Embedded Files
Księga poezji i tłumaczeń
Księga poezji i tłumaczeń
Ambiwalencja
Mój wewnętrzny świat i świat zewnętrzny zderzają się
W oparach eksplozji rodzi się fantazja
Nie da się ich już odróżnić
Życie kształtuje moje marzenia
Tylko w snach czuję, że żyję.
Moja ambiwalencja jest niejasna, niepojęta, wiem
Już,
Mogę z tym żyć
Dlaczego nikt inny nie próbuje?
Absurdalna historia
Kompletna opowieść od A do Z
Elementy opowieści istnieją wszystkie
Niestety,
Dziwny zbieg okoliczności, przedwczesne rozpoczęcie
Złe miejsce w złym czasie
Niejednoznaczna fabuła,
Mieszanka rzeczywistości, uformowana w stanie umysłu
Bohaterowie sagi, nic więcej niż cienie
Słowa są puste
Wydarzenie fikcyjne
To jest pewnego rodzaju iluzja
Można w to uwierzyć tylko wtedy, gdy sen, który sobie wymarzyłeś, się spełni.
Hymn Baranków
Ba, ba, ba, ba
Jesteśmy potulnymi i delikatnymi stworzeniami
Nigdy nikomu nie krzywdź
Pokój i harmonia
Zielone pastwisko, wiosenna pogoda
To wszystko co kochamy
Taka jest nasza natura.
Ze względu na naszą podstawową pogodę ducha
Baranina jest apetyczna i pyszna
Fakt ten jest znany wszystkim, którzy
Już wcześniej nas smakowałeś.
Jesteśmy tak spokojni i zrelaksowani, że
Nawet gdy nasze życie jest w niebezpieczeństwie
W obronie nie kopiemy i nie ranimy
Bez walki, bez warczenia
Te cechy są powodem
Za naszym delikatnym ciałem.
Kiedy zabiorą nas do rzeźni
Spokojny i posłuszny pod okiem stada
Podążamy za naszym katem z nożem w ręku
Nienawidzimy przemocy
Nasi wrogowie podziwiają tę cechę.
Kiedy okrutny wilk atakuje nasze stado
Rozdziera nasze dziecko na oczach wszystkich
Podczas gdy z roztrzaskanego ciała naszej miłości
Utknął w kłach,
Kiedy krew kapie
Nie okazujemy żadnej reakcji, odrzucamy przemoc
Spokój jest głęboko zakorzeniony w naszych korzeniach
Wilki znają tę prawdę
Szanuj nasze wartości.
Kiedy ktoś z nas ryczy, by walczyć
Naładuj ten jeden
Kto jest tam, by przelać swoją krew,
Patrzymy w milczeniu, z pogardą w oczach
Myśląc, że nie może być jednym z nas
Zastanawiasz się, co to za zwierzę?
Potem robimy to, co zawsze robiliśmy
Ba, ba, ba, ba.
Aksjomat
Nigdy bym nie umarł, gdybym się nie urodził!
Jasne światło dzienne
Niebo jest jasne, tak błyszczące
Wieczny błękit nieskażony chmurami
Burza nie chowa się, by zasadzić się na spokój
Brak deszczu, który mógłby ugasić gorączkę
Zima nie nadchodzi
Narysować mroźny westchnienie na zamglonym oknie
Wszechświat dziś nie spiskuje
Majestatyczna podróż wiatru
Jak realizuje się fantazja
Jednak w taki dzień,
Tak smutno jest patrzeć na wiatr, kiedy
Życzenia Dandelion zostają roztrzaskane o ziemię.
Samochód cofający
Czy on jest obudzony czy
Zagubiłeś się w powtarzającym się śnie?
Pędzący samochód w jego marzeniach
Zmiana biegu na wsteczny z dużą prędkością
Straszna podróż w otchłań.
Budzi się i zdaje sobie sprawę,
Uciekający samochód przeklina na lewo i prawo
Na tej samej ścieżce swoich marzeń
Bezradny kierowca w milczeniu
Oglądał jak ujawnia się jego przeznaczenie.
Nie można nic zrobić, aby to zmienić
Złowroga rzeczywistość jego beznadziejnego snu
Przerażony świadek, to wszystko, czym jest
Skazany na dostrzeżenie strasznego wypadku
Przed lub po przebudzeniu.
Zimny deszcz
Czyż nie spacerowałem pod jego mgłą?
