By 2010, when I landed in Canada, I had been teaching English language and literature for almost two decades in Iranian universities and language schools.  But before I learned English, I spoke two other languages: Persian and Poetry. My first English poem was born a month before my departure. That was the moment I claimed English as my own.

Iran is the land of poetry, and this made immigration harder than it would otherwise have been. I visited the mausoleums of a number of poets to say goodbye, among them Ferdowsi, Khayyam, Attar, Hafez, Saadi, and Akhavan-Sales.  Meanwhile, I read as many books by Margaret Atwood as I could get. With her frank portrayal of the grim realities of life and the humor with which she approaches them, Atwood helped me to come to terms with my biggest loss. Upon arrival, the country appeared familiar, and I was shocked that I did not have a culture shock.

Soon after, I searched for literary events, book clubs, writers’ groups, and book launches, and I explored as many of them as I could. People invited me to other places, and this has been going on for more than a year now.  My accent, the first thing that people notice, does not bother writers. To them, we all speak a common language.

Poetry has always been my survival strategy. And here, in “exile” and in relative isolation, it has connected me with people. It is my home, ever-expanding its boundaries—my boundaries. It has given me the power to be others, and the permission to be myself.

Few people have such happy hard times as I do.
I hope you allow my poetry within your borders.

Words (III)

Oh, Word,
I am banished to you
from the land of
nonverbal blood

All I knew—
non-words
“signifying nothing”

We talk to the difference of voices

and I am forever in doubt
about what I mean

Language
is the music
my body is playing

I was not made
for this melody
nor the one before

I am forever silent

And when I am journeying
to the other

the language does not accompany me

I am in love
with misunderstanding

I look words
in the eyes
and invoke them

There is no response
they do not recognize themselves
in my accent

Language is a silent philosopher
and I am an articulate silence

Our mutual understanding:
the desire
to speak poetry
               

Words (V)

I am a word
in your lexicon

I know no others

and unless
I know them all
you will not tell
my story

My hands
driving me
to you

my feet
ignoring my commands

whirling
in the dervish dance
of silence

my song of liberation

is my exile
from the confinement
of your words

______________________________

Bänoo Zan landed in Canada in 2010. She has published poetry, criticism, and translations. Her poetry has appeared in The Calling, Voices, Magnapoets, protestpoems.org, Mandegar.info, Zanan, and PEN International. Her book, The Song of Phoenix: Life and Works of Sylvia Plath was reprinted in 2010.