Dear Regime (eBook, ePUB)
Letters to the Islamic Republic
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In his provocative, brave, and sometimes brutal first book of poems, Roger Sedarat directly addresses the possibility of political change in a nation that some in America consider part of "the axis of evil." Iranianon his father's side, Sedarat explores the effects of the Islamic Revolution of 1979-including censorship, execution, and pending war-on the country as well as on his understanding of his own origins. Written in a style that is as sure-footed as it is experimental, Dear Regime: Letters to the Islamic Republic confronts the past and current injustices of the Iranian government while ...
In his provocative, brave, and sometimes brutal first book of poems, Roger Sedarat directly addresses the possibility of political change in a nation that some in America consider part of "the axis of evil." Iranianon his father's side, Sedarat explores the effects of the Islamic Revolution of 1979-including censorship, execution, and pending war-on the country as well as on his understanding of his own origins. Written in a style that is as sure-footed as it is experimental, Dear Regime: Letters to the Islamic Republic confronts the past and current injustices of the Iranian government while retaining a sense of respect and admiration for the country itself. Woven into this collection are the author's vividdescriptions of the landscape as well as the people of Iran. Throughout, Sedarat exhibits a keen appreciation for the literary tradition of Iran, and inmaking it new, attempts to preserve the culture of a country he still claims as his own.
Thigh With honesty of homemade butter, paddle-churned cream (eshta in Arabic, ecstasy foaming to the brim), a woman river-bathes, sheet of oil-black hair breaking in rapids, cut lemon scintillating olive skin free of tree-stumped chador, skirts within skirts, peal of her bell-body rung muffled in Iran heat-a splash of white. The rhythm of pumice scraping her feet, sandbar against warm current, frothy cape a bee-bubbled hive, honeyed trace curling to her bare knees, thick transparent lather. At a Tehran bazaar endless gold-stores could never return me anywhere pure.
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