Czy nie przemokłem do suchej nitki w drodze do szkoły?
Czy moja praca domowa nie została zniszczona?
Żądło kary w młodych dłoniach moich
Didn’t rain give me a cold, runny nose, and a rasping cough?
Horrible taste of syrup, didn’t I down with frown?
Wasn’t my first kiss under a broken umbrella?
Sweet steam, flavor of rain, between our lips.
If it wasn’t rain,
Where does the misty recollection come from?
Why does it flow in my poem,
Shower my thoughts?
Why do I think of rain when I’m blue?
Why does it complement my delight?
When my aunt died, did rain wash my tears,
Or did my tears make it fall?
If rain has no feelings, where does the sympathy come from?
Now, once again, this capricious rain pouring down
Knocking on my lonely door,
Splash on the walls of sorrow
Seeping through the window cracks
Drip on the vintage photos
Through the foggy glass, I feel the pain of
The frozen beads on nude branches.
Autumn has taken over; leaves have fallen
A long, cold season’s on the way
Rain knows it well. Maybe I should, too.
Darkness
When darkness creeps inside me
I watch it with despair
When it fills my soul
I touch it with tender
And when it lurks in solitude
I keep it company
Maybe it has something to say
Maybe I need to listen
Maybe I must learn.
Death and I
Life is perhaps
A hollow tomorrow of today
As today is for the day prior
Death is a decaying reminiscence
The lasting impression on life.
“Live as if you’ll die tomorrow.”
This advice I took to heart all along
Lived in the moment, precariously
Erratic in deed, whimsical thoughts
As capricious as I was
Every single day, I wondered
Which tomorrow I would die?
Years passed, and as I grew older
Oh God! I thought,
The golden years have arrived.
The conditional clause “If” in the phrase
“Live as if you’ll die tomorrow.”
Was on the verge of redaction
From the last chapter of life
Losing relevance to the text it once revived.
Divine retribution, final revenge
The fangs of death
Haunted I was by a rasping thought
The mere fact that soon I would not be alive.
The horror of oblivion, dread of nothingness
Morphed into an eerie allure,
A peculiar temptation to explore death, my nemesis.
The ominous bird of my mind
Soared in the depth of reverie
Touched the void, forbidden to see
I wrote the abyss, mocked its dark shadow
Praised its mystery, scorned the malice
The yearning of intuition was a magical path I followed.
One night, as I plunged into a trance,
Death appeared to me.
Now, it was everywhere to keep me company.
I shared with death many anecdotes
It revealed to me so many more.
Tales of the other side, grim and horrific yet,
Fascinating to hear, and it was.
Oh! Death knows a lot
It has seen it all.
Death is resourceful, crafty, and shrewd
At times, it is so merciless, too.
But in all fairness, it wasn’t as awful as I thought.
It does have a sense of humor
That I don’t care for at all
Once it said, and I quote
“Life is perhaps, death’s definitely not.”
The wisdom of the axiom I praised,
The death’s tone and the smirk turned me off.
Death has its quirks and a softer side one needs to realize
As ironic as it sounds, death appreciates art
Since it knows well, by creation, mortals will never die.
Based on our shared instinct for survival
Death and I reached a pact, an agreement
Oh! A sordid affair, a tacit accord it was.
I don’t vilify death in my poetry and prose
In any way, shape, or form
No cheap innuendo, cliché, symbolism,
No excessive whining in alamode noir.
No dark canvas in my art
Gloomy birds in the sky
I pledged to show more respect
To destiny, to death, that’s coming about
The bottom line is that I play along.
And in return
Death would let me survive,
So long as I create art.
The contract was binding on one principle alone
To live forever through art or to simply die!
We also agreed, and it’s as follows:
The makeup of life, the essence of living
Pleasure and pain; sorrow and delight
Hope, despair, wishes, and desire
Are only mine to decide.
I confess, and as peculiar as it sounds
Death is bliss, an inspiration,
It gives a true sense and direction
To my very life.
Death of Light
A spectacular, historic event
Was to happen in sky
It was a lifetime display
That’d affect our lives in every way.
The human race is far more advanced
To be concerned with such a change
Astrophysicists and scientists proclaim.
The long awaited night finally arrived
The masses were anxiously waiting
For sky to turn into stage
A free show, memorable event
They were lucky to witness this in their lifetime.
Millions of people rushed outside
To witness the exhibit in person.
