English

 

 

HOW GOOD TO BE A WOMAN

 

I swear by the mighty morning

I swear by discerning hearts              

I swear by the final human glance                   

That these words are the truth

And the truth

                      is in these words

 

When the stars become eyes                         

And the earth turns wholly into skin                 

And the moon screams

And the sun bathes its body 

                                       triumphantly      

 How good. . .

 

When the bed

                       becomes men's pride                        

The bedsheet ripples stormy white

And everything speaks of a pure white clarity   

The canary. . . sings white

The leaf falls white

The wind blows white

The snake turns its sting white

And the woman's skin glows, from inner heat                                                                                                                                           

How good. . .

 

When the ceiling stares at the bed

                                                  thoughtfully:

“There is no honour

In being a ceiling

                            doomed to dry”                                 

When pleasure

                      spreads in its sacred breadth                            

And stars all turn green

And the sky

                        dresses in navy silk,                         

                       yearning for the red moon

And autumn, blue, moves out of orbit                      

How good. . .                                               

 

The triangles of pleasure

Are measured by a tall subject

Acute angles

Form geometrical lines                                           

 

                                     venerated                         

And shadow breaks open, from illumination!                

How good . . .

 

A lucky star is a lie

A lucky star is a cursed joy

Let's call lucky violet

Which is gold

                      and purple too!

 

How good to be a woman

When the woman

                   speaks golden and purple too!

How good to be a woman

When the woman

conquers the pen

And time pulls itself back

                                          on both sides,

                                          to open the way for love

And the angel of inspiration                                                   

                                       begs the horizon:

 

                                      "Let me go and come back anew"

And love opens the quotation mark:

"The capacity of a dot  

Cannot be more than a dot

                                     Little ones!

Zero does not rise

                                    Little ones!

You hasty poets!

You Poets pouring tears in a rush          

Take pictures with your fame

                                                as keepsake                      

Your fame is sterile."                                                                   

 And Bang! closes the quotation mark!

The woman takes prophets to bed. . . openly!                    

 

                                                      

How good to be a woman

when the east, sun in its arms

                                    look at the west wisely

And the woman

With divine bravery

                                rises

                                separates. . . from the earth

And caresses her radiant skin                                                       

And under the sternum of her power

She feels

             palpitations of rich fertilization

And pleasure’s froth

Spills out of her skin’s pores                                    

                                       and she sings:

"The crossing point, is woman

The power switch, is woman

The door latch, is woman

Wave, is woman

Mother earth, is woman

See how she gives birth . . .birth . . . birth . . .

Inhales love

And creates the best line of her Ghazal:

                                                              "Human"

Human: the king of the sonnet of the soil!

 

Don't let happiness drop from that bough!                 

Holy temptations!

Have you glued stars on your heads?

 

Hey Sun!

Darkness has covered its name with spangles    

Grass! Grass!

What silky coquetry for the breeze!

 

Dance circulates in your waist

Dance then! Butterfly!

 

How good

How good

How good. . . to be a woman!

 

                                                            

THE TEN-YEAR-OLD BRIDE

 

Forced into her starry dress as if,                                                           

They had shaken the night                                                                                  

                                       over her

And her murky tears                                                

Suppurating from fear’s sores                                     

 

In a tribe with its mummified laughter

And quadruped hoof prints

On their sludge of imagination

 

The ten-year-old bride

                                 Ten-year-old child                                                                

They drag . . . drag . . .drag her

                                      to her husband’s stronghold

 

Do you want your doll?

                               Your doll died!

Last night

Fairy tale giants

Mounted an assault

Murdered your father

Abducted your mother

Devoured your playmates

And your doll?

                 Crushed underfoot

                                          . . . died!

But isn't she the ludicrous lineage of her mother?

A long wearisome chapter

An agonising likeness

                               taking refuge in her inner turmoil?

The bludgeon of inherited mores

 

                                                 on her head      

The bludgeon of inherited fear and superstition

                                                                       on her head

The bludgeon of inherited silence

 

                                                on her head

 

Her today is buried,

under yesterday’s debris

And maturity?

Like the convulsion of ancient marshes!                                                              

 

Where should she sleep?

To set her fearless dream. . . free

She felt

Her breath withering the flowers

“I’m asleep,

 it’s a nightmare!

I’m asleep

              it’s a nightmare!

                                     tomorrow…”

 

Tomorrow?!

Tomorrow’s dawn

                             pitch black

The city turned upside down

Your father is an ogre

Your mother is a vampire

Your husband?

                       He is the demon of fairy tales!

 

 

And the dust

engulfed her so that                                      

no one could see

the wind blowing her

                              . . . away

 

 

Translated from the Persian by Mehrangiz Rassapour

 Edited by Catherine Davidson