Farideh HassanzadehMostafavi

Farideh HassanzadehMostafavi Poems

Translated by: H.S.Zahedi, chief editor of Irannews ' art section
Edited by: George Trialonis, Greek poet and translator.
FARSI TRANSLATION OF THIS POEM: http: //www.firooze.com/article-fa-629.html

Farideh HassanzadehMostafavi Biography

Farideh Hassanzadeh (Mostafavi) is an Iranian poet, translator and freelance journalist. Her first book of poetry was published when she was twenty-two. Her poems appear in the anthologies Contemporary Women Poets of Iran and Anthology of Best Women Poets. She writes regularly for Golestaneh, Iran News, Jamejam and many literary magazines. Poems by her which are translated into English appear in Thanal Online, earthfamilyalpha, Jehat and Kritya. Her anthology of Contemporary American Poetry will appear in 2007.)

The Best Poem Of Farideh HassanzadehMostafavi

Tears For Mahmoud Darwish By Farideh Hassanzadeh-Mostafavi

Translated by: H.S.Zahedi, chief editor of Irannews ' art section
Edited by: George Trialonis, Greek poet and translator.
FARSI TRANSLATION OF THIS POEM: http: //www.firooze.com/article-fa-629.html

Note by the Poet:
I did not intend to write an elegy on Mahmoud Darwish. I only tried to express my admiration for an exceptional poet. Sometimes a poet produces a much deeper effect on our lives than our parents and our family members. A true poet points to a window which opens to an undiscovered world in us and thus releases us from spiritual confusion. In the words of Samuel Hazo, poems bring us face to face with our true nature where our feelings gain as much significance as our ideas. We are cut off from our true selves when we lose contact with our basic nature and thus lose our souls. Darwish was the guardian of the soul of a nation.

Until morning
I stood by the wall, chest to chest,
leaning my head on your shoulders
and crying.

No, I can’t believe that you’ve left me,
after all those years, Darwish!
I thought you’d stay,
just like your picture in this old frame,
waiting for my kisses
with each new poem you wrote.

You were not supposed to die,
leaving me alone to write for you.
It was always you who wrote
for the wounds of love,
for the lilac flowers,
for the lost homeland:
Poems that crossed frontiers
In a caravan ladden with words
To reach my solitude at nights.

Even death does not make you a stranger to me Darwish!
I kiss your frameless image again and again;
I kiss your eyes, lips and fragrant foerhead
and I remember my grandmother's words
whenever she was praying in my room:
'what is this picture of a stranger doing in your room? '

No one in this world was as familiar to me as you Darwish!
different from other men in my life.
Your mission was not to darken or brighten my memories.
You were like a messenger from the mountain heights
who revealed to me the hidden meaning of words
with each new poem.

Miraculously you made blind the eyes
of the spider weaving sorrow and absurdity
in the sticky corners of my mind.

With you
I became another 'I'
much different than my dark and tired 'I's.
With you
I became a nation with shining open eyes.

Bless the memories of those far days Darwish!

When I found your first poetry book
my mirror had not even one single white hair
how proud I was of my beauty!
not aware of the yellow leaves gone with the wind.

In those far days I wanted poetry
only for warming up my nights
only for giving wings to my dreams
I thought that the domain of words
was above the clouds, even higher.
Then suddenly in my first encounter
with your poetry,
you filled my room with the rubble of ruined cities,
with the sound of a boy’s footsteps
running in exile
lighting lamps from house to house,
with the magic of words.

Without homeland,
with a suitcase of eternal wanderings,
you were the only poet, Darwish,
who taught me
the meaning of motherland.

Your melodious wounds taught me
this is blood which illuminates the world,
and the sun is nothing but burning memory
around which the Earth moves
in the redolent silence of merry Martyrs
in tombs more unknown now than ever before.

Do you remember, Darwish,
in those far days, in the gloomy compartments
of the train passing through dark tunnels?
I was nursing hope for a job, a future
to reach the vague share of my heart
from fate and mate,
with your poetry book lying on my lap
watching over me when I was asleep.

I can’t believe you have left me, Darwish.
No one believed you died, not even the thousands
who carried your coffin.
You bore the weight of the tombstone
as does a flower the weight of the dew,
while your voice went on to read
through the loudspeakers, warm, lively and inspiring.
But the flowers your enemies strew on your grave
tormented you Darwish!
as if you were offered hell at the first night of the tomb.

Three days public mourning
for you who were not a general,
or a president,
not even the voice of refugees any more.
Breaking away from the crowd
you devoted your songs to the bleak birds of Al-Jalil.

Three days public mourning
for you who vested power in the words
without coup d'etat,
without massacre
and without usurping the lands of people.

Three days public mourning
for you who had no legacy but
the thirsty whiteness of paper,
so satisfied with living
in the frame of old friendships,
to adorn the walls of lethal loneliness;
a sanctuary for your survivors
to lean on your generous shoulders and cry
unable to accept your death Darwish!

Farideh HassanzadehMostafavi Comments

Farideh HassanzadehMostafavi Popularity

Farideh HassanzadehMostafavi Popularity

Error Success