to find the books in English. These Crazy Nightstells the story of a nurse during the Iran-Iraq War. It is a brilliantly-written account that brings us inside the experience and feelings of one humble Iranian woman during a time of devastation and upheaval. I’ve recommended all Americans read this book in order to grasp fundamentalism in our times.

This is so different from the American experience. Even during our time of upheaval and change, we are protected by traditions and norms which Iran does not have. Moniro’s book describes—at an experiential level—how it feels to be in the middle of fundamentalism, represssion, and tyranny.

Here are excerpts from the book. To start, the nurse has patients who have been in the fighting. She tells their stories and reacts to them. These are the nurse’s thoughts about one young patient grievously injured in the fighting:

     She had been unable to forget about him. On the first night, she had stayed awake beside him all night until morning. Were you afraid he might die, or did you want to see his eyes? Eyes which looked intoxicated from pain. Eyes which seemed to be drunk from wine, the hundred—year-old wines of Shiraz. It was close to morning when you realized that those eyes were yearning for the war, not for life. When once again he came to and his lips moved, you brought your ear close to his mouth. He said: “The direction of Mecca, the direction of those killed...”

     She did not say that she did not know which direction it was. She turned the bed in the direction that he pointed to... He wanted to perform his prayers in the direction of the war front, where those killed were and are being piled up on top of one another.
 
     The first night, there was bewilderment and regret... Bewilderment about the heart of a young man who was surrendering to annihilation, regret for the hands that were turning dark... She had thought, how could she say that she could not figure out this chaotic world? She had thought, how could she tell him that she knew him... knew him and all the young men who used to stand on the corner of Daryush Intersection to watch the girls passing by, to watch me passing by? To look at me... to look at me in a way that I would be on fire, and imagine I was sliding into your arms. Now, why don’t you look now? Why do you just stare into space, at the wall, at the window? Why is it that your hazel eyes on your brown sunburnt face do not look at me? If you do not look at me, I will grow old... Girls grow tall with these glances, their breasts bud, and a narrow line of blood begins to run between their thighs, singing... The song of pain and puberty.

     Now he, with a dry mouth, an infected abdomen, and the pain that writhes on his face, and she, the nurse of Ward Four, the nurse of multi-occupancy and private rooms, unable to ask why. No one hears her yelling. The sound of pain that ricochets throughout her entire body, the sound of the hot pebbles that collide in her mouth and do not come out from fear and horror. If only she could utter this three—letter word... If only she could open her mouth and shout as wide as the firmament: Why?
~

Our nurse meets, not suprisingly, a young man she likes. However, couples in this era in Iran must literally meet in a cemetery in order to mask their mutual interest from social censors and monitors all around them. They cannot be seen to be in the company of a man or woman not a relative. Her young man becomes nervous, the encounter becomes fraught, the joy goes out of it. Air raid alarms go off in the middle to put them at further risk, though they’re more afraid of the monitors than of the bombs. You can read an excerpt on this here.

One night, she’s awakened in her bedroom by four fundamentalist men intending to take her. She defends herself in ways both hillarious and chilling, using their fear of a woman’s body against them. This is a little longer scene, brilliantly written, so to save space in this post I attach an excerpt here. Ultimately, she is taken, renditioned—arrested is too kind a word for it—not at all like an American encounter with police, rights, etc. Her head is put in a black bag and she’s deposited in a prison. Notice how the writing brings us, as readers, inside the confusion and fear of the experience of what she finds:

     What an endless hallway is this blackness and these voices, moans. She had been afraid of these things, of the moaning, that is why she let go of her life. Now she is paying back for it, paying back for fleeing fear, fleeing death. From behind the blindfold, she struggles to see something. The dirty-looking black floor tiles have no resemblance to the floor of the hospital hallway. Neither does the moaning. Moaning which is not due to illness. Moaning that is yelling, that is desperation, that is pleading, or anger... How many types of moaning can come out of the human throat? How many?

