Soosan Khanoom

Celestial Music

I have a friend who still believes in heaven. 
Not a stupid person, yet with all she knows, she literally talks to God. 
She thinks someone listens in heaven. 
On earth she's unusually competent. 
Brave too, able to face unpleasantness. 

We found a caterpillar dying in the dirt, greedy ants crawling over it. 
I'm always moved by disaster, always eager to oppose vitality 
But timid also, quick to shut my eyes. 
Whereas my friend was able to watch, to let events play out 
According to nature. For my sake she intervened 
Brushing a few ants off the torn thing, and set it down 
Across the road. 

My friend says I shut my eyes to God, that nothing else explains 
My aversion to reality. She says I'm like the child who 
Buries her head in the pillow 
So as not to see, the child who tells herself 
That light causes sadness- 
My friend is like the mother. Patient, urging me 
To wake up an adult like herself, a courageous person- 

In my dreams, my friend reproaches me. We're walking 
On the same road, except it's winter now; 
She's telling me that when you love the world you hear celestial music: 
Look up, she says. When I look up, nothing. 
Only clouds, snow, a white business in the trees 
Like brides leaping to a great height- 
Then I'm afraid for her; I see her 
Caught in a net deliberately cast over the earth- 

In reality, we sit by the side of the road, watching the sun set; 
From time to time, the silence pierced by a birdcall. 
It's this moment we're trying to explain, the fact 
That we're at ease with death, with solitude. 
My friend draws a circle in the dirt; inside, the caterpillar doesn't move. 
She's always trying to make something whole, something beautiful, an image 
Capable of life apart from her. 
We're very quiet. It's peaceful sitting here, not speaking, The composition 
Fixed, the road turning suddenly dark, the air 
Going cool, here and there the rocks shining and glittering- 
It's this stillness we both love. 
The love of form is a love of endings. 

Louise Gluck 

Bach In Beyrut

A moment of harmony in Beyrut -
We suddenly heard from one of the houses
Bach music beautifully played -
The whole company stopped
To hear the music.

The pianist played beautifully
And the whole company stopped and
listened to the exquisite harmony.
The bombs did not succeed to stop us -
but a sixteen year old girl
Playing Bach music -
Stopped us!

True Believer

For those times I have enough faith
to fill my mouth, I offer a quick prayer
to the ceiling. I want to follow that prayer
through the roof, past treetops and clouds.
Someone said each star is made of prayers
gone unanswered. The expression blind faith
annoys me, but I understand there are those
who have seen visions. I am not one of them.
My religion hides inside the sword of Orion,
and will not be taught in this lifetime. Lightning
can manifest itself as long as weather argues
with sky. Some cultures are able to create
storms, call the rain from air. I believe in
rainmakers, and they believe in me. During
high mass, the stars collect prayers recited
in Latin. I don't think God understands Latin,
but He appreciates our willingness to learn
other languages. You can smell the whiskey
in the confessional when being forgiven by
a priest without faith. Not one of my sins
has ever been forgiven, but I still send an
Act of Contrition to a star -- there is always
the small possibility of my innocence. It is
not enough to believe, one must be a true
believer (another expression that has always
annoyed me). You were supposed to put money
in the collection box every time you lit a candle.
I paid for one, and lit them all. Each candle was
a prayer I could never afford. I bear a striking
resemblance to Saint Theresa, but I have no luck
with plants. I believe in astrology, numerology, and
gynecology. Sometimes, I believe in pharmacology.
I have been blessed with the ability to destroy myself.
There are daily temptations, but I have a strong will,
and a curiosity about natural endings. My name has
never been mentioned in the bible, but there are subtle
references to my sins -- none of them original. I am
not superstitious, but I still make the sign of the cross
when passing a church. All of my prayers sit quiet
inside a star. I am a believer.

Priscilla Barton 

Painting a Room

Here on a March day in ‘89
I blanch the ceiling and walls with bluish lime.
Drop cloths and old newspapers hide
the hardwood floors. All my furniture has been sold,
or given away to bohemian friends.
There is nothing to eat but bread and wine.

