Ali abdolrezaei

Translator: Sohrab Rahimi
Ni håller på och läser en dikt som heter cirkel
vänta lite nu!
låt bli denna bokhylla
dörrar och fönster kram…
och gör en säng över soffan
nu kan ni
läsa en dikt utav Ali Abdolrezai
var snälla och öppna boken
Har ni sett? Ni håller på att läsa en dikt som heter cirkel
den dörr som ni tidigare hade öppnat
släng ur hemmet
häll ut dem från trappan
i samma nya park
eller den gamla bakom kommunhuset
på samma bänk som gjorde fadern förvirrad
och inte fortsatte mamman    sätt er!
hojta mot barnen som är på lekbollen
nu kan ni läsa en dikt av Ali Abdolrezai
Var snälla och bläddra denna dörr
från vilken sida ni vill
Det var synd! Nu står ni vid slutet av en dikt som heter cirkel
 

Translator: Sohrab Rahimi
 
I mina ords massaker
högg de huvet av sista raden
och blodet   som bläck    har gett sig på papperet
det är döden      ett övergivet fönster    som förgjordas av stenen
ett färskt vapen har utplånat världen
och jag    som liksom varor stigit in i denna gränds dörrar
är fortfarande samma lilla rum som flydde hemmet
 
i mitt liv som liksom min penna med denna sidas rader min mor
kattens händer dansar ännu
för att få råttan att löpa
letande efter hålet som fylldes
 
letande efter läxan jag gjorde i skolan
är jag inte längre Dara för min kärleksfulla Sara
nu   håller jag på med min nya hemläxa
ni kan stryka
och bygg ett hus
full av en dörr vars sår är öppet
i den flickan
som ramlar i slutet av denna dikt
och igenom dödens gavlar
som ett rum borde gått från detta hem som blev lycklig
flickan   som hade velat bli min släkting
kasta frö i sin röst    jaga bort mig
och i sin kropps tempel
snurra  och igen snurra mina ögon   igen förvandla mig till en dervisch*
sådana ögon
dessa ihåliga håligheter
i leken mellan två människor näktergalen
så mycket denna sida av varat som jag är
andra sidan fjärran är alla Iran
far-smärta mor-smärta bror-smärta är jag
jag mår värre än smärtan
mitt skrivande är mer steril än mig
och London som fortfarande har ett färgat väder
väntar på mig  systerligt
att döden skall lägga sig på min kropp
för att livet en gång till skall döda mig
 
för en poet vars kö av ord blivit lång  tycker jag synd om
för sparven utan gren vars sjungande svullnat i halsen
för den kråkas vilande som inte har elkabel
för mig själv
som liksom el har gått från hemmet
jag var en människa
jag gjord bort mig och blev poet!
 
 
*Dervisch (persiska “fattig”), benämning på medlemmarna av vissa mystisk- religiösa muslimska ordnar
 
 
 

Qui part en exil, porte son histoire dans sa langue. La langue devient alors la mémoire, la main, le regard, le chemin : elle devient sensible.

Qui part en exil, qui s’exile, veut survivre au désastre. A quelque chose à faire survivre au désastre.

Il y a une langue éveillée qui, regardant le désastre, se met tout de suite en danger d’être meurtrie. Cette langue, les yeux ouverts, se rend compte que le désastre engloutit toute langue encore éveillée.

C’est ainsi que la langue uniforme, la langue officielle, censure toute autre langue. Toute autre langue est condamnée à disparaître. C’est toute autre langue qui part en exil.

* * *

J’écrivais, donc. La littérature était mon métier. Mes textes paraissaient. Où ? En Iran, la Presse, les revues, les journaux… Avec le temps, je me rendais compte que des […] devenaient de plus en plus présents dans mes textes. Un jour, un ami poète, Ali Abdolrezaei, m’a envoyé son dernier livre, une moitié imprimée, l’autre écrite à la main. Puis, les quelques revues littéraires existantes ont cessé d’exister, puis, je ne devenais que des […], la page blanche, je la devenais.

