ناخن های خون مرده روی لب هایم

دیوارها عقب نمی ایستند لحظه های ِ تنگی

نفس

نفس

نفس

می زنم خودم را به هزارتوی ِ هزاران در ِ بی دیوار وُ ...

- تلفن هم راستی سه بار زنگ خورد!

انگشتانی بی سو

از تمام ِحجم ِ پنجره

رخوت ام را

فریاد

داد

داد   می زنم.

اصلا رازی در میانه نیست؛

ما در تلخی ِ یک پیک به دنیا

و از معجزه آمدیم

رسیدیم دل کنده

با تنهایی ِ اتاق به وحشت تا ...

- ولی تلفن هم چه کشف ِ بیهوده ای بود!

تنها کمی نزدیک تر به کهنه گی ِ ظهر

تن ام

تابستان است.

خورشید قهرش گرفته

من، آشفتگی

تو به آغوش ِ عرق کرده ی زنی ...

- الو ؟! خانم، من که هزار بار به شما گفتم این جا زایشگاه ِ جنین های مسقوط  نیست، بله .... بعععله ... !

یادم بیانداز

فردا

وقتی لباس ها را حلق آویز می کنم

جوراب های پشمی ات را

با آستین های  رهای ِ لباس خواب ام

به باد

بدهم خودم را ...

زززینگ

زززینگ

زززینگ ... !

سه بار ِ خرداد از هزار و سی صد دور ِ هشتاد و هشت به لحظه ی دوازده و بیست بار نیمه شب

           A fine day to exit, way too far away, where there is “nobody”. It is as vast as your      sorrows could ever reach the malign nadir of your dispassion. Leave no trace! This panic puffs the stir among your way to the ending; there is none though. My eyes are so dimmed to see the way back; I am lost! Tune up the volume; cry out; go crazy! We are all lost… yeah, look, I am dying; I envy the dead. Deep inside silence; gawking at the waves; how forgotten memories…. deep within the moments, dying because of this curse, life

Did I punish you for dreaming?Don’t you ever dream of escaping? You look pathetic, paranoid, ..........................mistrustful, anomic, piteous and jaded 

 Chin up, buddy! Life is not that nonsensical as such. Calling the truce, I’m done; Fed up! I don’t  give a shit to what the ending would be. Life is bamboozling us. Have fallen in love, I suppose

?Hey you,Out there in the cold; Getting lonely; getting old. Can you feel me

حتی به تعداد دفعاتی که ثانیه ها تن می کشند روی سفیدی ِ ساعت

یا تکرار کلیشه ای ِ شب ها و شب ها

خیره به دیواری سفید

با گوشه های نم زده از کاغذدیواری

هنوز به زندگی ادامه می دهم

نه از آن رو که خسته ام

که هستم

نه از آن رو که هستم

چاره ای نیست ...

گلایه از نبودن ِ حضوری که شاید هیچ وقته نبوده

دل تنگی هم گاهی هست

مثل نگاه نجیبانه ی سازی گوشه ی فراموش شده ی اتاق

کوهی از کتاب با برگه هایی رنگی بین صفحات ِ 24 و 76 و 149 و ...

سه پیک گلایه

از اشک هایم که باور نداری

شرابی کهنه که دخترانه گی ام را به رخ ات بکشد

سه بادام از چشم هایی که همیشه توهمی از دیدن دارند

وقتی دور دست ترین ِ من باشی

سرابی از دوست داشتن ات

و من

سبا

جایی همین حوالی دنبال سرزمینی می گشتم

شاید روزی دلت برایم تنگ شد

شاید روزی برای دیدنت دنبال بهانه از کودکی ام تا امروز نبودی

 حالا هفت سین من کامل است

ساز و ساتور و سنتور از برای دلم که خونش کردی

سیخ و سنگ و سکوت که باشد شاید مرهمی

           An indubitable culture vulture who seeks for the answers to all her whys is what I am- if, actually, I really am. Albeit life gives us enough baloney, we are still way still; so ground to a halt our living progression has become, dear tiny teeny sphere.

         “I think, so I suffer!” is the most laconic way of getting expressed; getting suppressed; getting a long-standing vendetta.

I swear I have never had the chance to let out the scream that life is just too beautiful- in retaliation for my being a bit all-in; that’s why I have taken a liking to it… Have got a philosophy bug, I reckon!!!

          This past week was lorn enough to get drawn a blank. I read some articles of Freud, some pages of the book Literally Criticism and also I did learn some new words and I fell in love. How unpretentious life can be! Relishing the prospect of another relationship, I feel already depressed. It is supposed to be a huge amount of burden to be carried. Loving is one side of the coin and being loved is the-always-hidden one; I wonder why all intellectual beings need to know they are definitely loved while it can not be uttered by the actual presence of words in a usual dialogue.

          I, also, had a bit of quarrel with a person this week, afterwards I was dying of my own pricks of conscience. All of a sudden, the library assistance refused to fulfil my expectation and I started shouting at her. Not even taking a pity on her; not even thinking how rude I was by the cacophony of my squawking like a stupefying dull; not even apologizing; I was absolutely out of my mind.

