A poem by Ali Abdolrezaei
From far away you bury your father
wipe your mother’s tears from far away
in a café where you can ambush loneliness
you chat with a weeping house
video call from afar
Mother three steps above everything like a moon is up there
kissing Mahsa (moonface)
goes after Mahtab (moonlight)
and yet her demeanour which carries a headache
is the execution of my placeholder
in the the arms of a few women
In a banned house
they’re all coming
like I have left
I’m in deep sorrow
this sorrow of my words
in Langrude
at the foot of a bridge that’s more a stallion than running
they killed my father
they killed my father
but
only in Langrude
otherwise each year someone’s
leaving, breaking away
Friday is a black house that was massacred
and the family, the Iran which was executed at home
since we chanced out of the loins of Eve
and Adam became man’s exclusive pa
we put Jesus in the Church
so the hero so hidden in women’s loins
would manifest instantly
to send death
that’s ahead of the horse
far from the house
At the foot of the bridge that so lacks a father
as Jesus son of Merry
I was so walking in myself
as to put my town to shame
Not so shamelessly as Juda
to unleash wolves to kill the father
I should keep quiet
so the rabid dog won’t wake
and bark and bark in the house
and the blood letter lurking in female loins
won’t get the chance
to cut a wound in the morning
now that the horse is the principle
and death the bailiff
with the sorry state of my eyes
that make a small sea for the frog to swim
what do I do if I don’t risk
no longer will few extra throats harbour such a lump that makes a necklace to my throat
death
is sat squatting in my sorrow
the knife can no longer help my life
the bottle is so full
that any longer has no wine
and the wound that has a depth of ruin
is so effective
that blood is random walking through my drunken veins
the one who was my pa
the big baba
the friend on road
the one seen
jamming with me
I was left alone
Am alone
by my J’s
am alone
by my J’s
more alone
by my J’s
more than ever
This alley is more for the job than a knife
this house from the arm
this pain
will last another man
this man
will rise in another place
the road’s father is from either side
and death that is life’s destination
is the services café along the way
It has a lantern
but it’s dark
has bitter tea in narrow waisted cup
but sweet
like a lament spilling off the call of lovers
A Ashura band of chest-beaters this side of the way
singing oh my Hosein oh my Hosein
A band of chest beaters that side of the alley
Oh my standard bearer’s stature where art thou?
Like a nation bequeathed of Imam Hosein
a home town is left behind
from a little house
at the end of a road
in a remote place left behind
A nation that put to fire its country like a match
slayed the bedstead
and morphed the spouse to a sea
Long live the wind that was but late
Long live the desert that has no sea
and mother
mother
a mother who can no longer
pin her lips onto my cheeks
The road has a journey on either side
and me a half torn hyman a half torn hymn of Sohrab on the wedding night
I haven’t shed the father’s blood to come true
I’m whiling death’s remit
like a shoe with laces untied
I’m such a lout
that could for the killer
who has a stocky stature
turn my thumb to a spade
you say Ouch!
And be careful
god is great hallelujah
father is not dead hallelujah
and love
like a recipe with water’s flesh against the mince with the face of a cow is all ready
Mary is not anti magdalin
Leila is not anti love
and La Elaha Ella Love
is a hailing
that has a son from tomorrow’s
the alley in each house is the father
and for pa
a nurse
that is privately
and a rice paddy which can’t be sold without my signature
I am heir to your wound father
what have I to do with your garden
give your assets to your brother
and your son in law who sleeps with the most sisterly god
enjoying his time
I’m like a brigade who’s lost a country
my base is lost, no longer to be found
I’m gone like a sunrise after sunset mother
at least sweep the clouds off the mountain of Karbala1
plow the snow weighing down on my roof
don’t cry
just your being there for me to look into your eyes
is still more than enough
the fact that you kept saying God is Great aloud as I misbehaved while you were praying and now that God is Great keeps bugging your life
God is Great
Cradled in the sunset going down the slope of Thursday
Halva again
why don’t you donate the dates again?
Oh my lord
The half finished painting of my wedding night
and I’m such a lout
that cannot help being a fathered child
I’ve even forced my Sunday to go to church
to sit next to Marge somewhere along the isle
and constantly
to wink at Mahsa who is a female Jesus
I’m no longer the person that I was
I have no time
and when ever I have no time is the (right) time
I am no longer a man who is no longer like Adam
if you are
just say Ouch!