When the night fell
Sky tarnished with thick clouds
Chatter hovered, hoping the unfortunate haze
Would not ruin their pleasant evening.
Suddenly,
A calm breeze caressed the scene
Swept the massive clouds
Before the dazzled eyes
The infinite stage was set on a dark backdrop
Cheerful spectators rose to their feet
Enthusiastic applause in a stupor
When the shiny crescent finally appeared
In the heavens before their eyes.
The sole performer of the night
Innocently coiled her dazzling torso
Like a timid young celibate given
To an intoxicated beast on her wedding night
The fragile virgin looked pale, aloof on spotlight
The light was shimmering through her sad eyes
The rowdy audience cheered the performer
The main attraction was about to start
The shimmery crescent silent on stage
Under the gaze of millions
Performed her last act, how captivating it was
When she quietly wept in solitude
Glittering tears fell from heaven
Shattered crystals of divine chandelier
Rained over the enchanted sky
A wisp of her tantalizing hair,
Sparkles of silver bulbs
Trickled down onto earth
She recited her elegy with twinkles of tear in her eyes
As she wept, her crescent torso shrunk thinner
Minutes later, when she fell apart,
Her radiant particles, glowing pieces, vanished in the dark.
When her elegance withered into a murky void
And the world plunged into abyss
The audience gave a standing ovation
For her grand finale in sky.
Then the masses of earth morphed
Into long, ominous shadows stretched to eternity.
The murmuring phantoms of the earth
Wickedly wiggled through the maze of their existence
To lurk in their dark dwellings
With a faded reminiscence of
The beauty and the light.
Dream
I am the interpretation of my dreams.
A shattered mirror of reverie
Fragmented fantasies
Disjointed thoughts glued by magic
To form days of my life.
That’s
What
How
And who I am
The personification of my dreams.
Nothing real will happen tomorrow
If it’s not in my dreams tonight
Or the nights I had before.
Nothing has ever been real
Had it not been present
In my dreams prior.
Life is a trance
An illusion on stage
I play an active role
In a theater of a sort
Reality is
I don’t see dreams
Dreams are seeing me.
End of Semester
I wander in a haze, lost in a bizarre trance
Found myself on a college campus to witness
Students are chatting, some in rush to class
All holding books in their hands
Everyone has a purpose, a reason to be around
Why am I here? I cannot understand
The eerie setting gives me the creeps,
Anxiety beyond belief
Suddenly, I realize I, too, am a student
Today is the end of the semester
Time for the final exam, yet
The textbook, I don’ have
The subject, I have no clue since
I’ve never been to class.
I ask others to show me the way
To where I take the final exam
Roam around the buildings to reach my class
Peer through the window inside the room
Students are all seated, and the test is in progress
Too late I must be! For what, however, I never grasp
My heart is pounding, thinking what to do
At the end of this charade
Anxiously, I nudge the door to
Wake up thinking why
Such a peculiar dream, I continuously have.
Essence of Life
Life is nothing but incoherent poetry
A murky dream inundated with enigma
A fragmented puzzle of countless bits
Crystals of darkness, elusive slivers of light
Bestowed upon us at birth
Not a choice of ours
We interrupt this dream numerous times
In the haze of awakening, we desperately strive
To piece together, to make sense of it all.
Alas,
When we have it all figured out
Suddenly we realize
None of the pieces have fallen where they belonged
Then we despise our awakening
Wish we’d never entered this farce.
Guns and consciousness
In memory of the victims of an elementary school massacre
What is wrong with us as a nation
Fallen in love with our guns?
Obsessed with an outdated right
“Of the people to bear arms”
Written two centuries ago
“A well regulated Militia to secure a free state.”
Is that why we worship guns?
When was the last time,
People deterred the tyranny of their government
Formed Militia with guns in their hands?
Are guns legal for hunting?
How many rounds of ammunition
Discharged from an automatic gun are needed
For a prancing deer to fall and die?
It’s not about security, liberty, or constitution
Violence as a vice is engrained in our psyche
Villains are praised, and mobs admired,
In vicious games and Hollywood crap,
Our Pup Culture is to blame.
Gun manufacturers are profiteers
Filmmakers and songwriters, too
Politicians all have strings attached.
Complicit in gun-related crimes.
How come no one in corporate media
Dares to rise above the fray
Ask the hard question
Why so much bloodshed in the name of freedom?
The morality of a nation is on the verge of collapse.