         Norouz is coming. A two-week-off is an unwanted gift which gives us enough time to think what we have gone through and what we are going to face during the next year to come. Tons of books are awaiting my reading them; tons of words are biding the time to be memorized and so forth. I have this feeling that keeps saying 1388 will be so great- kind of self-projecting maybe. I will improve in my job and education to reach my only goal blinking far away whereas so close. Wish to fulfil them one by one by keeping this fast paced way. And, so … I’ve got nothing more to say!

درهای خانه دهان ِ بزرگی بود با تمام سردردهایی که بلعیده بود

زنی با موهای قهوه ای و چوب سیگاری سیاه

با موش های پر حرفش

همیشه منتظرم  می ماند

چای بابونه دم می کرد با خرده های بیسکوییت

ما هضم شدیم

در تنها زمانی که دلت برای دوست داشته شدن می لرزد

با دستهای عرق کرده ات

روی دامنی از دشت های آفریقا

کویر هم جوانه می زند

دلم برای خودم تنگ شده

خانه ام را بلعیدند

دست هایم را بلعیدند

من جسمی متولد شده بودم که حرف می زد و می نوشت

حرکت می کردم در مداری موازی با مرگ

زنده گی که می کردم کمی هم می مُردم

ما همه هضم شده ایم

در روده های پیچ       گیج می خوریم

مبادا سرم درد می کند ها را از ترافیک ساعت هفت و سی و پنج دقیقه ی صدر بیاورند

آن ها را می گویم

که همیشه حضور مرموزی در شعر پیدا می کنند

شما دارید درست خط هزارم را می خوانید

من حضور دارم در شعری که هضم می کنم

کمی مانده بود به هفت

مردی با صورتکی سیاه

دور ماشین ها بابانوروز می خواند

می رقصید

داد می زد

گاهی هم حتی زیر چشمی به دخترهای توی ماشین خیره می شد

کمی هنوز مانده بود

به حضور پر رنگ زنی که در خانه منتظر بلعیدن من است

ما همه هضم می شویم

رانیتیدین گاهی معده ات را آرام می کند

آخر هضم آگاهی ام کمی سخت بود

من اما بالا می آورم

تمام دوست داشتنت را که به تن فروشی ِ این دختر سر چهارراه هم نمی ارزد

کمی بالا می آورم

کودکی ام را

گاه حتی خودم را هم بالا می آورم

کسی که همیشه حضور مرموزی دارد

می گوید

اصلا ظرافتی در شعرم نیست

کمی از زنانه گی حرف می زند

بعد هم خوابش می برد

کمی

بعد

هم، درست وقتی نقطه می گذارم

می میرد

ما هضم شده ایم

در روده های حضور ِ نادیدنی ای

که می پرستیدیم

به نام ِ کسی که

می دانستیم

روزی

دست هایمان را که حتی سرد مانده

با اشک هایش

پاک می کند

ما

بالا آوردیم ...

          Shall the poor transport of an hour/ Repay long years of sore distress/ The fragrance of a lonely flower/ Make glad the wilderness? [i] To have been meticulous about each passed moment, I always go through all details thoroughly. At times, I wonder whether people live to make mistakes or they make mistakes to keep living. Seconds pass without letting you come into understanding of their glory. Life owns me; nonetheless, it has never come into contact with my awaiting an only fleeting visit.  Life owns me, otherwise, I would never be created to face being. Life owns me, since I own myself.

          Here from the world I win release/ Nor scorn of men, nor footstep rude/ Break in to mar the holy peace/ Of this great solitude. What is the gist of being? What would come up if human beings had never been born and created? Questioning is the only key of comprehending. It leads to suffering which is joyful. Conscious beings enjoy sorrowing over each and every up and down. Conscious beings love to hate and hate to love. This is philosophy, as long as, being sophistry. It suffices for my thirst of knowing more by playing with words to find the goals in forming the roles of my not being the… it can be continued till the end of the existence. Words own me, since I own them as well.

          I’d give all wealth that years have piled, The slow result of Life’s decay, To be once more a little child/ For one bright summer-day. This is the most laconic way of wanting. Let me descend back! I miss my childhood; I just forget easily. This is the pure emotional entanglement when you love to be or not to be; this is not the problem; this is life – in the figurative sense of the word. I enjoy my being alive, so I try. Neither do I live to make mistakes nor I make mistakes to live. I live for the sake of living…….!

Date; The very day when the sun rises though the moon falls; alas

[i]   Lewis Carroll, English novelist, poet, photographer, and mathematician

(1832-1898)

چنان آزاد که تنهایی را با دست های سنگینش

روی دوش صلیب می کشیدم

غرورم که ناله ای از دور بیاورد

دور شود

فراموش شود

چنان رها که می توانم سال ها روی همین ساعت

روی همین دیوار

رو به روی همین قاب ها

خیره بمانم

من کلیشه ای متحرکم

صبح ها هنوز بیدار می شوم

شب ها هنوز هم می خوابم

غمگین که می شوم

هنوز هم گریه می کنم

گاهی بلند

گاهی آهسته

هنوز هم وقتی گریه می کنم غمگینم !

