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Masoud Ahmadi
Poems
Iran
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Translated to English by Mansoureh Vahdati Ahmadzadeh
The Endless Street
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
Lonesomeness
My lonesomeness is a tiny shade
On the crest of deserted road
Fear
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
Suddenly
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.
Morning
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
Finish.
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
Ever
Have you ever seen
Death running and carrying a street
With all its doors, hatches and roofs
On its shoulder
No
You haven’t seen
That you let the sun, window, mat
And me with all my capabilities to love
Go with the wind
Sara!
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
Now
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
Still,
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
However
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
Smoking
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
Where?
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
Yes
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
Why?
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
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