     “No, I swear to God... No, I don’t know...”

     “I’ll tell you...”

     These words, with the scratchy voice, with the crying that accompanies it and the pleading... How could she shut her ears? How could such sounds come out of human larynxes? Why does that person’s throat not rip apart?
 
    “For God’s sake, water...” 

     This voice is desperate. It is pleading for water. How long have they kept her thirsty? Her lips dry before the next voice, a heart-rending cry.

     “It is not minnnnnne...”

     It is as though they are sawing something, an arm, a leg...

     She freezes. Her legs tremble, and she is about to pass out. She must not listen. No!
 
     Do not listen! Do not listen! Count the stairs. When that is done, count sheep. When that is done, grab the stars, count the stars. The number of stars is infinite.

     She counts. Thirteen stairs. It is useless. She then goes to the sheep, then to the stars... Stars, stars. Among the stars is full of the scent of orange blossoms. One star, two stars, twenty stars, one hundred and fifty... three hundred...

     “Take off your blindfold... Sit!”

     She looks. They have shut all the windows. Blackened and shut. The room, it is a big room. The plasterwork on the walls indicates that at one time it was a home. At one time, it had been something else, and other people had lived in it.

     “Do you know this man?”

     She looks. A smashed face. He does not resemble a human. He is standing, with his hands tied behind him. A torn shirt, and red lines drawn on his chest and arms. Is it from fear that she wants to yell? Or disbelief? Hey, nurse, have you never seen a wounded person? Not like this. Not with a scratched face and ripped lips. She closes her eyes not to see.

     “Open them! Open!”

     “No, I can’t. I’m afraid, I swear to God...”

     “I told you, open them.”

     When an agate ring hits her forehead, she opens her eyes. She has to look. She is forced to look.

     “Do you know him?”

     The voice of the man who is wearing a mask is full of ridicule.

     “Obviously, she knows him. Now, do the right thing and tell me...”

     Surely, she would tell, only if they give her a chance to look carefully, and in the midst of all those wounds and all that coagulated blood, to see his blue eyes.

     “Do you want to return to your life, your work, or don’t you?” 

     She would certainly identify him and go back to her life, the same life that she has and does not have. 

     She looks at the big feet that can only be the feet of a giant? A wounded giant. Oh, how big can human feet get, turn red and get infected? You must immediately apply Betadine. You must clean them with some gauze. Touch such feet gently. When you touch them, the skin comes off.
 
     “Do you know him? Do you know him or not?”

     No, she does not know him. She has never seen such a smashed up human being.

     “Look carefully... You still don’t know him?”

     The masked man does not leave her alone. And the eyes finally get used to it. She looks and looks. Oh, my...

     She takes two steps forward. The air becomes heavy with the scent of orange blossoms and coagulated blood... It has been a long time since she has seen him. It has been a long time since I saw you. When was the last time I saw you? Was it on Zand Street? You were waiting for a taxi with the same girl who understood the meaning of strategy and tactic and bourgeoisie and to whom you had given the part of Antigone to play...

     This time, let me play Ophelia.

     You? Do you think you can play a part? And for that matter, Ophelia?
Her eyes had burned. Her cheeks had turned red from anger, but she had turned her back, meaning that she had not seen anyone... Now she could see him.

     “He... was my husband.”
~

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این است سرنوشت نویسنده مستقل ایرانی: دربه‌دری؛ نداشتن امکان چاپ به موقع کتاب‌هایش.

در آخر کتاب «اهل غرق» که وقتی چاپ شد دوستان اهل فکر برای جزاندن من به آن اهل عرق می‌گفتند، زنی است دیوانه که با کاغذ پاره‌ها مشغول است. زن میان این کاغذ پاره‌ها می‌گردد به دنبال نامه‌ای از عشقی از دست رفته.