En apparence, on parlait, on écrivait dans la même langue mais la langue commune ne nous contenait plus.

Mise en commun du hors du commun

Puis, la Presse, l’édition, les médias, nous ont exclus de toute page, de tout livre. La liste noire contenait nos noms : les noms à bannir, à éviter, à rayer. Ici, ce n’était plus Platon qui expulsait les poètes de la Cité (pour mieux les accueillir dans une cité idéale ?), mais un système…totalitaire. Venaient ensuite les autres jours, nos livres disparaissaient peu à peu des librairies, les maisons d’édition n’éditaient, ne rééditaient plus nos livres, préférant la paix au risque, les livres de cuisine à la poésie. Les nouvelles générations venaient au monde, nos œuvres n’étaient plus accessibles, nous étions inexistants : nous avons été effacés.

Ecrire, oui, la seule chose qui reste, lorsque tout manque. Nous manquions à nous-mêmes, nous nous manquions.

Précisément, c’est à ce moment-là que notre réseau se tissa sur les ondes du réseau mondial, l’Internet. Une existence conditionnée, virtuelle. Un choix par défaut : faute de papier, de financement, d’investissement, il y avait là quelque chose à sauver. Une écriture, et ses évolutions et ses agitations et ses éruptions. En somme, tout ce qui était passé sous silence, et pire, effacé de l’histoire de la littérature iranienne contemporaine. Le réseau, oui, nous l’avons expérimenté, une revue électronique a été fondée, des poèmes, des articles, des récits, des contributions de la part de ceux qui se sentaient privés d’un espace littéraire digne de ce nom, ont été mis en ligne. Cette expérience suit son chemin, se renouvelle, prend des envergures (publication de livre électronique), et réfléchit à son essence, une existence dans l’air, qui est libre et libérée, bien sûr, quoique la censure soit présente aussi sur Internet, nouveau moyen de chasser toute autre parole. Une existence donc fragile, par moment inquiétée : Quel avenir ? Quel genre d’archivage ? Quelle présence dans des librairies ? Quelle postérité ? L’existence flue ici et maintenant. Et après, comment, et qui, prendra le relai ? C’est à ces questions qu’il faudrait répondre.

Mais de quelle langue, de quelle littérature parlez-vous ?

Il est vrai, parler de la littérature iranienne contemporaine est la chose exotique par excellence. Il serait aisé de jouer sur l’exotisme même (comme pour les arts visuels, par exemple), aussi, il serait possible de rendre accessible cette littérature dans d’autres littératures, pour d’autres langues. Il faut préciser que la vie en exil transforme, manipule, influence, défigure, et possibilise la langue. La vie parallèle des langues offre un perpétuel échange, un passage continu d’une langue à l’autre : la langue d’hôte et la langue d’hôte. Le français rend possible cette non distinction, une non-différence, une non-séparation. Naît alors une langue, tout comme un enfant, métissée, hybridée d’une langue que l’on nommerait délibérément la langue maternelle et une autre, et peut-être une autre encore. C’est ainsi que les possibilités des langues s’additionnent. Une littérature post-exil surgit. La découverte de nouveaux espaces linguistiques et de nouvelles expériences, donne lieu à des œuvres uniques. Uniques, puisqu’elles sont le résultat d’un exercice patient sur la vie, c’est-à-dire, la littérature même.

Il y a des perspectives qui s’ouvrent. Une littérature post-exil, basée sur la multitude des langues et la dissemblance des espaces d’expérience est à venir.

