A poem by: Ali Abdolrezaei
Translated by: Mansor Pooyan
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Let it be:
everything in our home is now yours
except whoever is outside the front door
agreed?
She agreed and a smile crept across her lips.
I realised:
the place where a kissing lip is in short supply
would be like a rooftop-edge
working favourably only for Venus.
That night the smoke’s share
from my lips given to the cigarette
were nothing other than swirls.
My hands on my head were thinking,
reminiscing about that shell-hit day
and the companions
who have left me behind.
The frontiers continued
as long as there was any chance of martyrdom
During offences, they flocked in
like stock doves.
A battalion of commanders and jihaddies
and the rest, martyrs.
After the battlefield sacrifices, the armed militias
were promoted as army officers.
The pilgrims of Karbela left the path
and became nouveau riche Tehranis.
Whether you like it or not
they were the squatters like the cuckoo
snatching their rich pickings
from abandoned dwellings.
Wherever there is a mirror
we are carried away by it for too long.
While our enemies are inside the house
we are outside the door.
We clenched and raised our fists
on lowering them, our backs gave in.
Down with…we said and then distanced ourselves
from the stance.
They closed the roads
we ran away through hills and valleys
The mountain took off the snow-cap
yet did not get wet.
Time passed through a winter episode
yet our conditions did not improve.
Pitfalls and traps did not open our eyes
we did not put on our shoes
stepping onto a new path.
We didn’t set foot outdoors braving the elements
nor did we dare to set fire
to the shores of this wasteland.
The wave knew that it was trapped
in the margin of the sea.
The wave knew
it could not be content on the shore.
The wave became `wavy` (1)
and died on the shore.
Plunging deep into the sea
naturally carries the danger of being drowned.
When you lose a tight rein on a task
a serpent may nest in your sleeves.
For such a long time, we chanted:
“No West. No East”
“Long Live War…”
“Down With…” (whoever is other than us)
“Down With material life”.
(we deserve what we are worthy of).
Given the free rein to …whatever
I doubt if common sense will prevail.
This door, closed to me, is the only door open
I have reached a state of existence in which
I am non-existent
Although I’ve spread everywhere
I am just a drop
fallen in my own vein.
It is said: once upon a time
There was no one even God.
Under this azure dome
there were only
my wife and my dove;
had it flown away
would have landed
on the neighbour’s rooftop
out there.
Here I am far away from myself
and my wife, from both.
Around my head
except me
my dove
sheltering all the rooftops of the world
It was not on
going for a census in a city where
from its girls
not even one
was to be mine.
It was not justifiable!
Ali and his rival Amroaas were both at the battlefield
I am Amroaas the sweetheart of all Tehran’s girls
My embrace is still a wise hotel in which
one night stands are free of charge
Do travel:
There is a room in this house
that has a single bed
But other rooms have several.
I am not a lover who has fought
with: with those I have slept
and having said nothing
I carry on my solitude for the Earth
who is said to be a woman
I have kept my beauty firmly intact in the mirror
hoping to come in slowly little by little
I have buried within myself the beloved venerable lady
and my honourable soldier behind the front line:
Hello!
hello!
this is Ali!
hello!
alo!
:::boom:::!
Alo, alo! was heard aloud from different wires
and the devil ran at the tip of my pen
then: in the sounds from the depth of the alley
tanks were passing that night
The cars, passengerless, were going solo
I am proceeding aimlessly!
I’ve left loose- half way through-
the task of buttoning up
loneliness is the state I am in
I am rehearsing my voice
whispering for a woman
who is about to ring:
alo!
hello!
Greetings!
I give her a greeting and she doesn’t wave a hand
I am a lover but as far as the eye can see
there are perverts.
Many memories did not travel with me.
…My wife…?
I washed my hands of my wife
my mother also passed away
And what remains at hand
is me yet in existence
swollen like Sundays.
For one as out-stormed as I
wings are indeed the bloodline
They have given me a small wing.
I cannot become
unsatisfied – I am.
I know perfectly by heart what needs to be done
I retuned to finalise my fear
You finish it off
a combatant
who remained fragmented
among the mortar’s shell fragments.
Your eyes in the photograph
we had taken at the river embankment
- -fighting against the flow
were shown sunk.
Whenever I look at these pictures
I become the contrary
I mean it
And I hate the woman
whose lips whispered at ease into my ears:
:::kiss::: I love you so much.
Hey `Wavy`
I am left floating in my own insane eyes
Fearing the gradually growing city
the rural land is fleeing
For survival, `Wavy` took refuge behind a mountain
like the moon
Nobody was with me
nobody was there to accompany me
One was with him
though remote
She became a whore in an alley upon whose lips
laughter was murdered
she went missing…eventually.
I am going,
going to buy a spouse for my empty bed
Me! An Armenian wouldn’t give a daughter
To someone outside my clan `Shamlou`(2)
one who may inflict suffering on my poor child
Close to a shell thrust from its cartridge
I was blown out of the window
Next to a riverside akin to a fish:
having been brought by a wave
to the river Karoon’s embankment,
I have tried to re-vitalise myself
I washed the woman off
as a hand might scrub the oily dirt off the body
The wave was far away, neither coming nor going
and the skeletons away from the harbour
were shouting that I am now a `Wavy`.
They are yelling that I am a lunatic
I am not denying that
I guess I am!
I have no other choice
but to stroll in the middle of myself like a street
It is not the night
No-one, no no-one!
Nobody there.
