Rosa Jamali
She breaks the syntax & there are quite a lot of word plays. The main theme of the book is the identity of objects & the objects are coming from a modern everyday life with all its necessities. Very soon the book with all its suggestions opens a new way in the creative Persian poetry.
Her second collection of poetry was published in the same year‘Making a face’. In this book you confront with a kind of ability in using different types of discourse, sometimes archaic sometimes colloquial, spoken, written, formal, informal, journal like, reporting, scientific & so. Her erotic poems & the challenge she describes boldly throughout poetry.
She has adapted a kind of music from classical Persian poetry & has tried to give it the natural tone of speaking. The way she narrates is the stream of consciousness. She tries to mingle the long sentences with the short phrases she makes. Her bitter sense of humour and the creative points she offers in the style makes her work distinctive.
During these years she writes a number of book reviews and critical articles and she explains her views throughout reviewing others poetry.Her third book of poetry came out in 2002.’Making Coffee To Run A Crime Story’. In this book there’s a long poem by this name, a long dramatic poem which comes across the most important Persian long story ‘Blind Owl’ by ‘Sadegh Hedayat’.
In 'Blind owl' the narrator of the story who is a man chops a woman to pieces and in this poem something opposite happens. The descriptions are the ones you see in crime fiction but here the narrator exists inside the story and the point of view changes every often. The words are so cruel and rough that you can’t believe a woman has written that.
In an Interview she says: ‘I’ve been inspired by mythologicla women and Greek tragedies as Medea who kills her children and sets the fire to burn, as Antigone who doesn’t know a place to bury her brother and in the history of Islam there’s a woman who’s called ‘Hendeye jegarxar’ who is a fame in cruelty who eats the fallen pieces of Prophet Mohammad’s uncle.
Also I’ve been inspired by crime fiction, but there’s a point you see in Greek tragedies a murder is a sacrifice and to release and for salvation but in a civilized society as Dostoyevsky describes in ‘Crime & punishment’ when Roskolnikov kills he falls to regret. In my poem I wanted to convey that old mythological significance.’
The poem has got a lot references to bible, myths & characters.In other poems of this book again you see the poet creates the atmosphere of a machinery life. In her recent poems she talks about death & love from a philosophical point of view as Omar Khayyam did so many years ago. A book named ‘ The sand glass which has fallen asleep…’
Her poems have been translated to English, French, German, Swedish, Italian, Dutch & Esperanto. In 2001 she has been a nominated guest in Asian & African study center in London although she couldn’t attend it and in September 2006 she has taken part in a cultural programme with Jana Beranova (Dutch poet) , in which her poems were translated to Dutch and Branova’s poems were translated to Persian.
The programme took place in
‘The shadow ‘ is a play by Rosa Jomali. The police is seeking for a murderer, a woman but he’s found eleven women look like the murderer. The setting is a room.There are two women in black, covered their hair in black headscarves confronting each other in a shelter.They were born on the same day and they’ve got one name.They both married a man called Parviz.
A challenge of identity let them kill each other. At the end a third woman exactly like them enters the same room, finding a piece of paper: ‘The police has arrested 13 women by that face, two were dead.’‘Here Gravity Is Less’, her selected poems is under print now.
Some of her poems
The Only resident of This house is a gloomy Hawk
I’m locked and my veins are running away
Coming from absurd memories
My gambled memory
Which is on sale now.
It was a man
Heavy
On my eyelids.
No, it won’t be over
All the mirrors show me the same
It’s a locked door
The stone is falling down
Deserted and barefoot
The day is just the surface!
That parted memory
The drizzle of salt
On that large basin.
The days are sick
You’ve taken my pulse
And me
Is a memory joined to your veins.
Tired
Although they’re playing the drums
As loudly as possible
I’m a deaf!
The only resident of this house is the gloomy hawk.
The Flintstone
BLOCK NO.1
They bargain a rough stone owing you
Not clear!
Is it the stone of fire
Or a flintstone?
BLOCK NO.2
A piece of my happiness owing the flintstone
You’ve turned to rocks owing the flintstone…
BLOCK NO.3
I’m in debt with the flintstone
BLOCK NO.4
It casts a spell
To desire
Behind the railings.
BLOCK NO.5
I’m the mother of this flintstone
I’ve nourished it
I’ve shed tears on it
If the world is on fire,
It’s my guilt.
BLOCK NO.6
I’ve betrayed the air
God is disabled by it.
BLOCK NO.7
You’ve taken the vow of silence?!