Une littérature est née

En somme, la littérature post-exil ne s’efface ni dans la nostalgie d’origine ni s’intègre dans le paysage du pays d’accueil. Si elle existe, c’est par sa différence, si elle unit, c’est par son unicité. L’expérience littéraire du poète Ali Abdolrezaei est l’exemple par excellence. Une fois ses œuvres, ainsi que sa personne, censurées, il  a quitté l’Iran. Exilé en Europe (France, Allemagne, Angleterre), il a pu penser une nouvelle forme d’expression, déchaînée, libérée de la censure (religieuse, étatique), délivrée de l’auto-censure. Une expérience ancrée dans l’exil, où les potentiels poétiques sont nombreux. Cette littérature nous invite à penser à une nouvelle forme d’hospitalité. Non pas l’hospitalité de l’homme, mais l’hospitalité à l’égard de l’œuvre. Réécrire l’œuvre, ce qu’on appelle parfois la traduction, pourrait être une nouvelle forme de l’hospitalité.

A contribution to the Crosswords print issue by Parham Shahrjerdi

Translator: Abol Froushan

Should childhood be left to itself adulthood it won’t become

mother’s foot in the door and society becomes

Society’s a road self contained could not

ride over the humps

On the waterfront a foetus alone ninth month expires

out through the door that appears in darkness comes

good and bad labels won’t kiss his temple

cause he’s both and neither

I’m good! How?! I’m bad?! I’m both

and both means one

one that neither is

Grew up on my own consciousness

a bridge on thoughts that surround all around me

come a witness to bear witness……

Ma Ma on a way ma Pa the other

and each ma da[rling] who came said this way

Still the same junction you-less nowhere there

can ear each syllable and not ‘ear

Eyeing the surround all around and seeing not

Me am not a train that on the rails keeps coming and going

Am river! riving my own womb society’s there!

Hate ma gooddeeds so bad I pretend others….

You plain door I’m looking for in darkness

that follows me in darkness till which noon? I’ve reached

ma black and stiff suite of life to me stark nakedness not a bad fit!

thirty years of this road end to end I rived to myself

I was the road, ungoable, and dying this unbelievable

that anywhere on earth is stalking where isn’t stalking superb?

The Cowards! Opening like a door unearthing the tombstone

Disgusted by how much the cheerers

jeered the wind, in ecstasy wind, airing open!

I wish I hadn’t told them!

That is when someone dies they say

in foreign house in foreign land them’s innocence

them Iraniene like me!

life alone in stiff suites they put on well turned out! like me

come we down and this very now up in the same wings

our aimless flappings asleep and dreaming(s)

knowing everyone from each other

unknowing who we are Who?!

People try but won’t happen when they say Nay! Yes, they leave a bit for yeah

No’s ill fitting suite they wear, some joined the décor some wuthering some nothing!

wherein the heart something’s passed by, thought says accept! World echoes their nos

Butting god though!!! they split the two and don’t know that both means one!

forget the one… which doesn’t exist!?

like a wave visiting the shore to come back, mesmerised by greatness this sea!

Ebb and flow

of tide in the womb foetus swimming nine moons! The Moon’s no human being!

riven mad the sea, mothers

pregnant craving salt, why’s the beauty of the moon?

No one asks!!!

riding their plains, they think of little boats! A thought of what to do

they haven’t got, how to be-have they do, they moan!

Should the road bend the cars hoot Hoooooooooot!

Ask not?

I mean the wall which Hegel bore high, was of Hegel’s straw

we don’t live we toy disaster

Have no money!

Courage! When we ask someone in a taxi for town hall?! we have not!

Begotten Elders of a village in progress!!!

Oil!? As much as you wish! `People?! Little pilgrim!

This land knows a lot of no news?

Prophets suddenly ended man alone! And life’s story, everyone writes the way they want not. No map in hand! Mankind has no address!

No one reaches themselves coming towards them who is not! Consciousness is of un

knowing, who knows is a dust bin who doesn’t, ha’swallowed the trash!

Wuthering outside of self locking doors

inside is under siege of a selfless nothing that means everything!

A hand opens its tombstone

that’s caught in another’s door

in yourselves this heaven must run! and see!

Heavy traffic cars in a rage fuuuuuuuumes!

Them’s callin’ Leili!

The earth’s soiled, Leili’s many! Wears love on his head mates her no thought on his head not may be even love! The same paper crumpled tissues that am throwing in the bin!

