It Is a Strange Time, My Dear

“It is a strange time, my dear.
A novel virus haunts our streets.
Days feel like weeks,
weeks like months.
We’re blasted with new news every second—
yes and then no and then yes and no,
feeding our primal panic
to hoard goods and leave shelves
breadless, riceless.
They tell us the pandemic
makes all equal—the poor and very rich—
then why are the poor poorer
and the rich profiting?

It is a strange time, my dear.
Army men are marching our streets.
They force us to stay inside,
threaten and arrest
for a walk in the park.
They wage small wars against us,
but this battle began long ago.
The elite technocrats are crowing
in their silicone valleys
as corporations grow
and small businesses fold
with mountains of debt—
the centre cannot, will not, hold!

It is a strange time, my dear.
Mainstream media reports
the world has never been safer
as they terrorise the chambers
of our minds.
This stress, this anxiety
is killing our immunity.
But we must do it all for the elderly—
or so they say!
When have they ever cared for our elders?
When have they ever cared for our vulnerable?
We go to bed dreaming of toilet paper
while they dismantle the world economy.
Family businesses go bust
all so we can protect the people,
but only the people are suffering!
At the end of this, those retired
will have peanuts for pensions.
They are stripping us of everything
whilst our eyes are fixed on our screens.
And how dare we say it’s a strange time
in seven months
we’ll make America
great again.”

Kamand Kojouri

My New Book ‘God, Does Humanity Exist?’ Is Out Today!

My new poetry collection God, Does Humanity Exist? is available in Paperback and eBook formats on all Amazon sites.

Click here to purchase a copy.

Click here for a video about the book.

I will be donating the royalties of my book to children living in poverty in Iran. And, like my previous book, with every copy sold (paperback or ebook) one tree will be planted in Sub-Saharan Africa.
#kamandkojouri #GodDoesHumanityExist



“I try to envisage the passengers
seated in neat rows.
Everyone knows the real danger
is at take-off and landing,
but after an hour delay,
their plane was soaring. Relieved,
they whispered prayers, dreaming
of families and friends at arrival gates
clutching coffee cups and bouquets.
I like to think it was calm,
the plane blanketed by the dark’s caress.
Cellphones put away,
the cabin lights dimmed,
babies cooing in cots,
and refreshments on their way.
176 hearts beating in one narrow womb.
Closer to the heavens,
I know their journey was short—
earth angels for a while
who were returning home.”

—Kamand Kojouri

I Refuse the Definitions of Love

“I refuse the definitions of love ⁣
in dictionaries and philosophy,⁣
for today I know love.⁣
I had sought you for years, ⁣
but find that you were always the seeker⁣
and I the sought. ⁣
I suddenly appeared ⁣
reverent before you⁣
to bear witness to your beauty, ⁣
to dance in your silky attention,⁣
but you were always my wild destiny, ⁣
my heart’s pilgrimage—⁣
the meeting place of all my joy⁣
and self-forgetting.⁣
When I first loved you, ⁣
life for me had just begun.⁣
I look forward to so much with you—⁣
our togetherness in a world of wounds, ⁣
our children awaiting birth.⁣
I look forward to so much life with you, ⁣
and yet, I am perfectly content ⁣
with this moment here.⁣
It matters not to me if I die ⁣
before finishing this poem,⁣
for today I know love.⁣
For today,⁣
I am free.”

Kamand Kojouri

We Are, Each of Us, Refugees

ref·u·gee noun: a person who flees for refuge or safety

“We are, each of us, refugees
when we flee from burning buildings
into the arms of our loving families.
When we flee from floods and earthquakes
to sleep on vouchsafed mats in sanctuaries.
We are, each of us, refugees
when we flee from abusive relationships
or shooters in cinemas
and shopping centres.

Sometimes it only takes a day
for our countries to persecute us
because of our race, religion, or opinion.
Sometimes it only takes a minute
for the missiles to rain down
and turn our towns into ruin and destitution.

We are, each of us, refugees
longing for that amniotic tranquillity,
dreaming of freedom and safety
when fences and barbed wires
will spring into walled gardens.

Lebanese, Sudanese, Libyan, and Syrian,
Yemeni, Somali, Palestinian, and Ethiopian,
like our brothers and sisters,
we are, each of us, refugees.
The bombs fell in their cafés and squares
where once poetry, dancing, and laughter prevailed.
Only their olive trees
remember music and merriment now
as their cities wail for departed children
without a funeral.

We are, each of us, refugees.
Don’t let stamped paper tell you any differently.
We have been fleeing for centuries
because to stay means getting bullets in our heads.
Because to stay means being hanged by our necks.
Because to stay means being jailed, raped, and left
for dead.

But we can, each of us, be someone’s refuge
so they don’t board dinghies
when they can’t swim.
So they don’t climb walls
with snipers aimed at their chest.
So they don’t choose to stay
and be killed instead.

When home turns into hell,
you, too, will run
with tears in your eyes screaming rescue me!
and then you’ll know for certain:
you’ve always been a refugee.”

Kamand Kojouri

Try As I Might

“Try as I might,
I can’t write
you—it’s like
nailing sunlight
onto this white
page. I cannot,
for you are a dream
of yourself. You
who is my beginning
and my destination, even
my path is You.
This is Love.
But what is love? A silent
four-letter word,
when the music
of the entire language is You.
You see beyond me,
and into my possibilities.
But all my possibilities lead
to You.
For it was written that I
would love you,
that it’d be your destiny
to greet me. That You
would be my destiny,
and the rememberers
will utter my poems
only because
I loved
Try as I might,
I can’t write
you—it’s like
nailing sunlight
onto this white
page. I cannot.
But reading this here
it is clear:
You are the poem
writing me.”

Kamand Kojouri

“There is so much of me
in all of you.
You are a way
for me to know myself.”

Kamand Kojouri


“Do not succumb to the half-life,
to the indifference and apathy
of those cool and aloof individuals.
Nothing affects them.
Their lovers desperately cry
out for affection,
but they shrug their shoulders,
for they are always shrugging,
and transcend the messy drama
of the human situation.
Oh, this transcendental invincibility—
the shit of the bull!
Even Christ chose immanence
so He could feel as the people felt,
suffer as they did.
You must revel in your neuroses,
your sensitivities and sensibilities.
Burn your excitable characters,
do not extinguish this fire. Stay within.
Taste the immediacy of living.
Be in life with others.
Do not yield to the hypocrisy
the world demands!
Do not succumb to the shadows,
to the half-life, the half-light.
We are not gods.
Be human.”

Kamand Kojouri