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A Wondering Collection












A Wondering Collection

I was escaping the opium roads
and was counting my children.
The summer of the insect was on the wane of the moon.
The earth was shaking its dusty trousers,
and the anxious moon
was weeping
naively (on) its pendulums
around Earth's orbit.

No wounded man was invulnerable.
The youthful muscles had been turned to ashes.
My skin had been endured,
and rejuvenated the
  environs of the middle-age.
I was not riding with the stone inscriptions,
the nightmare of my tribe accompanied me.
My shadows
  were accused to be a dear,
and my tribe's nightmare was condemned to a lost chain.

I forgot my national shoes
and my poems
I had taken my madness
and my star
 was still lurking without a sky.

I escaped
from one century to another century,
from a continent to the oxygen calendar;
with a overclouded suitcase
to Halley's comet;
I escaped to a fat century
which was making layers of ozone
by one hand
and was sobbing noisily
in a handkerchief
 for the termite's nostalgia.

At the beginning it was a cry of exultation
and fire
and every long winter night
was as long as a cigarette.
The moon and sands
were closer.
The coast of wind
with its wooden pipe
was transporting the moon's sleep
from the agitated ship to the jetties
and caused the landing-places
to grow more unconscious.
The scent of the firewood
had spread over the harbor's nostrils
and the harbor
had spread its breakfast table
on the damp and sultry roof and
  blue vested winds.
grew on the snow's spangle
and from the restless grape
on the summer's branch.
The cloud
 was the eternity of rain
and we
  were becoming precious
by the alchemy of the sun.
I was looking at you on the canvas of the sky.

The moon
was opening its windows.
The sands
 wanted you drowned.
The sea
  was sighing for your summers.
Nineteen eighty four
  smelled after tobacco.
Amsterdam was yellow,
and we
hurrying with the speed of silver,
  dropped down
  from the other side of the coin

always has a horrible dress.
Sometimes it looks the color of these ordinary overcoats
and at other times
it is like a cloudy shirt
that yawns
with closed buttons


From the shirt of lily
to the honey spraying bees
a blank line stands between us.
Open a window in the snow!
the world sing a melody!
The earth is full of blots
  and the hands of humanity
grow fainter
  bid by the gangrene law.
  has a dark blue winters.
How many songs
can Virgil's shirt
the world sing a melody!
Believe in the blank line!
in the branch of alcohol,
the smugglers of fancy,
and the injection of moonlight
on the moonless alleys!
the world sing a melody!

becomes empty of myth.
Ah Agamemnon,
Take up your wounds!
Put on your raincoat
and bestow your corpse
to Achilles!
for at the west of Helen
  small masks
    and gods also
      grow old.

Before dust had arrived
invulnerable caravans
without eyes or heels
set in the west of a swamp.
always was beginning with leave
and was weeping with yellow.
O lost love!
the lamination of your I.D. card
was in the vicinity of the dew,
and exile
was of the oldest cat of the neighbor
  in age and years.

With perforated squares
and with brass filled skies,
on the bilious roads
and bridges raised by gangrene,
nobody could see anybody
During the conversation of the wind
the newspaper
was swelling more dense with the accumulation of protein
and at evening
  it flapped
the enriched ham

The organs of wrath had written:
in order to pass
  to the prostate
until further notice
no notice is further notice.
You were so nice
that in the chill of prostate also
you used to mail your letters
from the moon
and you loved General Petin as well
at the gates of Louvre.
you were so good
that I wished
 to cancel
   my I.D. card.

You had written:
Ah Samuel,
with these boots
(that nothing can be done)
I do not expect
for any Vladimir,
and "I would exchange all my kingdom with a horse."
Sometimes you were so nice
that I wished
you would mail your I.D. card
  to me.
But you knew well
that bus stations
 have escaped,
and the sleepy tramways
  will not stop
    at any station.

Those days when the Muse had escaped
I had no more mouth
to sing.
I had grown so careless
that my corpse had remained in my hand,
I even
hadn't thought of hiding it.
I took Jaspers
and I cut a short way to Shelling.
Philosophy had stood on its feet
on Heideger's valleys
and Heraclitus' waves.
The tired October
wasted its red shirt
and in the queues for MacDonald
with a toothless smile
canceled its food diet.
The dead athletes
 were carrying the tired October.
Stretch your legs
out of the moon!
  is passing
with its cigar.