Add to this shenanigan a broken mental health
Scarce budget for a badly needed care
A large population is ignored every day.
Dystopia is in the making, the stage is set
For a young anti-hero, a Joker of the sort
Demented villain and fully armed
A lethal blend of delusion and bullets
Snaps into action to take charge.
And in a matter of minutes
Tragedy is in sight, carnage everywhere.
The blood of children stains on our conscience
Fallen angels wallowed in vain.
Happiness
I know happiness exists
I felt it in the nap I took
On my aunt Zari’s lap
I savored it in the curry stew
It was in the white velvet of the first snow I ever saw
And in the darkness of Van Gogh’s Starry Night.
I know happiness exists
I heard it in the ring of a phone call from one I love
And I cuddled it in the last drowsy moments before I fell asleep.
It flashes in my mind for a second or two
So I sense its presence
It’s buried in the rocky shore of my childhood
The turbulent sea of my youth
I know it’s there
So real in memories
I can almost touch it.
Heroes
Heroes are bones in our conscious graves,
Perished in prisons, exiled in solitude.
And there’re traitors, imperfect idols, damaged goods
Who failed to live up to our ethical code.
Heroes are free, they don’t cost any
So it’s good to have a few,
To use as we please.
Like the sardines, cream cheese,
And ketchup when we eat.
Next to bandage, cough syrup
Aspirin pills for quick relief.
They don’t take up space
Shuffled in a pile of vintage photos,
Lost in the lines of our unread books.
At the age of injustice,
The pivotal moment when
We’re bound to alter our fate,
Sluggish we are to make a move.
Yet, our devious minds
Always tell us what to do,
We callously play ignorant,
Sit silent in the comfort of our zone,
Relegate the burden to heroes, our gullible fools.
We may applaud the valor of our courageous dolls,
Years later, of course, after they die.
When it’s safe and convenient,
We commemorate their sacrifice,
In a chic gesture after a sip of wine.
It’s a shame, the deceptive game we play,
An infamy, to embrace such farce,
Molesting our heroes just to get by in life.
I drown
On a stormy night, I drown
Colors mean nothing in the dark
The only dimension I fathom is depth
In an abyss, I’m intertwined
Foamy mouth is bitter
Hands surrender to life
Feet stand on nothing
Eyes are void cavities
Cold wind is hissing
Heart bleeds
A mirage I see, an illusion
Bits and pieces of hope are floating afar.
I Will Become Rain
When the wind blows
Scatters my ashes;
Then
Particles of my being
Rise to sky
Sigh and blue unite
When birds take my wishes
To dark clouds
Heaven cries
And
A drop of sigh
Locked in a crystal of light
Will gently fall
That’s how destiny
Once again
Sows me deep in the ground.
From the sigh one day
Hope germinates
As green as spring
As pure as water
And as innocent as daylight.
Inferno
Inferno
How I reached the sky?
I don’t know
Why?
An impulse perhaps, to share the joy
As I gazed into heaven
When the clouds painted the canvas
White on deepest blue
I opened my arms
Threw my hands in the air
And
Splashed an invisible fluid into sky
As the saints do
To bless the sinners.
And soon,
Sky became ill
Blue turned gray
White became dark
The vicious brush of wind
Painted a hunting image
Before my eyes.
The lightning occurred
Storms separate positive and negative charge
Amongst innocent clouds
The air heated hotter than the sun
And it came, the ravaging thunder
To ignite it all
The huge clouds exploded
An enormous mushroom
Of fire filled the sky.
The dark wind blew
Blazing clouds collided
They all exploded in symphony
A harmonic devastation
The heaven was on fire.
Then the rain came
My desperate hope
To quench the thirst
Of hatred and despair
To calm the air
Yet, from the blazing clouds
Huge columns of fire
Welded heaven to earth
Tragedy everywhere.
I started it all
A cardinal sin I’ve committed
The rare moment of joy
When I shared my delight.
I am burning with desire
To tell my side
Alas,
Who can ever believe my tale?
With whom can I ever share my pain?
Who can ever be impartial at my trial?
And
What punishment can ever fit my crime?
My Beloved!
What are you?
Perhaps,
The distant memories of a rowdy child.
The Goosebumps in the cold dark cinema with a frosty Pepsi in hand.
Perhaps,
The garlic flavor of bologna sandwich, the orange color of Fanta
Or the salty flavor of doogh*.
You’re the burning sensation, the sting of punishment
In the palms of my hands.
