Sách Thơ và Bản dịch

 Sự mâu thuẫn

Thế giới bên trong của tôi và thế giới bên ngoài va chạm

Trong làn khói mù của vụ nổ, tưởng tượng được sinh ra

Không còn có thể phân biệt được chúng nữa

Cuộc sống hình thành nên sự mơ mộng của tôi

Chỉ trong mơ tôi mới cảm thấy mình còn sống.

Sự mâu thuẫn của tôi mơ hồ, không thể hiểu nổi, tôi biết 

Chưa,

Tôi có thể sống với nó

Tại sao không có ai thử nữa?

Một câu chuyện vô lý

Một câu chuyện đầy đủ, từ A đến Z

Các yếu tố của một câu chuyện, tất cả đều tồn tại

Than ôi,

Một sự trớ trêu kỳ lạ của số phận, sự khởi đầu không đúng lúc

Sai chỗ vào sai thời điểm

Cốt truyện mơ hồ,

Sự pha trộn của thực tế, hình thành trong trạng thái tâm trí

Nhân vật của truyện, chỉ toàn là bóng tối

Từ rỗng

Sự kiện hư cấu

Đó là một loại ảo ảnh

Chỉ có thể tin được nếu giấc mơ có dây trở thành hiện thực.

Bài ca của bầy cừu

Bah, bah, bah, bah

Chúng tôi là những sinh vật hiền lành và dịu dàng

Không bao giờ làm hại bất cứ ai

Hòa bình và hòa hợp

Đồng cỏ xanh, thời tiết mùa xuân

Là tất cả những gì chúng ta yêu

Đây là bản chất của chúng ta.

Bởi vì sự thanh thản cốt lõi của chúng ta

Thịt cừu rất ngon và hấp dẫn

Sự thật này được biết đến bởi tất cả những ai

Đã từng thưởng thức chúng tôi trước đây.

Chúng tôi rất tuyệt và thoải mái

Ngay cả khi mạng sống của chúng ta đang gặp nguy hiểm

Trong phòng thủ, chúng ta không đá hoặc húc

Không đánh nhau, không gầm gừ

Những đặc điểm này là lý do

Đằng sau lớp da thịt mềm mại của chúng ta.

Khi chúng ta bị đưa đến lò giết mổ

Bình tĩnh và ngoan ngoãn dưới sự nhìn chằm chằm của đàn

Chúng ta đi theo tên đao phủ với con dao trên tay

Chúng tôi ghét bạo lực

Kẻ thù của chúng ta ngưỡng mộ đặc điểm này.

Khi một con sói hung dữ tấn công đàn của chúng ta

Xé nát đứa con của chúng ta ngay trước mắt

Trong khi từ cơ thể bị nghiền nát của tình yêu của chúng ta

Bị mắc kẹt trong nanh vuốt của anh ta,

Khi máu đang nhỏ xuống

Chúng tôi không phản ứng, từ chối bạo lực

Sự thanh thản nằm sâu trong gốc rễ của chúng ta

Sói biết sự thật này

Rất tôn trọng các giá trị của chúng tôi.

Khi một trong chúng ta gầm lên để chiến đấu

Sạc một cái   

Ai ở đó để đổ máu,

Chúng ta im lặng nhìn, sự khinh miệt trong mắt

Nghĩ rằng anh ta không phải là một trong số chúng ta

Bạn có thắc mắc anh ta là loài động vật gì không?

Sau đó chúng ta làm những gì chúng ta vẫn luôn làm

Ồ, ồ, ồ, ồ.

Tiên đề

Tôi sẽ không bao giờ chết nếu tôi không được sinh ra!

Ánh sáng ban ngày

Bầu trời sáng ngời, thật sáng ngời

Màu xanh vĩnh cửu không bị mây làm ô nhiễm

Bão không ẩn núp để phục kích sự bình lặng

Không có mưa rơi để dập tắt cơn sốt

Mùa đông chưa đến

Để vẽ một tiếng thở dài giá lạnh trên cửa sổ sương mù

Vũ trụ không âm mưu ngày hôm nay

Chuyến đi vĩ đại của gió

Làm thế nào để diễn ra sự tưởng tượng

Tuy nhiên, vào một ngày như thế này,

Thật buồn khi chứng kiến ​​cơn gió khi

Những mong muốn của Dandelion đã bị nghiền nát.

Xe đang lùi

Anh ấy đã thức hay chưa?

Bạn có bị lạc vào giấc mơ lặp đi lặp lại không?

Chiếc xe đang chạy nhanh trong cơn mơ màng

Chuyển sang đẩy ngược ở tốc độ cao

Một cuộc hành trình đáng sợ đến vực thẳm.

Anh ấy thức dậy và nhận ra

Chiếc xe chạy trốn chửi thề trái phải

Trên cùng con đường mơ ước của mình

Người lái xe bất lực trong im lặng

Xem vận mệnh của mình được tiết lộ.

Không có gì có thể được thực hiện để thay đổi

Sự thật đáng ngại của giấc mơ vô vọng của anh ấy

Một nhân chứng kinh hoàng, đó là tất cả những gì anh ta có

Phải chịu đựng một vụ tai nạn kinh hoàng

Trước hoặc sau khi thức dậy. 

Mưa lạnh   

Chẳng phải tôi đã đi dạo dưới làn sương mù đó sao?

Trên đường đến trường, tôi không bị ướt sao?

Bài tập về nhà của tôi không bị hỏng rồi sao?

Sự trừng phạt nhói lên trong lòng bàn tay trẻ trung của tôi

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

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

Chỉ có thể tin được khi

Trong một giấc mơ có dây mở ra.

Bóng ma

Khi tôi lang thang trong những con hẻm của tưởng tượng,

Lao vào mê cung của ham muốn,

Thiên đường của sự ngẫu hứng

Khi tôi biến mất trong sắc hồng của sự thất thường

Chìm đắm trong vực thẳm  

Khi sự sống còn trắng hơn trong nhung lụa của giấc mơ  

Tôi thật vô tư, tôi cảm thấy tự do biết bao

Đặc ân này là một thói xấu hay đức tính?

Tôi tự hỏi

Một cảm giác sung sướng tột độ, chỉ có thế thôi.

Kho báu chôn giấu

Đã chôn vùi hàng ngàn năm

Vải của tâm hồn

Ý thức tập thể của con người

Thật vậy, tinh thần lang thang vẫn còn sống

Khi nó đập vào giấc mơ của tôi,

Đốt cháy một ngọn lửa, sau đó

Một cảnh tượng, một giác quan, một mùi hương, hay có lẽ là một giai điệu

Thắp lên hồi ức không phải quá khứ,

Thực tế là của tương lai

Đó là sự pha trộn kỳ lạ,

Tầm nhìn của tôi thỉnh thoảng

Điểm mấu chốt trong những gì tôi đang sốt sắng ghi chép.