این روزها فکر می‌کنم من سرنوشت خودم را نوشته‌ام، سرنوشت زنی نویسنده در یک فرهنگ عقب‌مانده‌ی مردسالار و سنت‌های پوسیده‌ی فرهنگ قبیله‌ای و قبیله‌گرا.

به آمریکا که آمدم سال‌ها امکانات چاپ نداشتم و آمازون و گوگل‌پلی هم مال همین سال‌هاست وگرنه همه این داستان‌ها حالا باید چاپ شده باشند. آن وقت من می‌شدم جزو نویسندگانی که می‌تواند آینده را پیشگویی کند.

این داستان را در صفحه گروه کولی‌ها گذاشتم تا به آنها‌ بگویم نویسنده مستقل یعنی چه و چه تاوانی باید برای این استقلال بدهد و هجوم اوباش و ارازل فکری (دولتی یا غیر دولتی) چه کار می‌تواند با او بکند و او چطور باید ادامه بدهد…

واقعیت این است که اصلا خودم هم یادم نبود که چنین طرحی نوشته‌ام…

به هر حال، بعد مثل همه این سال‌ها که افتاده‌ام و بلند شده‌ام، روی این طرح کار کردم… هفت سال از آن روز می‌گذرد و حالا نام «دیار آشنا» را به «روز شمایل‌ها هاهاها» تغییر داده‌ام و کار آماده چاپ است.

از این ماجرا جز نفرت به اعتقادات شیادانه و کثیفی که بساط سانسور را بنا کرده چیزی در ذهن و دل من نمانده است. نفرت از هر چیزی و هر کسی که بخواهد نویسنده را کنترل کند.

Copies of this work/manuscript/image may not be reproduced without permission from the author. Contact her at moniravanipor@gmail.com for permission to reprint

سخنی با گروه‌های ادبی، کتاب‌خوانی و نویسندگان

این‌جا و آن‌جا، بعد از واکنش من به فروش هشت‌هزارتایی کتاب‌های شهرنوش، بعد از ۳۱ سال اقامت در امریکا، در گروه‌هایی که تشکیل می‌شود، عده‌ای که فکر می‌کنند روشنفکرند، ولی در واقع سینه‌زن فرهنگی و عزادار حسینی هستند، جلسه پشت جلسه تشکیل می‌دهند و از نویسنده، کتاب و گروه‌های کتاب‌خوانی حرف می‌زنند و متلکی هم به من حواله می‌کنند.

بله، آب در خوابگه مورچگان ریخته‌ام.

دوستان،

اگر یک گروه واقعا قصدش کار فرهنگی و حمایت از نویسنده باشد، نه نشان دادن و علم کردن خودش، با تجربه‌ای که من بیست سال در دیار کفر داشته‌ام، باید به این موارد دقت کند:

۱- اگر نویسنده شناخته‌شده نیست و شما، اسم گروهتان و دم‌ودستگاهتان معروف‌تر است، یعنی کار بیشتری کرده‌اید و زحمت بیشتری کشیده‌اید و حالا می‌خواهید کسی را که تازه پای در این وادی گذاشته معرفی کنید، تمام اعضای گروه، کتاب‌های او را باید بخوانند؛ به‌خصوص کسانی که در خارج از کشور هستند و هیچ بهانه‌ای برای دزدی و خوردن حق نویسنده ندارند.

باید پوستر بزنید، کتاب‌هایش را به تعداد اعضا تهیه کنید و اگر عضو خارج از کشور دارید، خیلی راحت است که از طریق گوگل پلی یا روش‌های متفاوت دیگر برای او حساب باز کنید. فقط کافی ست که قصدتان کلاه‌برداری نباشد و نخواهید سر جماعت کلاه بگذارید و بیشتر از همه سر خودتان.