Taller than him
his song was climbing the wall
fell over the other side
the north of this map
he landed there-plop!
Beyond the gate of his lips
the way to the city `Wailing`(3)
separating from the road `Fooman` - `Rasht`
passing by weeping
Go on! go on! leave me
what would you do though with my groaning
what would you do with my torn apart heart
Assuming you could tear apart
the photographs and letters
what would you do with the trails
of my kisses on your cheek (4)
Would you mind lowering the volume sir…!
The driver reversed away
from the black and white photograph
When he returned from the war
He found it coloured
How hard and fast he ran
to escape his memories
to no avail!
He prised the car off the road’s body
Out of the alley
Into the twisting bends of the arms
And let it freewheel aimlessly.
My Lord what is wrong with me
like people, my words are all short
I am fretting
my fingers were hurtled into the battlefield
I am in a hurry
I don’t know why…
It was my wrong doing
I fingered the sky….for no reason
Despite so many stars out there
None of them belong to me.
And life is still going on in spite of
the chemical pollution.
For what?
that may serve me, the “Wavy”, right
I had a good voice…but I didn’t sing
I was full of spiritual beliefs
but I no longer have such faith.
Wandering about
I am searching to find myself.
has anybody seen traces of it?
The earth is still waiting for me
to fill in the empty ditch
left from the war.
How could I open the windows
which are gone with the wind?
The street has forgotten the night
up to the last lamp-post.
People look at my empty folded trouser leg
as if from a watchtower
scrutinising my abnormality.
Alo!
dove!
alo!
Go forward on seventy knots
Alo!
are you asleep?
“Trench”!
“We have proper and smart trenches
We are carrying guns on our shoulders
Our hearts are full of love for our countrymen
In every shell, we have a cartridge…” (5)
What we were talking about?
Got it, then
I was hit by a bullet
and everyone else was affected
you also lost all your wind
Alas have you forgotten- saying with sincerity-
Could you remember that wailing and darkness
which filled the streets
You remember how the foreigners let their bombs loose
on our women and children
I was a toddler then- can you understand!?
I abandoned Leila, the neighbour’s daughter
whom I fancied, to the fates
and left for the warfront swiftly.
At the front, I had a broad shoulder to take on difficulties
I had no inclination to go after my business
I had no desire for stories and buffooneries
At the forefront on the attacking line
you could easily distinguish wantons
turned now to patriots
Do you follow me?
do you understand?
what now?
I was the same age as you
when, with other volunteers I stepped forward,
going through a mine field.
Knocked down by an explosion, I lost consciousness.
What happened to you?
that your interpretation of the events
is so at odds with the obvious?
What rubbish are you talking about?
Literature! Ha-ha! Isn’t it all craziness?
I am a poem to be published
one within which, it is forbidden
to be masculine
Help evict that unacceptable man from me quickly!
Fanatic gangsters give anyone challenging their views
a hard blow on the face
abrupt and so severe
that one would still be frightened
of its impact the next day.
Like a donkey fainting on a hilltop
one had fallen into a deep sleep:::snore:::
dreaming like a mule
No snout was muzzled except for grazing.
I guess it’s better I stand by her
in order to not to spoil any chance
of being together in this house;
vast terrains.
If I wish to shout at her
the Turks will intercept my voice
from the satellites…excuse me, hold the line! Let me whisper it into your ears:
one night as soon as I arrived
she rolled off my sleep
and was devoured in another’s bed
the sun was shining behind a widow in Iraq, quite late!
I am far away!
with no option but to draw out my frightened car
and skid a break upon someone’s lips
thus to carry my cross from the mine field
I have travelled youth
And my fag end was stumped
by my passenger’s foot
why should I not hurry?
I am not a fool:
counting the years lost at war
not one complete bullet reached me from its tanks
Why should I not restrain?
Behind the gate of my mouth
the word `I love you` has gone rotten
Last night, I was sleepwalking on the lips of a nun
Tonight, I severed a few pieces of India from the map
Tomorrow what will be on the cards…I don’t I know
There might be a bullet in this plot
aiming at a heart that is no longer worth it
In my hand who has played open his card?
Is it me?
Don’t look at my verses
those disconnectedly are speaking nonsense
The sketches of my poems are dragged out of pain…
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1- PTSD or “Shell-shocked” soldiers-”Wavy” is a Persian slang for a soldier suffering from this condition.
2- A name of an Armenian clan but also the name of a contemporary Persian poet.
3- The city is called “Shivan” which means “Wailing” in Persian
4- This is part of a folkloric song which the protagonist is listening on the radio while taxi driving.
5- This is a popular song used by the state to mobilise the masses for the frontline during the Iran – Iraq war.
6- Each character’s distinctive way of speaking consists of the following:
a- their words
b- the shape of their sentences
c- the sounds of their words
d- the colour of their discourses
The following colours represent different characters appearing throughout the poem:
Black = The protagonist
Sea Green = The narrator
Red = The supreme leader Khomeini talking
Blue = A religious moron speaking
Bright Green = Wireless contact
Yellow = A woman chatting on the phone
Lavender = A woman lover
Turquoise = An Armenian father
Lime = A folkloric song from northern Iran
Gold = A passenger
Gray = A commander giving order via wireless
Plum = A mobilisation song
Brown = Another ex-veteran talking to the protagonist.


To be a poet is a foolish decision committed, oddly, by tragic heroes - with a suggestion of scapegoat or criminal. This transformation belongs to Us because We are negated by Them and Their alienation.