We don’t kiss! Just bring close the lips don’t fall in each others arms

all in our arms just holdings …

practising this game life killings!

The fellow came to my house one night looked to find him so sly! Would say one thing do another! So surreptitiously he arrived at himself that of his self was hidden…

My girl! I introduce my boy!

My wedded wife this lady This is mine! and that…!

No one is ours they self belong

for a moment Christian a moment Muslim Jewish or Buddhist they are

‘cause they’re none of these

A fugitive from the world selfishly

hunkering in the temple wrestling with fear

fear means dizzy again in giddy

Giddy am!

Responsible for what I write am not, you reading this committed me are!

I’m listening to you while eavesdropping on myself

why do you call the guy walking in himself bad?

The world has welcomed him!

Who are you to say…?

When a guy comes in, side doors say welcome

Why you…?!

We’ve skimmed the cream of waves off the sea front we’re at war with whom?!

engaging the way at the heels an if war ends

we remake masses of if from what?!

ever-ready to defend scheming to attack

each moment we are till when?!

the ones who hover self walk have no step

the road is ambiguous (Tathagata!)

wish you to followed’em don’t ask where? (Tao!)

many are steps ahead Them’s not ahead Them’s lost?

They paid the guy pausing at the door of Paradise: Please come in!

He said: No, the children are coming

No they aren’t! They say where?

Here you outlaw wine

They promise somewhere a fairy is serving wine where?

you won’t open the door they throw the fairy to some far….

The newborn when he fell in the tray shrieked his cry drawn on high

up to teenage reached and continued his cry so it grew and grew

you’re getting old won’t give up?

you jump at each scream that passes by your alley where?

the foetal pose of ‘g’ in strings of thought any lower?!

Stop the alleys! No! They grow human beings

should I be born anew with no choice, before the midwife slaps my footholes

to cry and crying I won’t let them put dot dot dot instead of what I’d love to tell you!

I has one letter and you has three

why not break up?

Alley is not against alley

That which says That I am

The tongue has a quiet in the mouth if it’s stretched its deft hand out

I say again torn up lots sewn little!

Enemies?! we mass produce friends few!

We’ve sold today so tomorrow’s sahib suddenly arrives for what? chasing whom?

Always much later much later than later!

No good!

Lying on our back in the toes of our foes unconscious the thieves arrive

what’s doing what here?

taken off on holiday perhaps a few centuries of solitude

to this life this alley this attic never knowingly coming or going

still not in the arena but

the arena called in on house visit

eye-gouging cutthroat disemboweller

so our corpse won’t bloat and float

I’m bloated! My words are on the tip of every tongue! As they stuck out their tongue at mine they became my wife! Verbs seduced my words, they don’t know writing is a fear! A fear of I know not what to do! I am the poet of grandissimo contradictions! Not for or against society just beyond the thing!

I’m busy directing the girlhood of a poem that one day will disembark from house to house…

I’m in love with ruddy cheeks and …. slapped in the face-cum-no-one like pretty to take my hand for herself?

As many gods as many have this land has skies a have-not!

And may the meaning of Lady be raising this up?

Gentlemen! Never raised my hand for one on anyone!

I’m one of those rare fickle types who prowl around the differences of questions!

I’m the difference between the differences of the world!

A bridge on thoughts that surround all around me

and sometimes I think, thought is a stone that from a distance is thrown towards me

become the landlord of homeless thoughts director missing!

director means the man whose recalls I have!

Should I wish to die I must live I know, but should I die who will bear all this solitude, who?

Tonight my bedroom light won’t go on no one knows why!?

looking at the picture of someone who wants to sneeze they won’t let it who?

in reverse of me this picture is looking for the landlord I wasn’t there?

Didn’t want to withhold wanted to catch it AT CHEewW!

The other night had the air of getting kicked I had called her name it was the wind’s fault! It threw my voice two three meters over till it got in the ear of the girl who came back instead:

Ha! I’ve changed a lot, no!?

was real crass!