With my sleeps
 -darlings of night -
    I fell down
from the pitfall of an unavoidable woman,
from her ruined jaws
that Babylonian spirits
  were ruling.

grew silent at the shores,
and I who had walked
 midway from magic halves
  up to Mercury,
had come
with imaginary lines,
empty handed,
in an introvert fall
with an instinctive wound
and a smile ruined
  by inverted sequences.
I followed my forty years' funeral
within winds,
and with pieces of my shirt
I wept on the shoulders of Christian calendar,
and again
I ran away towards a black satire
in a manner
that the mass of Paris
escaped from me in wise night.

O lost love!
I bestow 
written lilies,
fiery wild carrots,
and the magic of sparrows in the tumultuous shirt to you!
to which suspending sky
  must I escape?
Within the virus of stars
sit down and scan the window!
before Hepatics
yellow color
 brakes the door.
With dead words
say what is the name of Hamlet?
I doubt
the cabinets and
my repeated deaths.
I pass over the alloy of the dead.
In oppressive roads
  they carry
the extension of the moon on their shoulders
and snow is falling from its linen.
Immersed in sodium
it leaves the many blotted panther.
Look at her
  in the fresh linen,
and the tobacco bazaars,
in a complete wound,
  and dark and incomplete
    I.D. card!
I look at the pictures of the dead.
Perhaps life
is the fruit of quakes of earth
and living souls
are the offspring of a vain rotation.
  o wandering name,
to what secret nocturnal letter must I resort?
One can compose
a plan full of fire,
an old jest,
a hunchbacked sea
and summer plains , 
  can be compiled,
but my hands
(I don't know where I have left my hands)!

Follow the negatives,
a jaw
supporting the flakes
has defeated the melody of language.
  I set
within the sleep of benches,
and with winter coughs
  I grow hallow
up to my shawl.

Translated by   
Manavaz Alexandrian and Banafsheh Hejazi


سر بر بالش گرگ و ميش
پرتاب به حسی گمشده در خيابان
ژوليده در اسارت متابوليسم
از خرافه های كولی
تا عريانی اساطير
چهار عطسه
                     سهم آفتاب بود
و پيراهن چهارخانه
           هفت بار بی طاقت شد.


در سكوت ملافه ها
و حاشيه های بعد از ظهر
از حوصله ی خيابان می گذری
با ماه گريخته در پيراهن ات
از جزاير ليمو سر در پی ات می گذارم
به توفان بگريز!
كه در محكوميت گندم
جنجال پيراهن ات را
                              دوست می دارم

از ويروس شهر
به پلكان ماه می گريزی
و با قهوه ی ريخته ات
آخرين كسوف را
خميازه می كشی

فرو ريختن
بر اقامت خاك
عبور برگ
از پشت سنگ چين
و گردش نيلوفر
در شيپورهای رنگ
خم می شوی
بر تاول زمين
و تا غير ممكن عكس ها
سيگارت را زخم می زنی
پيراهن ات ادامه ی خيابان است
از شاخسار كانالها
                            ميوه ای بچين!

بر شانه های فصل

گيسوان پناهت
آن آشوبگران زندانی
به فرياد خاموش
از جغرافيای جوانسالی
                             صدايم می زنند
بر می گردم
شانه به شانه ات
                     در ميان قرن
تكيه می دهی به شب
به بازارهای بی رؤيا
                         می نگری
لبخند می زنی
و بر شانه های فصل
                          چراغ می افروزی
از رازهای جمهوری می گذريم 
و در رنگين كمان شهر
خانه هامان را گم می كنيم
سه شنبه را گم می كنيم
اتوبوس را گم می كنيم
و سياره به سياره
مهتاب و
             ساعت و
                          تقويم را
                                         گم می كنيم.  

سلجوق خانه

آواز لاجورد
در آبگيرهای شهر
دختران زنگار و آسمان سلجوقی
و گام های ارزان
                         كه خيابان و كوچه را
                                                         تعقيب می كنند.
ساده نيستم
و تا هيچ خيابانی ادامه ندارم !

يك منظومه ی آواره

از پيراهن زنبق
تا زنبوران شهد افشان
سطری سپيد در ميان ماست
در برف پنجره ای بگشا!
جهان ترانه بخواند!
زمين پر لكه و
                  دستان آدميان
بر قانون قانقاريا
               كمرنگ می شود
زمستان های كبودی دارد
پيراهن ويرژيل
چند سرود
                  دوام خواهد داشت ؟
جهان ترانه بخواند!
سطر سپيد را باور كن!
شاخسار الكل
قاچاقچيان رؤيا
و تزريق ماهتاب
به كوچه های ماه گرفته را
                            باور كن!
جهان ترانه بخواند  !

سخنرانی ها استانبول يک منظومه آواره زبان لرزه فيس بوک