Unripe greengages
I’m unripe greengages
It was a necessity
That I was just born to be added as a flavour
At the agony of death
On my bosom
Is an aged bull
That’s roaring
Tamed and dull
Rubbing its figure on my hair.
Tomorrow,
It ‘ll be a dead body
And the dustman will collect it
I’m a refuge of this kicking bitch
And I’ll leave it to God,…
Suppose that I’m inevitable
Suppose that I’m inevitable
Even the veins of my right hand
Cross you from the drafts.
On my smooth nails
The breeze
Which is not from the sky
Is curving you
Either the veins of my right hand
Is running short
On my pulse.
Rolled along my fingers
Vanished
Not repeated for ever
For the second.
I’m a half
Since the first.
The veins of my neck cross you all.
If the warmth of my ten fingers
Seized on your torn pieces of breath
All is over
With the dead-end alleys
all in oblivion.
The
At the airport
Now the upshot of my hands
Is this cramped land
It’s the size of the palms of my hands
Overlooks the slippery sunlight
And the sun is not on the speaking term with us,
The dream coming from the Lut desert is moving my fingers
The blowings stiffen my teeth
The whirlwind from the sandy desert
Is blowing our house.
Sticking the pieces of my face to make me laugh?
How can I skip over your hands?
Precisely like the way you predicted that
A huge grave
To put the longest night to sleep
The sleep has migrated from our eyelids
Has covered the river bank
Drenched,
Torn- up lips!
Sticking the pieces of my face to make me laugh?
With scissors,
They’re cutting something
Alphabet drooping on the soil
Vanished letters of our names
Had you forgotten them?
Through the zigzags,
Firm and stiff
In the middle of desert,
Spread
You’ve locked up my mother’s breath!
Her footprints vanishing on the sand…
Sticking the pieces of my face to make me laugh?
No! …
I won’t be back
I will not return to the last street of Tehran
I left a single shoe here
For you
To put on
And follow me!
The outline is shaping on the horizon
It’s the size of my hand
Skipping exceeds 3 feet
The precise size of my hand!
The
Like a hanged pitcher
Like a hanged pitcher,
No drink is pouring off me
It’s natural to get numbed gradually.
Pig-headed seashells!
This boasting sky,
Is an anchor
which has fallen on my lap
This dizzy sky!
The moon’s been cleared
A shadow’s coming after me
Barefooted on my dreams
You used to run!
Enjoyed? !
Numbed? !
All my veins are connected to this land…
Like a hanged pitcher
Joyful of this sky
One day a huge whale swallowed it as a whole.
And it was over!
The Gulf was over!
You waved hands.
Like a hanged pitcher,
It’s simple!
I lost the game
And gambled away…
The Bull Year
Mouse is a sharp vessel of me singing
The tigers are mute
The claws clinging on the snow gradually…
2
It was dark
Metal shape
And slippery on the ice
It was totally dark.
The creased moon walked on my shadow
I’ve buried the fish
The memory ’s hanged on the ceiling.
Keeps going
For centuries
Talks on a puppet
And mimes a gesture.
The avalanche
Broken latticed twigs
It was an origami
Went with the wind
And totally forgotten.
3
The glass coffin behind the window
Time is lingering on me
The shadow on the pot.
Shivering on the window…
I’ve buried yesterday
My fingers don’t move
They gripped the time.
No end for the clouds
The lines are totally dark
The mirror walked in me.
It’s chewed the buttons of my dress.
A flock of crows flying
The earth is a worn out corridor,
A mass of ants invaded my house
It’s been raining for seven hundred years
A blind’s coming
And this year is a bull year…
4
The rabbit coming from the left
Has made love with the white snow
It’s been in a bloody intercourse,
The rabbit coming from my veins.
The Clock Cell
Something dies accidentally
And the sunlight which has soaked is wet and obscure
If I continue the lines
The frozen object captured in your hands slips down
Otherwise the day has come to an end.
Vacant
When I get home
Standstill current of water
And the sunlight which is damp
On the blank sheets
I wept on my old garments.
The elements
Its origin has been painted by my blood
The rain of cats and dogs on my plantation
The moon is vast!
Here with my frostbite on the iron post,
I threw the time to the river
Time was a whim dropped from my hands
The moments have been cleared away…
The wall has turned blue
Me and the black gown
Have been spilt to the river.
It’s a calf death breast-fed.
What is it?
Sediments on a neutral background
It could be in a different colour
It’s been many days since I started walking on the rope
The creased moon is falling down the ceiling.
Blizzard
A flimsy stone
The frostbite on the window glass
The bridge has fallen down
Silence on a metal tape
Ending to a blind full stop.
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