Alone she was so alone that even a tramp wouldn’t travel with her I did!

she was a support I was leaning on a vacuum!

us two ever so in love love we didn’t understand means erect!

and be butchered

I didn’t understand I was with you you not there”

just two bedraggled eyes endeavoured your picture

just two hands of nights have stretched to the skies

and yes good no bestowed me lot to good god

Getting old my boy where’s your hair!?

I forgot it at the bazaar, Tehran-like people were dizzy like Tehran on a Saturday

whose Sunday was the disgusted reason of weekdays, in trance one night I transited to the day when I saw you here, when I returned you weren’t like pretty, and my hands caught in your warm embrace I forgot to take off!

Into the other that hard slapped my ear I ran, and happened upon a girl arriving like pretty

My fresh Leila

like a leech

on my right arm

is etched on my identity card

and whichever exam she passed marked F!

but for the ivy climbing ivy the house façade had no hand

wouldn’t come up my street

We’d go to her house, the street and I!

A lit window up there fallen on high

that night tomorrow coughing in South West wouldn’t come

scalping redskins tacked on carry attack a tack

My spouse was shut bathed and showered inside my heart she left!

A pair of hands knotted round my waist she badly forgot to take off she left!

she no longer came round even if the house went round a lot gone not gone!

There the sun had risen to the sky

Tuesday was on the table

in here from behind the window she was prodding their house!

Could hear the vacuum cleaner everywhere!

No show! and her mother showed up and cleaned our house!

Leaves on high tremblings roots in the deep creepings

Freud in depth shovings

Jung yin and yang renderings

motherings, not lovings but upbringings and spewings bringing the children up one by one! Ach so roof tops baskings!

twice prostrate don’t know shame, had taken Pa out of the house one day to return a warm baker!

in through the window came an unbounded hand! lounged around, came to my bedroom, let go she’s not there! what a senseless grapple with myself have I to become human? Is it compulsory? won’t become one!

standing alone everywhere Pa has grown up Ma… Hey Mr! Have you not seen our house!?

should look so I won’t forget listen to this roundabout, the mortar bridge and the fishmongers who sold a youth to Tehran. Should say hi to the motor rickshaw so ma Ma won’t lose ma Pa! to these people going home in their espadrilles looking askance at me one should… How do I look?

in my apartment, myself! a tide of tourists promenading, I have to enter the No Entry! visit the back market, ask the price of mackerel to price the price! So like, like always one must be like everyone like tired I am like always of everyone. I have to in a town that forbids offence offend!

I have to thigh into the Shrine of Ali!

Salaam to Ali resident La Elaha el Allah me resident La Elaha el Allah O residents of La Elaha el Allah, Me La Elaha el Allah La…La!

My voice is warmed by your ear! Anyone who forgets me will abolish you! Me called after this and that! Am not! It’s just to trick the world. These thoughts are all guests in me. The previous and the next poems live! They must go so I tend meself if you want I’ll have nothing to do with you if not I’ll follow you around, I’ve anchored in Anchorage so me Pa can finish this fake

When I arrived I told me Ma I had a dream last night she brought me tea my dream came true!

Had arrived at a simple door that I’m looking for in the dark that followed me in the dark till when…?!

I came back!

In the street the hooting was continuous. In my right pocket hearing was deaf. Sudden screech of brakes, purchased a pedestrian, and shoved it in his trouser pocket and I’m conked drunk on the bar counter! On this same pound note put a plaster on my brow Blood won’t stop!

I have drop by drop from me dripping and have not

My tomorrow’s lost in the week Sunday bored Monday beat Tuesday Sun Moon Mars wed on red nose day guide to underworld, fifth day Guru prostrates numbered days marching snails involuting in nothing!

NOTHING MEANS EVERYTHING

Dictionary Rewrite!