An immigration visa in my pocket, I paint
the small apartment where I’ve lived for ten years.
Taking a break around 4 p.m., 
I sit on the last chair in the empty kitchen,
smoke a cigarette and wipe my tears
with the sleeve of my old pullover.
I am free from regrets but not from pain.

Ten years of fears, unrequited loves, odd jobs,
of night phone calls. Now they’ve disconnected the line.
I drop the ashes in the sink, pour turpentine
into a jar, stirring with a spatula. My heart throbs
in my right palm when I pick up the brush again.

For ten years the window’s turquoise square
has held my eyes in its simple frame.
Now, face to face with the darkening sky,
what more can I say to the glass but thanks
for being transparent, seamless, wide
and stretching perspective across the size
of the visible.

Then I wash the brushes and turn off the light.
This is my last night before moving abroad.
I lie down on the floor, a rolled-up coat
under my head. This is the last night.
Freedom smells of a freshly painted room,
of wooden floors swept with a willow broom,
and of stale raisin bread. 

Katia Kapovich

From Gogol in Rome, 2004
Salt Publishing

Thanks For Remembering Us

The flowers sent here by mistake,
signed with a name that no one knew,
are turning bad. What shall we do?
Our neighbor says they're not for her,
and no one has a birthday near.
We should thank someone for the blunder.
Is one of us having an affair?
At first we laugh, and then we wonder.

The iris was the first to die,
enshrouded in its sickly-sweet
and lingering perfume. The roses
fell one petal at a time,
and now the ferns are turning dry.
The room smells like a funeral,
but there they sit, too much at home,
accusing us of some small crime,
like love forgotten, and we can't
throw out a gift we've never owned.

Dana Gioia

Anahid jan .  

so many thanks for you presence .... .

A good poem is a poem that leave the reader speechless ..... the one that I just posted is one of those ..... like you read it and you read it and you will wait for it to be finished to say something but exactly at the finish line the poet says something that leaves you speechless ... that is what you also noticed and posted  about this poem .... the last line is priceless ...

Again thanks for your time and your comments ... i will continue with this blog if I see people are interested and i only find about it when some one comments or posts a poem .....  that motivates me otherwise I will quit

Thanks Soosan khanoom for posting two great poems

Both poems that you posted; Attention Shoppers and Marginalia, are excellent. The ending of Marginalia is very touching. I loved it. With your permission,  I am going to repeat it here:

how vastly my loneliness was deepened, 
how poignant and amplified the world before me seemed, 
when I found on one page 

A few greasy looking smears 
and next to them, written in soft pencil- 
by a beautiful girl, I could tell, 
whom I would never meet- 
"Pardon the egg salad stains, but I'm in love."

Marginalia

Sometimes the notes are ferocious, 
skirmishes against the author 
raging along the borders of every page 
in tiny black script. 
If I could just get my hands on you, 
Kierkegaard, or Conor Cruise O'Brien, 
they seem to say, 
I would bolt the door and beat some logic into your head. 

Other comments are more offhand, dismissive - 
"Nonsense." "Please!" "HA!!" - 
that kind of thing. 
I remember once looking up from my reading, 
my thumb as a bookmark, 
trying to imagine what the person must look like 
why wrote "Don't be a ninny" 
alongside a paragraph in The Life of Emily Dickinson. 

Students are more modest 
needing to leave only their splayed footprints 
along the shore of the page. 
One scrawls "Metaphor" next to a stanza of Eliot's. 
Another notes the presence of "Irony" 
fifty times outside the paragraphs of A Modest Proposal. 

Or they are fans who cheer from the empty bleachers, 
Hands cupped around their mouths. 
"Absolutely," they shout 
to Duns Scotus and James Baldwin. 
"Yes." "Bull's-eye." "My man!" 
Check marks, asterisks, and exclamation points 
rain down along the sidelines. 

And if you have managed to graduate from college 
without ever having written "Man vs. Nature" 
in a margin, perhaps now 
is the time to take one step forward. 

We have all seized the white perimeter as our own 
and reached for a pen if only to show 
we did not just laze in an armchair turning pages; 
we pressed a thought into the wayside, 
planted an impression along the verge. 

