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Granaz Mousavi
Poems
Iran
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Translated to English by Manavaz Alexadrian
Wet Poetry
The apoplectic sound of clouds is heard from the sky
the road that continues all the time
always looses you at the bend
and the mirror
is the only thing that has survived
to caress your tired hair every morning.
I still think
that one day somebody will come up the stairs
to turn the door on the hinge of tomorrow
lay some sky behind the curtain
and it won't make much difference
whether the telephone will ring or not
we hear the sound of sleep of sparrows from the sky
and from hands without umbrella
the sound the sea.
From Dying, for those who day a thousand times in a day
I won't give up my soul
no, I don't want to
but the whole earth trembles in my body
I am expiring
and the inverted sky
breaks the dream of light
into pieces
.
The more I keep myself away from yesterday
the smaller I become
and I know the day will come
when the sun won't pour
on my bones.
I know that without me
the shirt of the earth will not loose its color further
again the inverted sky
will pour
from rain
and a shirt will soak
on the rope.
Instead of Lullaby
In vain your are Mounting the ladder
your hand cannot reach the rosy cheek of the moon
Jungle
is not the painting of your green pen
in vain your shriek
only sparrows escape
You see
nobody will lays a wet handkerchief over the moon's forehead
where are you going?
Your tresses have been woven by fate
small girl!
they will return you
they will return you.
Airport
Search my bag, what is the use?
A sigh is hiding in my pocket which always has heard: stop!
Let me alone!
Actually I sleep with raspberry bushes and will not be daunted
why are you aiming at a woman
who tears up the heart from the wall
pins a heart on her shirt!
There isn't anything in my suitcase
except hairs that have committed not sin
let me alone!
I have dreamed that I stole this heart from God and I can't reach tomorrow
I have dreamed that where I go
my shoes will stick to Friday
does all the earth suffer from leukemia?
I take augury with a dandelion and free it to fly to the moon:
return childhood Friday
return with that boy on whose hand a kite had grown
and I fell in love with him
with all my ten fingers that I knew how to use
why do they always aiming a woman
who has pinned a heart on her shirt?
Here always flights are delayed
either in the bow and arrows of warring alleys
or the flowery skirt of the garment rope
anyhow the bats get old
at least return my childhood picture!
more strange than the kite that was left in the wardrobe
I eat beads and I miss my home
the antenna aims at the sky but
but my shirt has embraced God on garment rope.
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