schools by doodle_juice

schools, a photo by doodle_juice on Flickr.

Not mine I’m afraid but brilliant, and so good I had to post it again.

Black-Pahlavi by doodle_juice

Black-Pahlavi, a photo by doodle_juice on Flickr.

This is a sculpture relief made from copper wire. It is the profile of the late Shah of Iran as he appeared on Pahlavi coins. I’m still working on it.



schools by doodle_juice

schools, a photo by doodle_juice on Flickr.

Not mine I’m afraid but brilliant.


Display of my Art that is available for sale at:

Nicole Belopotosky

Using found paper as his palette, artist Peter Clark creates intricate three-dimensional collages. He shades with density of print and creates substance and movement with lines plucked from old maps or manuscripts he finds in antique shops. Clark’s pieces are innovative as he utilizes the patterns and textures in a humorous way. Peter focuses much of his expertise on creating dog collage portraits, however his clothing and people portraits are equally incredible. To see more of Peter’s incredible collage sculptures, check out his website where you can purchase his book and original art!

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Regained Grandour


Regained Grandour, a set on Flickr.

Back in 1977 when I was 13, I was fortunate enough to be awarded this comic book titled “Azemat-e Baazyaafteh” (“Restored Grandeur”) by my school. It is perhaps now a collector’s item as it was not sold in shops and I doubt if many copies have survived in Iran. Irrespective of your views on the late king, it is a fun book to read. I will try to scan and send the 62 pages bit by bit.

It just shows that whilst other kids read Superman and Batman comics, we were being nurtured on the milk of politics from an early . I recently saw an exhibition of Soviet Propaganda posters in Tate Modern, London and it was great. It is a shame that with our regular regime change, we destroy a lot of history but If someone ever opens a Museum of Iranian Propaganda in Iran, I might be tempted to donate this book after I’m dead.

Queen by doodle_juice

Queen, a photo by doodle_juice on Flickr.

Happy Diamond Jubilee everyone. I hope you all enjoy the street parties and the fun of this great occasion.
I made this image specially for the occasion. The Queen’s image is made from the lyrics of “God Save the Queen”.
Although I don’t believe in God nor in principle am I a monarchist but I do admire the Queen for her years of service and I would be enjoying the celebrations.

Farrough by doodle_juice

Farrough, a photo by doodle_juice on Flickr.

Iran’s first feminist poet and one of the greatest.

Made from words of her most popular poem “another birth”.

Another Birth

My whole being is a dark chant

which will carry you
perpetuating you
to the dawn of eternal growths and blossoming
in this chant I sighed you sighed
in this chant
I grafted you to the tree to the water to the fire.

Life is perhaps
a long street through which a woman holding
a basket passes every day

Life is perhaps
a rope with which a man hangs himself from a branch
life is perhaps a child returning home from school.

Life is perhaps lighting up a cigarette
in the narcotic repose between two love-makings
or the absent gaze of a passerby
who takes off his hat to another passerby
with a meaningless smile and a good morning .

Life is perhaps that enclosed moment
when my gaze destroys itself in the pupil of your eyes
and it is in the feeling
which I will put into the Moon’s impression
and the Night’s perception.

In a room as big as loneliness
my heart
which is as big as love
looks at the simple pretexts of its happiness
at the beautiful decay of flowers in the vase
at the sapling you planted in our garden
and the song of canaries
which sing to the size of a window.

this is my lot
this is my lot
my lot is
a sky which is taken away at the drop of a curtain
my lot is going down a flight of disused stairs
a regain something amid putrefaction and nostalgia
my lot is a sad promenade in the garden of memories
and dying in the grief of a voice which tells me
I love
your hands.

I will plant my hands in the garden
I will grow I know I know I know
and swallows will lay eggs
in the hollow of my ink-stained hands.