Commençons par ceci : non, je ne suis pas traducteur. Traduire ne m’intéresse guère. Seulement, j’aime m’introduire dans une langue, la mienne, par exemple, puis, en sortir pour m’introduire dans une autre langue, une autre, la tienne, par exemple. Mais la mienne, elle est déjà de-langué, cherche à déléguer : je languis pour ma langue.

Il est des textes qui nous vivent, ainsi, même cessant de vivre, ils nous survivent. Censure fait partie de ces textes-là. Et une question: a-t-on mesuré l’envergure de ce qu’on désigne, ici comme un véritable signifiant-maître ?

?????????

Serait-il concevable d’avoir une compréhension simultanée d’un terme et d’un autre ? Il s’agit là d’un adverbe ( ?) accompagné d’un nom commun, et créant ainsi un syntagme nominal : maux – père / maux – mère / mon maux – frère.

Une sorte de metônumia s’opère, en défigurant ces noms composés, un changement de nom qui peut se faire comme suit : référant –> signifiant –> signifié.

Les renvois sont multiples :

Maux renvoie aux mots, et au même moment, renvoie au père. Et vice-versa.

Le nom composé maux – père peut être considéré comme un poly-signifiant, constitué de deux signifiants (maux et père), et chacun ayant au moins un signifié. L’ensemble maux – père, en voisinage d’un certain mon père, peut être interprété comme multiple renvoi : maux, le mal, père, la famille, et par maux qui est mon, le narrateur se dispose de tout le mal, de tous les maux.

Les mots les maux : les maux des mots

Proposons une hypothèse : et si chaque mot n’était qu’un mal, et ceci, dans tous les sens : physique, métaphysique et moral (ici, nous référons aux trois axes du mal selon Leibniz sans y adhérer pour autant). Chaque mot donc, est porteur du mal. Nous disons père, nous disons mère, nous disons frère, et le mal y est. Comment confronter le mal ? Le posséder? Le repousser ? Dans le poème intitulé Spleen, antérieur à Censure, Abdolrezaei écrit :

J’ai sauvé ma vie

Pour trahir en bloc

Mon père ma mère mes amis tous des humains

Nous assistons ici au cœur de la société, avec la famille, avec des amis. Ces humains, définisseurs du bien et du mal. Mais aussi, les censeurs, et justement, les premiers cercles de la censure, exécuteurs de la censure la plus dure. Ces humains qui attribuent le mal au mot, le mot – mal, devenant le mot à éviter, le mot censuré. Il y a donc des mots qui souffrent (les non-dits), et puis, des mots qui sont à l’origine de la souffrance (humains, société, censure, famille, père, mère, amis…). Le début du poème démontre bien l’action menée par ces mêmes humains :

Au massacre de mes mots

On arracha la tête de la dernière ligne

Les références à la famille sont manifestes. Aussi, en écrivant ce poème en français, je suis arrivé à une phrase telle que :

Et Londres avec un temps bariolé encore

Attend sœurement

Pour que la mort s’allonge sur mon corps

Pour que la vie me tue encore.

Une sorte de personnification est suggérée : Londres est ma sœur. J’aurais pu me contenter de dire : [elle] attend telle une sœur, ou encore, [elle] attend comme une sœur. Mais j’aurais besoin plus que cela, un terme équivalant de fraternellement. Sœurement, porteur de sœur, de sûrement, et tout cela, porteur de la famille, porteur du mal.

Et etouffer les mots les maux.

Le persan s’écrit en français. Je l’ai écrit en français, non, je l’ai écrit dans mon français.

Du monolinguisme au poly-linguisme d’autrement

Il y a en effet une certaine connectivité entre cette langue, nommée persane avec toute autre langue. Notre tâche consiste à rendre possible ces connectivités, par un acte, jadis considéré comme impossible, aller au-delà de la traduction pour arriver à une re-création. Dans cette re-création, il se passe des choses, inattendues parfois, improbable d’un temps à l’autre.