The painful strikes of the merciless flog
For my sloppy homework or being late to school.
You’re every word I misspelled when I was dictated to.
You’re the sweet steam of the baked beets on the street vendor’s cart.
You’re the stripes of the plastic balls I kicked as a child.
You’re dark and gooey as melted tar
Stuck to the sole of my bare feet in the summer heat of Ahvaz.
You’re the brawls I had with friends on school breaks.
My sore throat, my doctor excuse.
You are my ruthless teachers in third grade and fourth.
Slap in the face,
The excruciating pain of a pencil squeezed between my fingers.
You’re my first day of spring, the New Year’s joy
Aroma of roasted nuts, the haft seen*, the hyacinth
The crisp bill, the money my father gave to everyone
The New Year’s break, thirteen days of happiness
You’re as scarlet as poppies,
Blanketing the meadows in the spring of our town.
You’re the scent of bread
My aunt baked every Friday
On the roof of her house.
Oh! and I dodged your wrath
Every time my angry mother threw
A shoe, orange peel, or a spatula at me
Now that I think of it, that spatula, I didn’t dodge
On that autumn afternoon,
The spatula hit me right in the forehead.
And I cherished your mercy,
Your kindness and compassion
In the lap of my favorite aunt after every punishment.
And I enjoyed your loans from Aunt Zari’s petty cash,
The coins I borrowed, the ones I never repaid.
You’re my feverish youth, one stolen kiss
I swear to God, only one from my first love
That forbidden peck at the age of fourteen!
The mischievous innocence and the scandalous affair
The long family feud that came afterward.
You’re in the books I read in solitude
The new horizon I saw, the Illicit ideas, contraband thoughts
The taboo of your life, and certainly mine,
Was freedom for all.
Then came the turmoil, the revolution,
The decisive moments of both of us
A rush in my veins, an ideal to make a dream come true
I was there with millions in the streets,
In the heat of upheaval, in the Labyrinth of Tehran.
We made the change; of course, we did
Yet,
When the fever quenched and the dust settled
Hopes dashed, fear, despair, sorrow remained,
Only terror was left behind.
Then it came the time to leave you behind as I had to survive
Surely you understand why.
To live in a foreign land, hoping that one day,
I would call it home
Long years passed, and that day never came along.
My Beloved!
You’re an enigma, a tall shadow
An innocent angel born in the limbo of my hazy dreams.
I’m intoxicated by an exotic mélange of sentiments
Some I don’t comprehend
Some I don’t dare to share
Some I never had before
And some I may never have again.
· Doogh is a Persian yogurt drink
· Haft Seen is a traditional Persian New Year (Nowruz) celebration display
Nuisance Hope
In the winter of my garden
The luscious green is dormant,
The yard is inundated with weeds
Only a few blown dandelions may be seen on the ground
Four silent raindrops in a row on a slender leaf of a crabgrass
morphing into the crystals of ice before my bewildered eyes.
I cry, and my tear falls right between the frozen bulbs.
My fallen tear shivering in the breeze
became a heavy burden on the frail, slender grass.
I moan in sorrow, but my hazy sigh turns into morning dew
One more frozen marble added to the fragile weed.
The wildflower finally breaks
We all fall, shatter on the ground.
My only hope is that if the warm spring finally arrives
My sigh blended in with the tear
Germinates the nuisance weed once again in the coming year.
Rogue Imagination
Before writing the first word, the pen leaked
Ink spilled, smeared the leaf, and moments later
The page was ravaged by
A capricious trance before my dazzled eyes
Feral dreams, words not yet spoken,
Ethereal shadows transpired.
Enemies clashed in a silent chaos.
When random dark specks bizarrely morphed
Characters were born, a dark mélange of fantasy
Rhythmic pleasure of awe, an eerie verse came to life.
A text, a passage
Riddled with daring questions,
Fake quotations, a myriad of exclamation marks!
None ever made sense to me,
Neither the haunting images
Nor the overwhelming thoughts.
Soldier
In the name of God, in defense of motherland,
For the cause of liberty or the purity of race
I’ve shed so much blood in the history of mankind
And died millions of times as a result
I know thousands of ways to kill and one way to die
I don’t make decisions since
In the army, questioning is not advised.
Wars have evolved,
They look humane and more appealing now.
I hardly ever see death and destruction with my own eyes.
Pushing a button from above, destruction of enemy below
I Perish thousands of lives, reduce towns to rubbles in a blink of an eye.
