Blesok no. 84, May-June, 2012
Poetry


Sunday Becomes Lost Here
Translated by Omid Ghahreman

Azita Ghahreman



The Boat That Brought Me


Behind the face that resembles yours
Old names disappear
Blood has crumpled snap-shots
And the copper bird's wind
Seems to have worn my desert
Over my pull-over.

I'm not naked
Sometimes words are lost in my coughing
And so is the frothy moon
In the glass

This journey always spinned round my tongue
And my veins hid nothing from death
To draw calligraphic footsteps
Summer had confessed me
This crumpled green fuzz on fingers of ice
Wave was beautifully ebbing and flowing like love

Sometimes I miss the boat
That brought me here
And here before winter's eyelids
My witnesses are this time-worn sky
And a suitcase that hides my blue profile.




Sunday Becomes Lost Here


Wind reveals the environs of running more lucidly
Light has secret balconies

Sunday becomes lost here
From the dress that has no choice to fly
From among all those levels and lines and icons
Only the thin eyebrows
Wrote a short example
Room's vigilance walks at nights

Behind the rustling of the papers
I'm stupefied like a woman
Who perpetually takes the little girl from water
And she slips back in again
You'll believe it as soon as you blink




I Had No Home


Earth became the game-board
With crossroads of lines
A triangle that has leaning peaks to fall
On this dead horse
Whichever path you took I was lost
I had no home
A suitcase with high porticoes
Four gowns and a tree
A root to wind in polar day
A sky with tight zippers

Folding cities
Cloudy charm
A reminiscence of the girlish black eyebrow
In heavy rain

Then you kneeled down to see
Moon a hole in the sky
So wherever it's possible to be lost
She would change the poems route
And turn the dream back to front

It was only your eye
That wrote the death lingering
Or the beast would have eaten my hand
And April moles
Wouldn't take the wound seriously
Eight years of age
Have grown thin
Like a plum wicker
And loneliness has a small beak

Whichever way you came form
I had returned
Sometimes love was dragging me
Sometimes I was dragging love with my claws into her

And this room departs
With a lunatic behind the windowpanes
To broaden the laughter

Summer with rotten white cover
I've sold the Nietzsche
The antique porringer and the sugar bowl
And the violet dress in the wardrobe
Had been worn-out.

I had no home
And up through the seam of this running
The needle was jumping

You were not the cloud's tail
And wind will not follow the lozenges
I won't be found lower than God's hollow
More radiant than the dove
That I gave birth to
And flew away from me
Black words lift
The woman's wild mouth

A mountain of fallen borders
A white tooth in the voice of grass
Did the wind's course
Reach your home
Amidst these lines?




The Forth


Do I resemble you more?
Or she, whose hands were dedicated to words
And her fingers, stained from the green ink
That would give her secret away?

Do you resemble me more?
Or does she who dialed the numbers
Look like you more
Or me, whose hands were dedicated to words?

Does she who is sitting on this chair
Wearing sheer black stockings
Resemble me more?
Or you, who have run through all streets
With black shoes?

Does the woman who has shaved her head
And is in love with the ward’s doctor
Resemble me more?
Or you, who have turned the mirror?
Which one of us
Me or the third one who has erased her face
Or the forth one
Whose hands were dedicated to the wind?

Translated by Roshanak Bigonah




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