Even Irish monks in their cold scriptoria 
jotted along the borders of the Gospels 
brief asides about the pains of copying, 
a bird signing near their window, 
or the sunlight that illuminated their page- 
anonymous men catching a ride into the future 
on a vessel more lasting than themselves. 

And you have not read Joshua Reynolds, 
they say, until you have read him 
enwreathed with Blake's furious scribbling. 

Yet the one I think of most often, 
the one that dangles from me like a locket, 
was written in the copy of Catcher in the Rye 
I borrowed from the local library 
one slow, hot summer. 
I was just beginning high school then, 
reading books on a davenport in my parents' living room, 
and I cannot tell you 
how vastly my loneliness was deepened, 
how poignant and amplified the world before me seemed, 
when I found on one page 

A few greasy looking smears 
and next to them, written in soft pencil- 
by a beautiful girl, I could tell, 
whom I would never meet- 
"Pardon the egg salad stains, but I'm in love." 

Billy Collins 

ATTENTION SHOPPERS!!!

ATTENTION SHOPPERS!!!
attention 9 to 5 folk, cell-phone masses,
the "up and coming" classes,
attention sports-utility,
plastic-surgery suburbanites,
viagra-popping, gucci-shopping urbanites
attention george-clooney loonies,
promise-keeper sheep,
stockbroker sleep-walkers,
big investment talkers,
ricki lake watchers,
attention walmart congregation,
shop til you drop generation,
ATTENTION NATION!
AMERICA'S ON SALE!

we've unstocked the welfare pantry
to restock the wall street gentry
it's economically elementary,
because values don't pay,
yes, american dreams are on permanent layaway,
(there was limited availability anyway)
so the statue of liberty's being dismantled,
$10 a piece to sit on your mantle or hang on your wall
by the small somalian child
you bought from sally struthers
sisters and brothers, it's now or never,
these deals won't last forever—
AMERICA'S ON SALE!!!
(restrictions may apply if you're black, gay or female).

|and shoppers,
global perspective is ninety-nine percent off
cause most of the world don't count to us
our ethic inventory's low
cause moral business has been slow,
yes, the values-company is moving to mexico—
and ALL ETHICS MUST GO!

it's a remote control america that's on sale
cause standing up for justice can't compare
to clicking through it from a lazy chair:
Answer: jerry, montel, oprah
Question: folks who really care... for $1,000,000,000

in this new mcveggie burger world order
where national health care is
one-hundred percent off!!
and medicare's in the 50% bin,
so you can buy...
half an operation
when AMERICA'S ON SALE!
and there's a close-out bid to determine
which religion will win
all the neon flashing signs of sin
the christian coalition is bidding high—
shoppers, you ask WHY!
who needs a higher power when
you've got the purchasing power to corner and market
one human mold.
that's right—Real Family Values are being UNDERSOLD!!

And it's open hunting season for the NRA!
There's a special oozie discount—only today!
Gun control?? We say—
black bear, black man, blow em both away!
and Giuliani welfare mamas
are on the auction block again,
we're closing out this country the way we began.

so step up for our fastest selling commodity
no waiting lines for HIV,
condoms and needle-exchange are a hard to sell thing
(to the right wing)
so if you're a druggie or a fag—
Rent-to-Own your own body bag NOW!
WHILE AMERICA'S ON SALE!

we're selling fast to the AT&T CEO,
he's stealing all utilities,
he doesn't pass go,
and collects $1,000,000 anyway,
he's the monopoly winner
because he bought the whole board
and we bought the whole game
now no price is the same!
cause inflation's up on the CEO ego
and power's deflated as far as you go:

cause Nike bought the revolution
and law schools bought the constitution
tommy hilfiger bought the red, white, and blue,
a flag shirt for fifty dollars,
the one being burned is you!
marlboro bought what it means to be a man
lexus equals power—get it while you can
maybelline bought beauty,
new york's buying rudy
mastercard gold bought the national soul
Broadway bought talent and called it CATS!
the republicans bought out the democrats
they liquidated all asses in a fat white donkey sale—
now it's buy one schmuck, get one schmuck free
in the capitalist party!
and there's nothing left to get in the way
of a full blue-light blow-out
of the U.S. of A!