I shall wear
a pair of twin cherries as ear-rings
and I shall put dahlia petals on my finger-nails
there is an alley
where the boys who were in love with me
still loiter with the same unkempt hair
thin necks and bony legs
and think of the innocent smiles of a little girl
who was blown away by the wind one night.

There is an alley
which my heart has stolen
from the streets of my childhood.

The journey of a form along the line of time
inseminating the line of time with the form
a form conscious of an image
coming back from a feast in a mirror

And it is in this way
that someone dies
and someone lives on.

No fisherman shall ever find a pearl in a small brook
which empties into a pool.

I know a sad little fairy
who lives in an ocean
and ever so softly
plays her heart into a magic flute
a sad little fairy
who dies with one kiss each night
and is reborn with one kiss each dawn.

تولدي ديگر

همهء هستي من آيهء تاريکيست

که ترا در خود تکرار کنان

به سحرگاهان شکفتن ها و رستن هاي ابدي آه کشيدم ، آه

من در اين آيه ترا

به درخت و آب و آتش پيوند زدم

زندگي شايد

يک خيابان درازست که هر روز زني با زنبيلي از آن ميگذرد

زندگي شايد

ريسمانيست که مردي با آن خود را از شاخه مياويزد

زندگي شايد طفليست که از مدرسه بر ميگردد

 زندگي شايد افروختن سيگاري باشد ، در فاصلهء رخوتناک دو


يا عبور گيج رهگذري باشد

که کلاه از سر بر ميدارد

و به يک رهگذر ديگر با لبخندي بي معني ميگويد ” صبح بخير “

زندگي شايد آن لحظه مسدوديست

که نگاه من ، در ني ني چشمان تو خود را ويران ميسازد

ودر اين حسي است

که من آن را با ادراک ماه و با دريافت ظلمت خواهم آميخت

در اتاقي که به اندازهء يک تنهاييست

دل من

که به اندازهء يک عشقست

به بهانه هاي سادهء خوشبختي خود مينگرد

به زوال زيباي گل ها در گلدان

به نهالي که تو در باغچهء خانه مان کاشته اي

و به آواز قناري ها

که به اندازهء يک پنجره ميخوانند


سهم من اينست

سهم من اينست

 سهم من ،

آسمانيست که آويختن پرده اي آنرا از من ميگيرد

سهم من پايين رفتن از يک پله مترو کست

و به چيزي در پوسيدگي و غربت و اصل گشتن

سهم من گردش حزن آلودي در باغ خاطره هاست

و در اندوه صدايي ان دادن که به من بگويد :

” دستهايت را

 دوست ميدارم “

دستهايم را در باغچه ميکارم

سبز خواهم شد ،  ميدانم ، ميدانم ، ميدانم

و پرستوها در گودي انگشتان جوهريم

تخم خواهند گذاشت

گوشواري به دو گوشم ميآويزم

از دو گيلاس سرخ همزاد

و به ناخن هايم برگ گل کوکب ميچسبانم

کوچه اي هست که در آنجا

پسراني که به من عاشق بودند ، هنوز

با همان موهاي درهم و گردن هاي باريک و پاهاي لاغر

به تبسم هاي معصوم دخترکي ميانديشند که يک شب او را

باد با خود برد

کوچه اي هست که قلب من آن را

از محل کودکيم دزديده ست

سفر حجمي در خط زمان

و به حجمي خط خشک زمان را آبستن کردن

حجمي از تصويري  آگاه

که ز مهماني يک آينه بر ميگردد

و بدينسانست

که کسي ميميرد

و کسي ميماند

هيچ صيادي در جوي حقيري که به گودالي ميريزد ، مرواريدي

صيد نخواهد کرد .


پري کوچک غمگيني را

ميشناسم که در اقيانوسي مسکن دارد

و دلش را در يک ني لبک چوبين

مينوازد آرام ، آرام

پري کوچک غمگيني

که شب از يک بوسه ميميرد

و سحرگاه از يک بوسه به دنيا خواهد آمد

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