Treasure Island

Nassy Fesharaki

(Dec 29 / Iran)

Reciting Poetry


It was more beard than anything else
In poetry they converged, varied in age
Tajik and Pashto, and also poor me
(Caught in between
Hardship and Taliban)

I got there on the back of a bicycle
Imposed, on me and the chair
I was an honored member
Pear, the best poem I heard
Khayyam’s, the best I read

Her body; Pear’s
Neck, back of her chest
Side-look at her breasts
Lower poet talked of her waist
And sitting on the buttocks

That Pear I wanted to chew
Even under Taliban’s strict rule
Stoning, cutting hands, all brute
Where the stadium was shrude
No soccer; killing men, interlude

Submitted: Thursday, September 05, 2013
Edited: Friday, September 06, 2013

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Poet's Notes about The Poem

I was in Kabul during April/May of 1999, the worst time ever in Afghanistan. Loving books betrayed me. I was approached by Ashrafi, a prophet-looking young man who wanted to set up time for me to meet Mullah Mohammad Omar. Scared of the trap I was falling in, I was planning to run away. I could become involved, or caught and sent to their cave-like prisons. I accepted to attend a session, the poets were gathering to listen to others and also to read their poems if there was a chance. I was well-received as a guest of honor and as a person who, possibly had more experience or knowledge. I had no poem of my own. My host, the owner of the restaurant where I ate and slept, had been warned me to put aside the pen and paper. “That can endanger your life.” He said and I listened. My body was in the room where the poets were but my soul was not there. I felt like the guy in Qazi Stadium. I saw him convicted and shot. He was dead long before being the trigger was pulled, he must have died of fear while the man in turban read his case.

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