وقتی نویسنده را دعوت کردید، حتما، حتی اگر نمادین هم شده، باید نشان بدهید که او را برای سرگرمی و وقت‌گذرانی دعوت نکرده‌اید. مثلا اگر یک گروه نقاشی، نقاشی را دعوت می‌کند، حداقلش این است که یک جعبه‌رنگ یا وسایل نقاشی به او هدیه بدهد؛ فقط برای تشویق.

۲- اگر نویسنده نامی دارد و می‌خواهید با نام او خودتان را مطرح کنید، اولا باید بدانید این نام را امدادهای غیبی به او نداده‌اند. ایشان از مصائب، سانسور و جنگ‌های بی‌پایان گذشته است. بنابراین وظیفه دارید به تعداد اعضا، کتاب‌های او را تهیه کنید و حق‌الزحمه یک ساعت یا دو ساعت وقت او را بدهید،

دوستان،

کسانی که آش ‌نذری می‌دهند و در روزهای عاشورا و تاسوعا دیگ‌های خیابانی بار می‌گذارند، قبل از آن، در یک سال مردم را چاپیده‌اند.

نویسنده کسی را نمی‌چاپد. نوشتن، به قول فاکنر، عرق‌ریزان روح است.

هیچ نویسنده‌ای را این‌جا نمی‌شناسم که محض رضای خدا یا رضای امام، در جلسه کتاب‌خوانی شرکت کند. خانم النده (با ۷۵ میلیون فروش کتاب‌هاش) حتی کتابی را که سال‌ها پیش نوشته و حالا قیمتش از بیست دلار به یک دلار رسیده، در صفحه‌اش منتشر می‌کند؛ همچنین خانم مارگرت اتوود. چون نه خودش و نه خوانندگانش عادت به مفت‌خوری ندارند و کد فرهنگی مفت‌خوری ندارند.

در مورد خودم:

۱- سال‌هاست که کلاس‌های من برای داخل کشور رایگان است. البته حالا فکر می‌کنم اشتباه کرده‌ام و با کارم نابسامانی، فشار سانسور در جمهوری اسلامی را جبران کرده‌ام. نباید این کار را می‌کردم. از این به بعد، نمی‌کنم. پوشاندن مشکلات کمک به ادامه نابه‌سامانی ست.

۲- هر گروه ادبی که از من دعوت می‌کند، باید شناسنامه کاری خودش را بفرستد؛ سابقه کار، سایت و تلاش‌های فرهنگی‌ای که کرده است.

شرط اول من این است که تمام اعضای آن گروه، کتاب‌های مرا به تعداد لازم تهیه کنند؛ مقصودم این است که بخرند و بخوانند. کسانی که خارج از کشور دنبال PDF هستند، هرچند مخالف ارشادند، اما در همان خط ارشاد سینه می‌زنند.

حق‌الزحمه هر گروه ادبی متفاوت است.

حلقه طلایی گروه ادبی کولی‌ها، بعد از بررسی شناسنامه کاری گروه ادبی، تصمیم می‌گیرد که چقدر آن‌ها را شارژ کند یا نکند.

هر نویسنده‌ای، حتی تازه‌کار، اگر مجانی و رایگان به این گروه‌ها برود، به سینه‌زنان فرهنگی پیوسته و مفت‌خوری را رواج می‌دهد.

علیه ارشاد، علیه شیادی، علیه نمایش و علیه کدهای فرهنگی مسخره باید پیش برویم.

Copies of this work/manuscript/image may not be reproduced without permission from the author. Contact her at moniravanipor@gmail.com for permission to reprint

Copies of this work/manuscript/image may not be reproduced without permission from the author. Contact her at moniravanipor@gmail.com for permission to reprint and/or distribute.

Her mission was simple: to build libraries for children in the villages and remote communities around Shiraz. Every year, she would load herself down with as many books as she could carry and travel to reach children from Iran’s nomadic tribes, reading with them and bringing them the gift of books.

