Masoud Ahmadi
(Photo: Masoud)

Research: Iran (Literature)

Masoud Ahmadi

Poems of Iranian Poet: Masoud Ahmadi
The Endless Street, Translated to English by Mansoureh Vahdati Ahmad-zadeh
The endless street
The vernal rain 
And the dead with no umbrella and with umbrellas in hands

The children that return from
Reading the old Testament 
And the thousand - years - old persons
Returning home with newspapers

On the other side of panes 
On a naked branch 
A canary opens its beak 
So that the cry of raven tears the shirt of evening 
And on this side
Through his loneliness
A deaf child smiles 

The endless street
The vernal rain 
And a night 
That comes with hiccup of a drunken man.
The Rainbow
The sorrow of life 
Is a dark cloud 
In our eyes 
The rainbow 
Can be seen 
By the sunny eye
The Bread
Leaving home 
Before the sunrise
Coming back home
After sunset
A loaf of bread
Gave us not a chance
To see the sun disk
Over The Thick Snow
The singing bird 
On a branch
Fell on the thick snow
The dumb child 
Rested her forehead on the pane
And bitterly wept
What Shall I Do?
I rain 
You open an umbrella 
I blow 
You seek a shelter
What shall I do?
As you turn away
From rain and breeze
Ought to
I am a door 
You open me not 
I am a bridge 
You cross me not 
Little by little 
Ought to wear away 
In my lonesomeness
My lonesomeness is a tiny shade
On the crest of deserted road
I wish 
I were a flock of birds
So, on disturbing my tranquility
Swinging to myself 
Like a smoke skein
And fly up in the air
Again, down on a tree
For another traquility.
After The Storm
When the storm stood still
The tree became bushy again
When it heard 
The sound of your wings
Tuberose Fragrance
The bule scent of the tuberose
Came from my mirror 
I raised my head
I saw you coming 
Deep from mirror 
Dew wet through silk of moon

Reaching out my hands
To take yours 
Again came to my hand noting 
But the blue scent of you.
But the gray scent of ah.
Under the rain
Morning came from the street and sat
With two sips of milk
She wetted her lips
And lighted a cigarette
And put her head,
In her hands

She got up suddenly 
With the clock ringing
She took her umbrella and raincoat
On going out 
She put a red apple
On the window ledge.
The Worn out Tree
A sore tree
Arriving from distance
Sits on the armchair 
Opens the red ribbon from yellow tresses

Now, the loneliness color
And the scent of pain
Float in my room

On going out 
She put a meddler and a cool ah
On my desk,
Beside the alarm clock, notebook and cup.
On The Stair
Thrown out 
Unfinished, away from each other
So throughout life
We seek the other half of ourselves 

Each evening 
Gaunter than each day
We are lost in the night’s fissure
And each morning 
Narrower than each night 
Coming out of the day’s cleavage
To start again 

Tick – tack stops not 
Till bent
Sitting on a stair
Letting our dreams
Go whit the wind one by one 
Waving a hand
Saying ah, and 
On The Shoulder Of Death
On the shoulder of death
Have you ever seen
A sill and a woman 
With her knitting and dreams 
A hatch and a man 
With his newspaper and wishes 
Or a roof and a child 
With his kite and dreams

Have you ever seen
Death running and carrying a street
With all its doors, hatches and roofs 
On its shoulder

You haven’t seen
That you let the sun, window, mat
And me with all my capabilities to love 
Go with the wind 
Beyond All Talks
The house full of five of the afternoon
And full of God 
And other lovely things
The parallel rows of books
The wooden statue of a woman who ponders
The yellow circle shine of light
On the corner of the brown desk 
And your glass cup
On the trembling edge of the circle

»Don’t worry
I read a newspaper or book
Till you come back«
He said that and now
On the other side of the window 
He is waving 
I mean God

In the lane 
The Renewal of moonlight 
And the prolongation of the rain 
And the stretch of my mind’s skin
From last year’s volume, just this time
That both you

And the talks full of tomorrow 
And the daisy scent, were here,
And the kisses that taste like dogwood

I am sitting at the desk
With wet clothes and wet dream
And the tranquility that I don’t know
Where it came from.

Beside the newspaper God sleeps 
And you, under the stone
In the last verse of this poem

I wish you hadn’t come firstly 
Or I had gone beyond the all talks
Before you came.
In The Dark
Some steps there were
Between the evening and the lane 
I was strolling in my mind
the heavy rain began to fall

I arrived, breathing with paper 
And wet thought 
And a key that turned in not

At last
The door opened to the hallway
And to ten foot of the entrance
That always insert a piece of yard
Into the square

The place was full of rain 
And full of a train compartment
That was passing behind the fig tree

You waved your hand over the window
That was passing
And then
There was no rain, no train, no you
And nor the thought that were with me two minutes before 
There was a piece of yard only
And the angle of garden 
And the crow’s sound 
That didn’t in the frame at first

At last
I and the third step in the yard 
Nothing was less 
Nor more 
Except the bare basket that
I didn’t know who had put it on the doormat

