Poem
Ali Abdolrezaei
Censorship
In the massacre of my words they’ve beheaded my last line and blood ink-like is hitting paper there’s death stretched over the page and life like a window ajar shattered by a rock a new gun has finished off the world and I imported-goods-like through this alley’s doors am still the very meagre room that emigrated I in my life who am pen-like to the lines of this meagre page am mother The cat’s paws are still prancing to scare the mouse running for the hole they filled In pursuit of the lesson I did at school I’m no longer Jack the lover to my Jill I’m doing my new homework You cross it out And in the girl who will tumble at this poem’s end build a house filled with a door open like a wound and from in between the edges of death like a room gone from this house lived happily a girl who wanting to make me her own would throw morsels in her voice to tease me over to the temple of her body for my eyes to keep whirling and whirling to make a Dervish of me again How the eyes these empty sockets in between the love-making of two are thousand-handed How this side of being where I am is all the more other-sided in Iran Fathurt mothurt my brothurt! My condition is more critical than hurt Writing’s more emasculated than me and London with its hair highlights of a weather is still sisterly awaiting Death to stretch over my body for life to kill me again My heart is bleeding for the poet whose queue of words is getting longer for the branchless sparrow who’s swallowed its twitter for the restitution of a crow with no overhead wire for myself gone from the house like electricity I was somebody Did the foolish thing became a poet
© Translation: 2009, Abol Froushan
Publisher: POETRYMAG, Paris, 2009
Publisher: POETRYMAG, Paris, 2009
CENSORSHIP
© 2009, Ali Abdolrezaei
Publisher: POETRYMAG, Paris
Publisher: POETRYMAG, Paris
Poems
Poems of Ali Abdolrezaei
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Censorship
In the massacre of my words they’ve beheaded my last line and blood ink-like is hitting paper there’s death stretched over the page and life like a window ajar shattered by a rock a new gun has finished off the world and I imported-goods-like through this alley’s doors am still the very meagre room that emigrated I in my life who am pen-like to the lines of this meagre page am mother The cat’s paws are still prancing to scare the mouse running for the hole they filled In pursuit of the lesson I did at school I’m no longer Jack the lover to my Jill I’m doing my new homework You cross it out And in the girl who will tumble at this poem’s end build a house filled with a door open like a wound and from in between the edges of death like a room gone from this house lived happily a girl who wanting to make me her own would throw morsels in her voice to tease me over to the temple of her body for my eyes to keep whirling and whirling to make a Dervish of me again How the eyes these empty sockets in between the love-making of two are thousand-handed How this side of being where I am is all the more other-sided in Iran Fathurt mothurt my brothurt! My condition is more critical than hurt Writing’s more emasculated than me and London with its hair highlights of a weather is still sisterly awaiting Death to stretch over my body for life to kill me again My heart is bleeding for the poet whose queue of words is getting longer for the branchless sparrow who’s swallowed its twitter for the restitution of a crow with no overhead wire for myself gone from the house like electricity I was somebody Did the foolish thing became a poet
© 2009, Abol Froushan
Publisher: 2009, POETRYMAG, Paris
Publisher: 2009, POETRYMAG, Paris
Censorship
In the massacre of my words they’ve beheaded my last line and blood ink-like is hitting paper there’s death stretched over the page and life like a window ajar shattered by a rock a new gun has finished off the world and I imported-goods-like through this alley’s doors am still the very meagre room that emigrated I in my life who am pen-like to the lines of this meagre page am mother The cat’s paws are still prancing to scare the mouse running for the hole they filled In pursuit of the lesson I did at school I’m no longer Jack the lover to my Jill I’m doing my new homework You cross it out And in the girl who will tumble at this poem’s end build a house filled with a door open like a wound and from in between the edges of death like a room gone from this house lived happily a girl who wanting to make me her own would throw morsels in her voice to tease me over to the temple of her body for my eyes to keep whirling and whirling to make a Dervish of me again How the eyes these empty sockets in between the love-making of two are thousand-handed How this side of being where I am is all the more other-sided in Iran Fathurt mothurt my brothurt! My condition is more critical than hurt Writing’s more emasculated than me and London with its hair highlights of a weather is still sisterly awaiting Death to stretch over my body for life to kill me again My heart is bleeding for the poet whose queue of words is getting longer for the branchless sparrow who’s swallowed its twitter for the restitution of a crow with no overhead wire for myself gone from the house like electricity I was somebody Did the foolish thing became a poet
© 2009, Abol Froushan
Publisher: 2009, POETRYMAG, Paris
Publisher: 2009, POETRYMAG, Paris
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