It’s a game, I’ve been told.
And the losers are always soldiers,
Comrades are blown into pieces, limbs on the ground.
If I return home alive,
I’m told to reset my mind and carry on as usual,
Forget all I had done until the next war comes along.
If nothing seems normal anymore,
If I’m haunted by nightmares
Act erratic, emotionally disturbed,
Or have an itch to kill everyone,
Then my condition is called:
PTSD, Post-traumatic Stress Disorder
“Not to worry”, doctors say:
“These are common syndromes among veterans of foreign wars.
More popular than Syphilis and Gonorrhea combined.
The good news is that therapy and medications are available now.”
As a soldier, I’m always on the right side of history
In the lower corner of the page, in the margin,
I’m remembered as unknown.
As a patriot and a warrior,
I only execute orders because I am a soldier.
My head is precious only when it’s lost.
Solitude
In the climax of ecstasy, my resin was poured,
Destiny of a sort, the cast was deformed.
In the center of a circle, I feel outside
Well defined I seem,
In the frame I pose, so misfit I am,
The image is distorted.
I look, and what I see is weird,
My vision is at odds with norms,
Unorthodox, eccentric it appears.
I voice my mind, yet
The words I utter,
Are peculiar to everyone I know.
The way I see, how I perceive, my feelings and thoughts
Anything I do and whatever I say
It’s bizarre, uncommon, and naturally wrong.
This is the essence of loneliness
True meaning of solitude!
Standing on One Foot
One day, as I was standing on one foot
In the back corner of the room
Being punished for causing commotion in the class,
The superintendent knocked on the door,
Stuck his bald head inside
And called my name out loud.
Students turned their heads wondering
What other rules had I violated this time?
The teacher relinquished my sentence knowing
A harsher retribution was to come about.
I schlepped to the principal’s office
Not having a clue what was going on,
To me, it was always a bad omen
When authorities were involved.
As I walked into the office, I noticed,
It was packed with teachers, staff, and parents sitting around
Stunned to see my father in the middle
Chatting with the principal of mine.
The room suddenly plunged into silence
Everyone gazed at me like an exotic animal.
Nervously, I stared at my shoes
And listened to the teachers’ dismay with my grades
My lack of respect for the rules,
Was reported to my father by the principal.
As he went through a long list of misconducts in class and the yard,
Referred to low grades in math, reading, history, and art,
My father nodded in agreement,
Approved every charge and added
“I fully support your reprimands, whatever they might be
To teach a lesson to this mischief, I don’t mind.”
He then pointed his index finger
At his son and declared,
“Everyone! Please look at his attire,
His long dirty nails, messed up hair, and filthy shoes.
Is this how a decent pupil goes to school?
You don’t believe, sir how many times,
His mother and I tell him right from wrong.
We simply cannot control him at home anymore.
You have my blessing to do what it takes
To discipline this rowdy child of mine.”
Chewing my fingernails, head dropped down,
I was wondering how guilty I was.
My damn sense of humor, the witty observations,
The sarcastic comments I made in class,
The roots of all my problems,
I learned from my father and no one else.
In all family gatherings, he cheered my antics every time.
My hyperactivity, lack of patience,
And the disregard I had for order and laws
I inherited from my mother’s side;
My grandpa was an anarchist, for crying out loud.
Now that the traits of my parents,
Engrained in my genes, passed onto me,
Went haywire, and I was out of control,
Fingers were all pointed at me to take the blame
As if I was an alien born out of this world.
At the exact moment of weakness,
The most vulnerable and lowest point in my life,
My flesh and blood, my father,
Disowned me in public and was not on my side.
The Old Picture
Where was I? I asked every time I gazed at the shades of gray
On the vintage photo of my brother and pregnant Mom.
The gloomy faces etched on the paper made me wonder.
“You were there, outside the frame,” my sister told me once
For so many years, I examined the lines on the grim faces, frozen in time
Searched for a truth, if there was one.
The posers both stood by a room I remembered well
Locked their views to a point off the frame
Where my sister said I was at that precise moment.
The room was black, the doorway blocked by mother’s belly
So, where was I exactly? I wondered all my life
Was this the summer midday when I jumped in the water basin
Hit my chin hard on the faucet.
Is this the echo of my agony?
My shivering body, my injured face on my mother’s gaze
Seized on the paper a short distance away
A silent moment, a dreadful calm in the presence of pain.