The electricity had gone off
And now, over the window
The moonlight was shining on the desk
And ballpoint and pile of paper
And on the head and shoulder of a poet
Who was far away from the last sentence and
Who wanted to go and bring a light.
Private Things
How , 
Nothing is just for you?
All is yours

The sun
When it makes the edge of the cup golden
And you smile

The rain 
When it takes you to that days
And to walk with him
Or go to bed

Also that shawl 
Remembrance of the first one
And those jasmines
Which are inside the book
Since long ago 

The taste of celery or lettuce 
In your mouth tastes different 
And the scent of wallflower
For the memory it alive only in you

Leaving these aside
That look or that ah 
Which you only understand 
And only you know what to do with 
The Stair Case
Take sparrows seriously
Ripe figs
The rain, the sidewalk 
The fancy and deep breaths

Bridge, I love you
The beauty of that Polish chair,
And that Turkmen shawl,
which remain lonely on the opposite balcony

his memory
the remembrance of the one who just walked
and whistled yesterday

the taste of tea
the sweetness of talk
the absence of a mad who wanted 
to convince his dead

His voice that still remains in the first landing
Mizzle, empty squares 
The one who is waiting behind all windows
And weaving socks and gloves for 
Someone whose size she doesn’t know 

This crow that has believed in itself yet
The mirror that’s not flat at all
The key that only you have 
The stair case.
Today Also
Today also someone passes beside you
And sits on a step at the corner of the lane 
And whatsoever tries 
Remember not where she has been 
All these years, and why
She is here now 

A train horn sounds from distance 
And from the corner of the sound 
A woman with a shirt, suitcase and uncolored mind 
Sits on a stair whit no hesitation,
Lights a cigarette , breathes an ah
And has a heart attack

Some one seeking a key all day
At last breaks the door that opens to darkness 
To a spiral stairs in nothingness

And the one 
Just coming out of a dream
Closes to herself all doors and 
Facing mirror, sits gazing at herself
Why did you see not the child 
Who today reached the shoes 
He had been 0dreaming of all these years
And that yellow jasmine
Which ran so long till it reached spring in Feb

I say not of the rain
That pours on my mind, on bed sheets and towels
And on the pail and broom and the crow
And My Wandering Till Next Friday
There is no time to the beginning of rain
Two spans, perhaps less than two knuckle joints
The bell rings 
Opening of door, Hi, greeting
This ruined never flourishes
Any where of this nowhere house

To taste tea, first fruits
Wall flower’s scent with dialogue
Jasmine's fragrance with to say “I love you”
Reading the notebook and like this and others
Her smile
And my over enjoying

To lie after lunch
A discourse about mosaic identity
And roving thought
Mirrors with door
Going with Pari Zanganeh’s voice, Farhad
Challenging with back street boy’s words
And next

The flash of an oblique look
And my sudden falling in the bottom of her pupils
And next
That still we are out of dress
And behind silence wet
And azure, perhaps
Silvery or yellow
Of more than half a million
Butterfly wing’s pollens

No time to The beginning of Saturday 
Two spans, perhaps less than two knuckle-joints
To “I must go”
What happens if you don’t go, impossible
Good by
The Click of the door that closes
Clicking of her sandals behind door
And to my wandering till next Friday.
At Least To The First Of This Her Last Word
Be not 
Be finished, spoiled
That whatsoever I run 
Reach not to myself next to her

She left noting
But these high heel shoes, This smile 
And this long age looking of herself
That still it remains at the depth of mirror 
Beside the open mouth 

However, I go on to reach, perhaps 
At least to first of this her last word 
» without this ego 
I won’t go any where
Even to bed with you«
I run 
Of course with the same rain
The same sea
Many cranes 
That was going to mirror whit us 
The same angels 
Who read and Fluent my written 
And that God 
Who on time closes his eyes, Smiles

Hadn’t she said so?
» you fit not without these and fit me not«

In my eyes
I have reached to the first of tomorrow 
That I am without shadow 
And no time to meet
Didn’t say so?
» two next Friday
Around Hassan Abad under ground station 
At dawn.«
It Is Up To You To Continue The Text
No matter
What ever you interpret
The unwritten above 
But now 
Please, bend a little and gaze on
Under the line 
No, you have not mistaken 
Each one of us is returning to one self 
To one’s underwear, to one’s shirt
And to the rest of the documentary film
To the heron
Who fly form the television screen 
To the roof of the temple 
In the mirror at that time 

The rain to where it was
Jasmine's scent to nowhere
But the corner of both memory
So also elm to elevator 
And from the first floor
To the first May of this year

In continuation of your blank reading 
We are returning back
To the first event
To search that hairpin
Which was very obtrusive, at that time

This pencil
And also this ball point
And whatever paper you want
The rest of the text is up to you
It is clear not 
Where we will end up
A place behind one of these sentences
Forest, cinema, coffee shop
Or again
In the middle of that event




Research: Iranian Contemporary Poems


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