there's a no-nothing back guarantee,
a zero-year warranty,
when you buy this land of the free-tos, ruffles, lays...
this home of the braves, the chiefs, the reds, the slaves!
so call 1-800 i- don't- care- about- shit
or www . FUCK ALL OF IT
to receive your credit for the fate of our nation—
(Call now! Interest is at an all-time low)

so with these sales-pitching verses
i should win for customer service
i'm like CRAZY EDDIE—
i'm GOING INSANE IN AMERICA!!
where the almighty dollars sparkle and shine,
this Star Bucks Land that's yours and mine.
but america's selling fast food shoppers.
BUY IT ALL WHILE YOU CAN!
cause america's been downsized, citizens.
and you're all fired.

—Alix Olson

from Burning Down the House: Selected poems from the Nuyorican Poets Cafe National Slam Champions

Dear SK

I am glad that you enjoyed reading this poem.  As far as copyright of poems, I believe that as you noted, when they are on a blog and dated, that should be good in almost all places. Exceptions are places such  as Iran that I have personally experienced that some people do not care, they just put their own names on others' poems. This poem by "Ibrahim Farahani" should be safe.

Dear Anahid  

Thanks for posting this sweet poem ... I enjoyed reading it ...

I am not sure when it comes to farsi poems on the internet they are even copyrighted or not .....  

I guess the smart thing to do these days is to publish it on internet in a blog or anything but to make sure to have it dated... so it can at least be searchable and leads everyone to the original source ....

دور از تو مثل کودکی ام گریه می کنم

من این شعر را امروز در صحفه «شاعران بی مرز » روی فیسبوک دیدم . در قسمت نظرها , کسی نوشته بود که شاعر «ابراهیم فراهانی » است .

دور از تو مثل کودکی ام گریه می کنم

خاموش و خيره مثل عروسك نشسته ام
...
و پشت پلك پولكي ام گريه مي كنم

با خنده اي كه دوخته بر سطح صورتم

با خنده ي دروغكي ام گريه مي كنم

مي خندي و براي مراعات حال تو

در خنده هاي زوركي ام گريه مي كنم

در لحظه هاي واقعيت، از تصور ِ

خوشبختي عروسكي ام گريه مي كنم

بوسيدن تو تجربه ي كوچكي نبود

من كوچكم، به كوچكي ام گريه مي كنم

برگرد پشت كوچه ي خوشبخت خاطره

آن جا كه مثل كودكي ام گريه مي كنم

A poet is not a jukebox / Dudley Randall

 A poet is not a jukebox, so don’t tell me what to write. 

I read a dear friend a poem about love, and she said, 
“You’re in to that bag now, for whatever it’s worth, 
But why don’t you write about the riot in Miami?” 

I didn’t write about Miami because I didn’t know about Miami. 
I’ve been so busy working for the Census, and listening to music all night, 
and making new poems 
That I’ve broken my habit of watching TV and reading newspapers. 
So it wasn’t absence of Black Pride that caused me not to write about Miami, 
But simple ignorance. 

Telling a Black poet what he ought to write 
Is like some Commissar of Culture in Russia telling a poet 
He’d better write about the new steel furnaces in the Novobigorsk region, 
Or the heroic feats of Soviet labor in digging the trans-Caucausus Canal, 
Or the unprecedented achievement of workers in the sugar beet industry 
who exceeded their quota by 400 percent (it was later discovered to 
be a typist’s error). 

Maybe the Russian poet is watching his mother die of cancer, 
Or is bleeding from an unhappy love affair, 
Or is bursting with happiness and wants to sing of wine, roses, and nightingales. 

I’ll bet that in a hundred years the poems the Russian people will read, sing and love 
Will be the poems about his mother’s death, his unfaithful mistress, or his 
wine, roses and nightingales, 
Not the poems about steel furnaces, the trans-Caucasus Canal, or the sugar 
beet industry. 
A poet writes about what he feels, what agitates his heart and sets his pen in motion. 
Not what some apparatchnik dictates, to promote his own career or theories. 