Are they wondering why I was always in trouble?
Is this seconds before my father was called to take me to a doctor
Or seconds after the punishment for adding blood to water?
I was obsessed with a torment fading in a crooked frame,
Next to me, locked outside.
One day, as I touched the image
Twirled my finger on an old wound on the dull surface,
As I had done time and again to see the source of despair
The dust cleared, and the tarnish vanished,
The reflection of a man appeared
Right there in the image, twirling his finger
In a desperate attempt
To see his future in his distant past.
Vincent and Franz
Vincent and Franz were my neighbors when I was young
Each lived in a corner house
At the end of our dead-end alley, invisible to the naked eye.
Where was this neighborhood? Some people ask.
The ones who know where I was born don’t believe a word of mine.
Iran has no foreigners, let alone two in your side of town.
Vincent was Ana’s little brother, I explain,
The youngest son of a pious family that lived next to the mosque.
Ana, the coquettish girl who was touched
By devout worshippers and married men alike
Such a story I have no reason to devise.
Who do you think was behind
The scandalous affair of Haji Morad
The respectable rug merchant in the bazaar?
Ana!
Why do you think Ibrahim, Ana’s father,
Cut her throat in sleep one night?
I know this tale first hand,
Vincent painted the crime.
The stream of blood drenched her pillow,
Tainted her young plaid skirt
Ruined the doll she loved the most.
Vincent was not talkative at all
A reserved character, belligerent at times
Yet he could capture the detail
Of every mirage engraved in his twisted mind.
Frantz was a bastard child of a housemaid and a judge
He told me once himself
Never being shy of calling his mother a whore.
Frantz had a wealth of knowledge on self-gratification
It was he who taught Vincent and I
How to enhance our pleasure by refining our minds.
Expert on how to molest innocent words with grace,
To defile a virgin without ever touching her flesh.
The dead-end alley in which we lived,
Was long and gray,
Inundated with filth and deception
Even rain couldn’t wash away.
Crooked homes leaning on one another,
Amorphous walls erected high
Doors warped with despair,
Ironed windows distorting light.
And I never forget the scent,
That mystic aroma of their kitchens
Their mothers’ cooking I pined to taste.
Yet the rule was clear: I was not to set foot in their homes
As everyone in the neighborhood knew
Vincent was insane, and Franz a Jew.
The only friends of my childhood
The ones with whom I’d got along,
Were two disturbed individuals by all accounts.
We shared wickedness, our perverse delight
When we staggered for hours in starry nights.
Wandering specters, that’s all we were
Caressing the velvet of fantasy,
Lost in the haze of life.
What I loved
First, I fell in love with sour cherries
Then the girl next door
Later, love or reading,
Books, freedom, and justice.
None worked out well so far
A cherry gave me a choke once
The girl’s father slapped me around
Reading was illegal
Blacklisted I was, on the run,
Justice came after me
Landed in prison for a long time.
And now,
Cherries, love, and freedom
Leave nothing but bitterness,
The taste I have in my mouth.
A Bizarre Tale
A well-arranged narrative, beginning to end
Every element of a tale exist
Alas,
Beginning’s untimely
The place where it ought not to be
The plot is nothing but ambiguity,
A reality within imagination
The characters, all shadows,
Words distorted
Events all fictitious,
This entire illusory saga
Wiarygodne jest tylko wtedy, gdy
W przewodowym śnie rozgrywa się sen.
Widmo
Kiedy wędruję po zaułkach fantazji,
Zanurz się w labiryncie pożądania,
Raj kaprysu
Kiedy znikam w różowym odcieniu kaprysu
Utopiony w otchłani
Gdy przetrwanie bielsze w aksamicie snu
Jakże jestem niezamieszkany, jak bardzo czuję się wolny
Wadą czy zaletą jest ten przywilej?
Zastanawiam się
To po prostu błoga ekstaza.
Zakopany skarb
Pochowany przez tysiące lat
Tkanina duszy
Zbiorowe sumienie człowieka
Rzeczywiście, duch wędrowca jest żywy
Kiedy rozbije się o mój sen,
Zapala ogień, a następnie
Widok, zmysł, aromat, a może melodia
Przywołuje wspomnienia nie z przeszłości,
Przyszłości, w istocie
To jest egzotyczny melanż,
Wizja, którą mam od czasu do czasu
Istota tego, co gorączkowo zapisuję.
Page updated
Google Sites
Report abuse