Sholeh Wolpe

Sholeh Wolpe Poems

Sholeh Wolpe Biography

Sholeh Wolpe (born 6 March 1962) is an award-winning Iranian-American poet and literary translator. She was born in Iran, and has lived in Trinidad, England and United States. She is the author of three collections of poetry, two books of translations, and is the editor of two anthologies. Sholeh Wolpé was born in Tehran, Iran and spent most of her teen years in Trinidad and the UK before settling in the United States. The Poetry Foundation has written that “Wolpé’s concise, unflinching, and often wry free verse explores violence, culture, and gender. So many of Wolpé’s poems deal with the violent situation in the Middle East, yet she is ready to both bravely and playfully refuse to let death be too proud.” In an article for Poemeleon-- A Journal of Poetry Wolpe writes: "I belong nowhere. Every language I speak, I speak with an accent...Being a foreigner everywhere, not belonging anywhere, can be disquieting but once you’re over that, it is liberating. Suddenly you find yourself part of something greater, something indefinable and exhilaratingly new. You are granted access to places the existence of which is not on most people’s radars." Wolpe's recent writings are often about memories of exile and loss. "Her concise, yet emotive lines pull readers into vignettes and anecdotes that expand diaspora and immigrant narratives." A great deal of Wolpe's work also is concerned about the status of women in the world. "It is my belief" Wolpe said in an interview,"that women must learn to repudiate the unjust standards they are taught by the societies they live in, and empower themselves with a sense of self - demanding justice and equality of rights - and envision for themselves and their daughters a better life than the one imposed on them by male-dominated societies... I don’t think there’s much of a question that we still live in a world dominated and too often defined by men, however, I believe that women need to break out of this competitive mode, and, in particular, be supportive of one another. If we are to truly achieve equality and change the unjust standards imposed on us, women must unite and achieve it collectively." About her process of writing, Wolpe says, "When I write, I connect to a bottomless well within myself-- so deep that at some point I transcend myself. By that, I mean we are ultimately connected to one another and to an invisible world, accessible through a tireless, incessant searching that begins by going inward and eventually leads to what is no longer ourselves, but a collective self. Therefore, in my opinion, our “natural state” is more complex than we realize. It hides nothing. It is accessible. But, at the same time, it needs to be reached for, and that reaching is a journey that can take one a life time." Wolpe's literary translations have garnered several prestigious awards. In "Note to the Reader" in her anthology The Forbidden, Wolpe writes, "As a poet I understand the sting of seeing one's poem mutilated in another language. As a literary translator I understand that a poetic translation is recreation, a re-rendering of what cannot be literally duplicated." In the Editor's Note in Breaking The Jaws of Silence she emphasizes the importance of poetry and translation. She write: "From Damascus to Beijing to Tehran in every revolution or uprising, poets are among the first to be jailed. But the voice of the poet cannot be arrested.")

The Best Poem Of Sholeh Wolpe

"I Never Seen Such Days As This"

—Bahram (Pakistani 14-year-old held in an Afghan prison)


Like the pied piper
the mullah drives his battered truck
through dusty villages, his loudspeaker
singing: Join the battle against the infidels.
Fight for Jihad and live eternally with Allah.
Lift up your guns for Him and you shall never die.

Barefoot boys ragged, hungry
from years of hard soil, follow him
dancing into the straps of loaded guns,
pirouetting into caves and broken buildings

And the boys end up in a land not their own
but are told God is everywhere.
Many die. Others disappear
into dark prison bowels
where each day if you are 12, twelve filthy men
one after another . . .
if you are 14, then fourteen is your lot.

A father sells tea from a cart,
one cup at a time, washes the tiles
of a mosque with a yellow bar of soap
to earn the ransom the soldiers exact.

Every night in his dreams his son stands, calling:
Father, I never seen such days as this.

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