The Islamic Republic hasn’t left a single grave undug. The real Mossad agents have infiltrated every corner of the regime’s own inner circles and still walk free, while innocent people like Dena Karari are the ones who end up behind bars.

What, exactly, was she accused of spying on? Was buying notebooks and pencils for poor children, or reading books with them, an act of espionage?

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سلام دوستان،

ویدیوی جلسه هفتم کلاس داستان‌نویسی و داستان‌خوانی خدمت شما. در این جلسه هما جاسمی داستان دالان‌های تاریک را خواند و درباره آن بحث شد. به سوال‌های شما در بخش کامنت‌ها جواب داده خواهد شد.

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اول دسامبر ۱۹۹۵

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Where did you disappear?

You were somewhere around here.

Every morning
you sang with the birds,
and by late afternoon
you painted the sky blue.

When the wind came,
you rode with the caravan
to the jingling of camel bells,
and your footprints
lingered on the earth after the rain.

Did you disappear,
or were you never here?

Perhaps
you were never here at all.

Morning comes,
and dusk falls.
Every day
the wind carries
the sound of caravan bells.

The sky is still here,
with its stars
and its darkness.

Sometimes
it rains.

And yet
no footprints,
no sweet melody.

The shell of my dreams
has dried away.

And in this withered orange,
no prince
has ever slept;

no rider,
waiting
to be awakened by a kiss,
to ride across the horizon
and plant rainbows of love
in the sky.

No

you were never here.

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ششمین - آخرین جلسه کلاس خاطرات‌نویسی خدمت شما. به سوال‌های شما در بخش‌ کامنت‌ها جواب داده می‌شود.

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سلام دوستان،

جلسه سوم کلاس داستان نویسی و داستان‌خوانی خدمت شما. در این جلسه ما درباره داستان مارگریت اتوود بحث می‌کنیم. به سوال‌های شما در بخش کامنت‌ها جواب داده خواهد شد.

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May marks the anniversary of my joining the East Coast Poetry Group,the Saturday group.Poetry Promising group.

One day, my American Buddhist friend, Sheila, sent me a text asking if I would like to join a poetry group. I said yes. Sheila shared my email address with the group, and together we attended my first online poetry reading with American poets.

After that session, Sheila never came back. It seems destiny had chosen her to show me a new path.

I continued.

It took me a full year to write my first poem in English.

And still, I continued.

Now five years have passed, and I am still going.

Two weeks ago, I read the poem “Strait of Hormuz” to the group.

With love and especial thanks to Bruce and my American Poets, I share it with you.

My song was on the battle ground last night.

My Words.

In my dream

For taking care of myself

I stood on the roof of the beautiful moon.

Not the moon

American astronauts walked on

No

The moon

by whose light the girls of my homeland fall in love

and dance through garden alleys.

The moon of the fourteenth night

beautiful, seductive, peaceful.

The full moon

I wanted to sing a song.

for mermaids in the strait of Hormuz and for the girls in Evin prison.

I thought nobody could reach me, no chains could bind my heart, no voice could suffocate my hopes, nobody could say:
“Shut up, woman.
Your voice is seductive to our soldiers.”

I sang a love song

for mermaids

for girls, wounded girls:

open your arms, I want to put my head on your chest and hear your heartbeat

I want to kiss your whole body.

to kiss your lips

I want to make a shelter for you from my love.

My song with all beautiful words flew to the Strait of Hormuz.

I sent a kiss to that part of the earth.

That kiss is forbidden.

I sent an embrace

I sent my heartbeat

My song rained down like a storm.

over the Strait of Hormuz.

then

they started

sound of a gun, shotgun

a machine…

gun rattling

I heard the scream of mermaids, raw, aching, shattering the night.

I heard the voices of wounded girls.

ran… ran ..

escaping from the strait of hormuz

My song came back, like a defeated army

My words: injured, wounded

The kiss was really wounded.

Embrace was bloody

And my heartbeat was broken.

My words have been attacked by two armies.