    Carroll, Lewis (pen name of Charles Lutwidge Dodgson) (18321898) - English novelist, poet, photographer, and mathematician, best known for his fantastical childrens’ classics. He was a mathematical lecturer at Oxford. Solitude (1853) - One of Lewis Carroll’s poems. This poem marked the first use of the “Lewis Carroll” pseudonym.

SOLITUDE

I LOVE the stillness of the wood:

I love the music of the rill:

I love to couch in pensive mood

Upon some silent hill.

Scarce heard, beneath yon arching trees,

The silver-crested ripples pass;

And, like a mimic brook, the breeze

Whispers among the grass.

Here from the world I win release,

Nor scorn of men, nor footstep rude,

Break in to mar the holy peace

Of this great solitude.

Here may the silent tears I weep

Lull the vexed spirit into rest,

As infants sob themselves to sleep

Upon a mother’s breast.

But when the bitter hour is gone,

And the keen throbbing pangs are still,

Oh, sweetest then to couch alone

Upon some silent hill!

To live in joys that once have been,

To put the cold world out of sight,

And deck life’s drear and barren scene

With hues of rainbow-light.

For what to man the gift of breath,

If sorrow be his lot below;

If all the day that ends in death

Be dark with clouds of woe?

Shall the poor transport of an hour

Repay long years of sore distress

The fragrance of a lonely flower

Make glad the wilderness?

Ye golden hours of Life’s young spring,

Of innocence, of love and truth!

Bright, beyond all imagining,

Thou fairy-dream of youth!

I’d give all wealth that years have piled,

The slow result of Life’s decay,

To be once more a little child

For one bright summer-day.

March 16, 1853.

“I prefer cauliflowers to people” [*]

          “I am called a liar!” said the loneliest human kind of the earth with a bit of grudge. She knows her rights; she knows that breathing without seizing the maximum amount of possible air would be her right. She knows that walking through the half-deserted street by holding a leather bag which contains some forbidden poems or weeping on a hailing day would be her right. She even believes that the last empty chair on the pathway might be her right. She is just able to conjure up all thoughts regarding the very concept of “being”. Being a human kind; being alive.

         “I got suppressed!” said the little girl with her hands shivering from fear, and her voice quivering with indignation. She is deep in melancholy by starting off with an ode to her forgotten pride. People are stoning her to death due to her trying to defend herself in unarmed combat. There is a war between the pure reality and the veiled one. There is sometimes disguising the sun when it is even shining; Annihilating the tragedy of antebellum when the war memorial is still taking place; resisting the breach of confidence when the only individual who you can rely upon is the one who lets you down.

          “I am not dumb” said the scared girl with her all feelings shouting in front of the dead silent eyewitnesses. “They” can hear when it results satisfactorily; they can talk when it pictures them deep in the delusion of grandeur; they can see if it pleases the “teacher”. They can even be when someone wills. They do not exist, because they have never thought of being. I feel the pain! It is just too real as such. They only keep an eye on their own ways nowhere, it; however, would not show their humanitarian beliefs by which they get the chance to parade. What is this restriction surrounding you and suffocating any word to come? I really wonder if you do not understand or you are trying to pretend stupidity.

          “I let out the scream of pain” said an ordinary student of an ordinary university in an ordinary city. It is not the loss of food and water which wrecks my life; I do not live in Africa. It is not the out break of war which imposes the hardship upon me; I do not live in Iraq. It is not the fossilized stringent regulation which subdues my talents; I do not leave in Afghanistan. I just live in an ordinary country where I am not even allowed to know my inalienable rights; where I have to play the role of a dunce to respect my “teacher”; where I am forced to apologize for fulfilling my needs; where I pay a fortune whereas I am held in contempt incessantly.    

          “I feel lonely!” said the offended girl when all of her friends walked away. She is just too young to go through an isolated cube called loneliness. Although She has made her strongest pitch to gather some voices, she has got to traverse all the way alone. So shadowy the truth has become! She has comprehended that human beings can be defined by their needs; as tiny as an ant! She did apologize to a “teacher” for defending her right; I am so sorry that you scorn me. I wish you were able to understand that we become a part of what we despise. I am so sorry that you are shouting at me. I am definitely so rude and rebellious that you kick me out of the class. You do not know how sorry I am because of my ignorance to distinguish between your status and mine. I am sorry that you are the most selfish person I have ever come across. I apologize to each and every person in the whole world that you are taking revenge on your servants/students because of your position. I do apologize that I exist. I am so sorry that I exist; I am so sorry …

          I am neither a liar nor a fool. I am an ordinary student of literature who goes to an ordinary university. Two of my professors are the only reasons that I keep going to this ordinary university; Mrs. Ahmadi and Mrs. Fadayi. I do adore them; I do respect them; I do love them; I do believe in them.

[*] Virginia  Woolf