Yeah, maybe I’ll write about Miami, as I wrote about Birmingham, 
But it’ll be because I want to write about Miami, not because somebody 
says I ought to. 

Yeah, I write about love.  What’s wrong with love? 
If we had more loving, we’d have more Black babies to become Black brothers and 
sisters and build the Black family. 

When people love, they bathe with sweet-smelling soap, splash their bodies 
with perfume or cologne, 
Shave, and comb their hair, and put on gleaming silken garments, 
Speak softly and kindly and study their beloved to anticipate and satisfy her 
every desire. 
After loving they’re relaxed and happy and friends with all the world. 
What’s wrong with love, beauty, joy and peace? 

If Josephine had given Napoleon more loving, he wouldn’t have sown the 
meadows of Europe with skulls. 
If Hitler had been happy in love, he wouldn’t have baked people in ovens. 
So don’t tell me it’s trivial and a cop-out to write about love and not about Miami.

A poet is not a jukebox. 
A poet is not a jukebox. 
I repeat, A poet is not a jukebox for someone to shove a quarter in his ear 
and get the tune they want to hear, 
Or to pat on the head and call “a good little Revolutionary,” 
Or to give a Kuumba Liberation Award. 

A poet is not a jukebox. 
A poet is not a jukebox. 
A poet is not a jukebox. 

So don’t tell me what to write. 

Shepesh

There is something in the water , perhaps, cause Iran has produced some of the best poets in the world .....  

radius-of-the-persian-cat

I was not sure really what that you mentioned belongs to this poem or not... I didn't know that there was actually another part to it.... thank you so much for letting me and thanks for the great discussion ...

German's thinkers and writers are well known among Iranians. Especially if they slightly lean towards the left ..... but that was then not now ..... Iranian youth today may know these writers and love their works  but not necessarily their leftists ideology .... 

The youths in iran are not political as much the youth back then in 70s were.. 

I have a great poem to share here  ..... will be back and do so ...

SK

I hope you enjoy all Moshiri poems. We Persian are so lucky to have so many amazing poets.

To those born after (part I) by Brecht

Dear Soosan Khanoom, 

Thanks a lot for the translation. Initially, I was confused cause I could not find the "famous" three lines about "talking about trees and ignoring the crime around". So I search a bid, and the following appeared:  The poem has 3 parts. The two parts you posted are in fact II and III. There is a blog that deals with the translation here //firstcallmagazine.wordpress.com/2010/03/22/translating-brecht/.

The phrase about the trees is in the second verse of part I:

To our posterity

Translation by Arden Rienas, 2009

I

Really, I live in dark times!
Innocent words are foolish. A smooth brow
Betrays insensitivity. Anyone left laughing
Simply has not yet heard
The terrible news.

What are these for times, where
A discussion about trees is almost a crime
Because it involves a silence about so many misdeeds!
He there peacefully crossing the street
Is probably no longer reachable for his friends
Who are in need?

It is true: I still earn my keep
But believe me: that is only a coincidence. Nothing
Of what I do entitles me to eat my fill.
Only coincidentally am I spared. (If my luck fails, I am lost.)

People tell me: Eat and drink! Be happy that you have!
But how can I eat and drink, if
What I eat, I take from the hungry, and if
My glass of water deprives the thirsty?
And yet, eat and drink I do.

I would also like to be wise.
In the old books, it is written what wisdom is:
To keep oneself out of the world’s struggle and to spend
One’s short time without fear
And to get by without violence
To pay back evil with good
Not to achieve one’s wishes, but rather to forget them
This is what wisdom is.
But I cannot do any of this:

Really, I live in dark times! 

I understoud that Brecht has an audience in Iran when I recently watched the documentary movie "Iran, les images interdites" by Manon Loizeau. There,  one of the students of the green movement was interview with a large poster of Brecht on the wall behind her. 

The verse in your poem

.... a breathe you take

to stay alive...... 

Brecht would have liked very much. The last years of his life he withdraw from all political and official duties and lived with his wife on a house at a lake. There he wrote some of his most lyric poems.  