American and Islamic forces

They just thought a third army was attacking the Strait of Hormuz

They just imagined.

They couldn’t imagine anything else.

In their brains, there is nothing else.

Nothing, absolutely nothing else.

But

I’m not going back to the earth.

I’m staying here, on the moon

I have to nurse the words.

The wounds of kisses and hugs and love

must be healed

I can

I was once a nurse in the Iran-Iraq war.

I nursed the wounded soldiers.

I sing again

I will stay here on the moon.

I sing the love song again

I will not return to Earth.

Copies of this work/manuscript/image may not be reproduced without permission from the author. Contact her at moniravanipor@gmail.com for permission to reprint and/or distribute.

سلام دوستان،

وقتی کلیک کنید روی صفحه متوجه می‌شوید که در کارگاه ادبی کولی‌ها چه اتفاقی افتاده. بعد از سال‌ها تدریس ادبیات داستانی برای اولین بار کسی را به عنوان همکار و دسیتار در تدریس به شما معرفی می‌کنم. مرثا از بچه‌های گروه گردون بود که بعد به گروه ادبی کولی‌ها آمد و شد کولی گردون…او سال‌هاست با ما کار می‌کند و توانایی این را دارد که گروه کولی‌ها در ا…

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What draws me to Khayyam is the courage of not knowing.

Khayyam lived in a time when jurists based everything on knowing the path and the destination. Everything was defined within the framework of religious law. Every beginning had an ending, and every human story was assigned a predetermined conclusion. Everyone had answers; everyone pointed the way with certainty.

But Khayyam chose a different path.

Instead of relying on ready-made answers, he entered a world with no clear or final answers to his questions. The freedom of not knowing gave him the courage to think, to research, and to act. His philosophical and questioning gaze moves beyond the past, looks at the future with doubt, and breathes in the present.

His anchor is the present moment.

But for Khayyam, the present is not a place of rest; it is a launching pad. From the present he builds a rich, beautiful world full of questions. Khayyam created his calendar in the 11th century AD, more than nine hundred years ago, at a time when there were no satellites, no space exploration, and no advanced instruments for observing the stars. Yet, relying only on careful observation of the sky and his mathematical knowledge, he designed one of the most accurate calendars in history. For eight years, night after night, he stood at the observatory in Isfahan, gazing at the sky and tracking the movement of the stars in order to develop and present the Jalali calendar—considered one of the most accurate and respected calendars in the world to the Seljuk king.

This effort is not a sign of passivity or surrender to limitation or misfortune. His nightly struggle reveals a human being who refuses to ignore anything. He has the courage not to know, and that very courage pushes him to cast a light onto the unknown.

It is in the presence of questions that a human being begins to move.

Human beings, like cave dwellers, were once trapped in darkness until they confronted endless hardship and unending questions and eventually and gradually stepped out of the cave. The recognition of what the cave was, what existed within it and what lay beyond, gave us the ability to emerge from its mouth and experience other worlds. Dogmatic laws and rigid beliefs, and forcing human beings to strictly adhere to them, keep them trapped in the cave of ignorance.

It is the awareness of what is lacking that drives us to struggle for something better.

This confrontation between human beings and problems, and the questions that arose in their minds, led to change, a better life, and the development of human civilization. If we had been meant to follow eternally fixed and ready-made rules without question, we would still be trapped in the life of cave dwellers.

ٔNote:

Geographically, Nishapur is located in northeastern Iran, in Razavi Khorasan Province; a historic city along the Silk Road, near present-day Mashhad. Bushehr is located in southwestern Iran, on the Persian Gulf coast, and is a warm coastal port in Bushehr Province. The distance between these two cities is vast. In the past, camel caravans made this crossing, a journey that could take weeks or even months.

Copies of this work/manuscript/image may not be reproduced without permission from the author. Contact her at moniravanipor@gmail.com for permission to reprint and/or distribute.