Translated from the Persian by Ahmad Karimi-Hakkak
The Dark Room
Wrinkled summer
and I, the one whose laughter is full of forgetfulness
am filling up the ocean that is my window:
What words could be made to fit in this dreamless frame!
I have traveled to this room
this room of no clocks
no sounds, no calendar
that holds my secrets in the folds of its leather cover
as the night comes to undo me, then gets lost
and the deep lines in my groins
bring no rain!
What words could have been fitted into this dreamless frame
between the sheets, on the balcony
in the cellar!
Sounds and slippers
Doors dawdling and windows whizzing.
Thin…
more anemic than the air
with the juice that holds up heavens
I have traveled to this room….
Leave my blood to me
the blood that gives me my genius.
I have traveled to this room
with no desire and no summer
without my hands
with the letter that was lost line by line.
I have traveled to this room
and dropped my dreams by the wall
a woman who drew her angle with spring
a cloud that moved away at midnight
and the rain that fell drip, drip, from her mattress.
To the sandalwood
to the moon’s scent
to the image cast on the windowpane
I have traveled to this room
with a sleepless nocturnal rustle:
What words we could have planted in this dreamless frame.
Night whirled away with my hands
as the wall of no time
was inscribed upon us!
Ah dark dwelling!
House of gloom!
I have traveled to this room.
The Girl Sleeping on Top of Oil
The girl sleeping on top of oil
will explode you
the girl sleeping on top of poetry
will explode you on oil!
Brother! Sister! Father! Death!
Your mother will explode you like oil.
The door too low here
has grabbed me by the throat!
Half a woman, half a naked Roman, half the bell they ring at the House of Strength will
explode you!
I have spat so much, rain, that I cannot spit you anymore!
Yet I can still play hopscotch
in my sandals, too tight for life
and head to the hills all alone
so confused that the police officer should fall through the skies
and no matter what bosom I end up in
should plant a white angel on my shoulder!
Away, blindness, or I’ll explode you like light!
Hear me well, prayer rug!
With my dust from Iraq and memories from the wet underbelly of Khorramshahr!*
And you, camphor prayer!
As rain from my child reaches the heart of the bow
then it would be time to wash off the moon!
I will explode you
I am no windowpane, but I will bring about your death, explosion!
Hear me well, prayer rug!
I can work magic
with my explosive prayer of submission
I can pull out a dove
live, breathing heavily
from the passageway in my throat
and with all my heart, all the explosion in my heart,
and my blood and body
let it loose over waters.
Croon on, rain, croon on!
And then, bent over my skirt
I sank my head into my downy pillow
And two blue bowls
Exploded in my palms.
Four Views of a Private Orange
There, sunset
had crept away from under sunshine and sound
there I felt sorry for my headscarf
and for the boxes that would not breathe
and for the wrinkled shell of an orange
and the air that is a bloodied exhalation
and glasses that sink to the bottom….
A part of the earth is wounded now
the glass that’s broken is wounded
and when the skeleton of the clock fell on five,
my crying holes got wounded.
In this land of sorrows, you are the cleaner
and I am so beat
it seems I turn into nil
somewhere through this air.
Four views of a private orange
made up a torn mournful mouth
fish frolicking with air
rain sleepily splattering the earth.
Again it’s as if
I have cried
have scribbled something
only to wrap it around my finger and turn private.
Four views of a private orange
entered my shoes
my purse
And all I knew of life.