ΤΡΙΑ ΜΙΚΡΑ ΠΟΙΗΜΑΤΑ

ΑΜΠΑΣ ΚΙΑΡΟΣΤΑΜΙ (1940-2016)

ΤΡΙΑ ΜΙΚΡΑ ΠΟΙΗΜΑΤΑ

Μισώ τη γλώσσα

τη γλώσσα την πικρή

τη γλώσσα την ακονισμένη

την γραμματικώς ορθή ομιλία

την υπαινικτικότητα.

Μίλα μου

των σημείων τη γλώσσα.

***

Ένα μαύρο σύννεφο

ρίχνει βροχή

πάνω σ’ ένα κυπαρίσσι

ολομόναχο

στην πλαγιά ενός λόφου καμένου.

***

Μες στο μυαλό μου

είναι ένα δέντρο

που τους καρπούς του

του τους κλέψανε

πρωί-πρωί χαράματα.

Μετάφραση: Γιώργος Κεντρωτής.

ΑΧ, ΜΕΣΑ ΣΕ ΤΟΥΤΗ ΤΗ ΣΙΩΠΗ

ΦΟΡΟΥΓ ΦΑΡΡΟΓΖΑΝΤ (1935-1967)

[ΑΧ, ΜΕΣΑ ΣΕ ΤΟΥΤΗ ΤΗ ΣΙΩΠΗ]

Αχ, μέσα σε τούτη τη σιωπή
και με αυτήν εδώ τη διαύγεια

να γινόσουν χώμα μες στην αγκαλιά μου,

ναι, μέσα σε τούτη τη σιωπή,

και με αυτήν εδώ τη διαύγεια
μες στην αγκαλιά μου
και κάτω απ’ την ομπρέλα των μαλλιών μου,
όσο του νέου μου κορμιού το έδαφος σε πίνει
σαν βροχούλα απαλή
ή σαν χάδι της σελήνης.

Μετάφραση: Γιώργος Κεντρωτής.

ΙΡΑΝΕΣ ΠΟΙΗΤΡΙΕΣ 5: ΦΟΡΟΥΓ ΦΑΡΟΧΖΑΝΤ

FOROUGH FARROKHZAD (1935-1967)


MY BELOVED

My beloved
with his bare bold body
rose over his legs,
fearless like death.

On his firm face
An array of brief lines
was tailored by his revolting limbs.

My beloved surely belongs
to a faded clan.

In deepness of his eyes, it seems
A Tartar is constantly longing
for advent of a knight.

In brightness of his teeth, it seems
A barbaric male is patiently waiting
for cornering a prey.

My beloved is like the earth
in his blunt fated air;
in his concrete cruel rule.

My beloved is wildly free.
My beloved is like a whole instinct
in core of a dark isolated isle.

My beloved is originally estranged,
like veiled gods, like lone monks.
My beloved is a male from ancient eras,
And from the essence of beauty.

By his tread, he awakes
the innocent sense of scent of youth.

With his aura, he reminds
the fond flavor of mythical tales.

He loves with such a faith
all bits of life, all tads of soil
all laughs and sorrows.


He loves with such a faith
void roads of parish, green veins of trees
slight smell of soap, fresh taste of milk.

My beloved surely belongs
to a faded clan.

My beloved...
He is a natural man.
And in this wicked wonderland
He must hide away.

My beloved…
He is a simple man.
And like last rest of vast past beliefs,
I hide him always away,
in the wake of warmth of my breasts.



Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani.

ΙΡΑΝΕΣ ΠΟΙΗΤΡΙΕΣ 4: ΦΑΡΖΑΝΕΧ ΧΟΤΖΑΝΤΙ

FARZANEH KHOJANDI (1960)


FLUTE PLAYER

Where is the real bazaar?
I want to buy an eyeful of kindness.
I want to dress my soul in hyperbole.
There's a merchant who brings me
a whole spectrum of leaping colour
from the city of desires.
But here at the bazaar at Khojand,
faces are sour, talk is hot
and I long for the cool sweets of Tabriz.
Where is the real bazaar?
The flute-player tells me:
come with your ears used to insults,
and listen to the light recite a prayer to the dark.
Open your eyes used to pale shame
and see the beauty of Truth.
Where is the real bazaar?
The flute-player is there
calling my heart towards his hat
full of old change, but not a single pearl,
and since I am the jewel in the teardrop
I must go.

ΙΡΑΝΕΣ ΠΟΙΗΤΡΙΕΣ 3: ΠΕΓΚΑΧ ΑΧΜΑΝΤΙ

PEGAH AHMADI (1974)


ONE PERSON

Neither one person
nor two
they had walked their shoes up to thousand
and their hair had been carried away by the comb
hundred years ago
put it on another person's shoulders
the album is flapped through rapidly
without dropping hairs
her young pair
had stuck hard on the picture near the branches
the album is flapped through slowly
with falling hairs
she had leaned impatient
at the sea!...

ΙΡΑΝΕΣ ΠΟΙΗΤΡΙΕΣ 2: ΜΙΝΑ ΑΣΑΝΤΙ

MINA ASSADI (1943)


A RING TO ME IS BONDAGE

I do not think of prayer-mats,
But I do think of a hundred roads
Which pass through a hundred gardens
full of silk-tassel trees;
I know the Kibla;[1]
It has its place where happiness is;
And I say daily prayers
On the Silk Roads,
With the music of sparrows.

I do not know what Affection means,
Or what can be the difference
between one land and the other.
Aloneness is what I call Happiness
And desert is what I call Home,
And whatever makes me sad I call Love.

To me a five-pound note means Wealth;
I describe anyone who picks a flower
as Blind;
And in my eyes a net,
that separates the fish from water,
is a Murderer.

I look at the sea with envy
And say to myself:
"How small you are!"
Perhaps the sea
Also feels the same
When it joins the ocean!

I do not know what is Night,
But Day is what I understand well.
To me a flower-bush is a Village
And a short walk in the gardens
of memories, Freedom,
And any meaningless smile, Joy.
To me anybody who has a cage
in his possession
is a Gaoler;

And I see any thought
that may remain useless in my mind,
as a Wall;
To me a ring is Bondage.

I do not think of prayer-mats,
But I do think of a hundred roads
Which pass through a hundred gardens
full of silk-tassel trees.

ΙΡΑΝΕΣ ΠΟΙΗΤΡΙΕΣ 1: ΣΙΜΙΝ ΜΠΕΧΜΠΑΧΑΝΙ

SIMIN BEHBAHANI (1927)


GRACEFULLY SHE APPROACHED


Gracefully she approached,
in a dress of bright blue silk;
With an olive branch in her hand,
and many tales of sorrows in her eyes.
Running to her, I greeted her,
and took her hand in mine:
Pulses could still be felt in her veins;
warm was still her body with life.

"But you are dead, mother", I said;
"Oh, many years ago you died!"
Neither of embalmment she smelled,
Nor in a shroud was she wrapped.

I gave a glance at the olive branch;
she held it out to me,
And said with a smile,
"It is the sign of peace; take it."

I took it from her and said,
"Yes, it is the sign of...", when
My voice and peace were broken
by the violent arrival of a horseman.
He carried a dagger under his tunic
with which he shaped the olive branch
Into a rod and looking at it
he said to himself:
"Not too bad a cane
for punishing the sinners!"
A real image of a hellish pain!
Then, to hide the rod,
He opened his saddlebag.
in there, O God!
I saw a dead dove, with a string tied
round its broken neck.

My mother walked away with anger and sorrow;
my eyes followed her;
Like the mourners she wore
a dress of black silk.