To Those Born After / Bertolt Brecht

II

You who will come to the surface 
From the flood that's overwhelmed us and drowned us all 
Must think, when you speak of our weakness in times of darkness 
That you've not had to face:

Days when we were used to changing countries 
More often than shoes, 
Through the war of the classes despairing 
That there was only injustice and no outrage.

Even so we realised 
Hatred of oppression still distorts the features, 
Anger at injustice still makes voices raised and ugly. 
Oh we, who wished to lay for the foundations for peace and friendliness, 
Could never be friendly ourselves.

And in the future when no longer 
Do human beings still treat themselves as animals, 
Look back on us with indulgence. 

radius-of-the-persian-cat

 Thank you so much for you contribution and presence. There are good points in what that you posted here ..... 

I personally have found Bertolt Brecht's realistic view towards the world a little bit harsh and depressing but just in some works of his not all actually ...

I am going to post one of his poems here that I am fond of ....

Thanks again 

Sepesh

Wolf is incredibly truthful and full of wisdom. I only have read some poems of Moshri but not all ... This was my first time listening to this poem of his. so many thanks for posting ...  

Recently I purchased five volumes of his works all translated into English. I have not got a chance to read them all yet ....  but the ones I read so far are wonderful .......

Bertold Brecht about: Politics and Poetry

Bertold Brecht

TO THE GENERATIONS COMING AFTER US (An die Nachgeborenen) :

    What awful times I am living in, 

    When talking about trees sounds almost immoral,

    Since it might imply not talking about all the crimes around.

Poetry is an act of free will, like love or music or science. It shows that we are free human beeings and reach the top of creativity.

Politics can never be like this. It is a duty. It is something we can not avoid sometimes, such as Brecht said when the times are simply awful.

Then there is no option, then you have to get involved and take position and fight. But these are not the moments we will later remember as satisfying, as very productive. Later we will only think that all our political activities prevented the things from getting worse. But usually you hardly see that things get really better.

.

YouTube - Gorg (Wolf ) poem by: Fereydoon Moshiri فريدون مشيرى‎

humour/ VOLODIMIR BARABASH

Beware of man who cannot laugh,
   With others, at his own mistakes
No one is perfect on this earth -
   Each one of us some blunders make.

If one cannot laugh at yourself;
   Or take yourself too serious;
The folks will shun your company,
   And label you as "queer-ious"

This world would be in better shape
   If we laughed more and grumbled less.
Dictators build their strength upon
   The people who are humourless

Most anyone can wear a frown.
   To have good humour is an art.
There is no better medicine
   Than laughter coming from the heart.

A smiling face we greet with joy
   And laughter is completed smile.
With "gloom" we hate to take one step.
   With "mirth" we gladly walk a mile!

The world will always cherish those
   Who to the merriment incline.
The gods above shall wink and smirk -
   For humour, too, can be divine.

I think....

Whoever writes poem or enjoy poetry has a compassinate heart .... We all are here at least on this blog because we share love for poetry ..... so let us put aside minor arguments that we do on other blogs and find this place to relax and enjoy a sweet moment in each other's company.....

Anahid, HFB , and Hushang ... I do appriciate your presence ...  I really do and I wish others would join and share as well...

Hoshang thanks for the link .... I'll also make sure to listen  

thanks for the info, Hooshang

Have fun.

...

Some one just send me this site, from which you could listen to the entire event. It runs from 7:00 PM to 2:00AM today.

//wbai.org/

30th annual broadcast of readings from Ulysses by James Joyce,

//iranian.com/main/blog/hooshang-tarreh-g...

Just restocked my Guinness,  should be good for another three hours, cheers

Enjoy your radio

What are they broadcasting that is so bahaal, Hooshang jan?

رفیق آناهید ،

Hooshang jan, Like you say

For the moment, I feel like
Naravad meekh ahaneen bar sang.

Also many times in life, people see what they want to see.

Anahid jan, you're being too kind on this,its not just poilitics

or I should say,  we ought not to reduce it to politics.

How a self-professed student of Hafez consitently, continously, without a break, defends womens oppression and bloody theocratic gender-apartheid in Iran, without a single word on how exactly this hijab is enforced like a bondage unto slaves, on half of the population in the country, every phocking day in Iran, is  just so awful, it leaves me without words, speechless.