Un chantier de création, des chantiers de re-création ont été conçus pour que la langue s’ouvre vers… Vers quoi ? Vers toute possibilité non-découverte. A la rencontre d’une langue, ici la langue persane, avec la langue d’hôte, un échange s’établit, il s’agit d’un rapport donnant-donnant, la langue d’hôte comme la langue d’hôte s’ouvre, toute langue devient l’ouverture même pour possibiliser l’autre. L’une devient l’autre. Dans ce devenir, qu’est-ce qui se passe ?

Ce que nous allons présenter ici :

- chaque chantier propose ses produits, ses créations, ses re-créations

- une relecture de cet acte est proposée pour se rendre compte de ce processus

- entendre la langue, entendre la langue d’autrui, entendre la voix de la langue, devenir oral

- puis, un travail latent, puis, un travail pour une langue, pour des langues à venir

Ici, nous sommes en train de créer et en même temps, présenter l’héritage de la littérature post-exil. Une littérature qui, dépassant son territoire, dans de nouveaux territoires, s’installe.

En ce sens, la littérature post-exil, est toujours en-cours, étant toujours en train de…, elle ne cesse de changer le cours des choses, c’est-à-dire le cours de la langue, celle d’hôte, et celle d’hôte. A suivre, donc.

Compared to the artistic means at one’s disposal when creating music or painting, W.H.Auden contemplated that for the poet, language has many advantages. In artistic discourse, there are three pronouns, three tenses and speech can occur in both the active/passive voice (1).
Ali Abdolrezaei idiosyncratically invokes all language possibilities in the narration of his subject matter. True or false his verses may be, but the deeds are distinctive of his style of diction/imagery and syllabic spell appropriate to the occasion. His approach breaks with the traditional Aristotelian narrative of a beginning, a middle and an end.
There are many poems in which the use of pronouns is fragmentarily accompanied by disorientated persona to indicate the heterogeneity of modern times.

The poem “Censorship”, strictly speaking, is an inferred biography. Although he prefers that no biography be written, he hopes attentive readers of his poems can extract as much knowledge from his language constructions as possible.
This poem is soaked in metamorphosis: as a very comprehensive metaphor. This motif in both literary and real forms crops up constantly. The weird isolation the helpless rejection and the tragic perversion forced on him are so intense that it would seem impossible in almost any other society.
 

My heart is bleeding for the poet whose queue of words is getting longer
for the branch less sparrow who’s swallowed its twitter
for the restitution of a crow with no overhead wire
for myself
gone from the house like electricity

This poem is written from a heightened, desperate, point of view. The final assertion is the admission of the metamorphosis he underwent as to become a poet.
 

I was somebody
Did the foolish thing became a poet!
 

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.
Poetry is a transcendental symbol for rebirth. It is only through such experience that we can leave the old baggage for good and be reborn. There exists a purification notion of poetry: a sustained flood of metaphor shifts throughout the poem.
In the exile, from his cold heights, he can see differently; free of the old perspectives one returns with new insights.
 

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
 

Writing is akin to mountain climbing or to the hero’s dangerous actions/ journey. Analogy of the task of writing poetry is extended even to the painful labour of human birth.
Poetry is a means by which to realise that the well-entrenched discursive structures and social interests attempt to supervise meaning and truth. In the above stanza, the suffix `hurt` is added to the closest endeared family roles (e.g. brother; mother and father) to imply the painful sense of meaning associated with the concept Identity. Although the poet is reborn in exile, his sense of belonging to the beloved home is still hurtful. Here a symptomatic reading of the poem, as a metaphor, is called for.
 

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
 

His estrangement from society, either indigenous or exiled, allows him to see its shortcomings. Poetry for Abdolrezaei is a vehicle by which he treats serious subjects in an ironically lowbrow manner.
The most important poetry technique that Abdolrezaei explores in his work is what we might call the ‘unexpected’ principle. He allows the reader to develop a series of expectations which he then disappoints by injecting incongruity. In the stanza above, the second line negates the first and the forth line is demanding an action to annihilate the third. Once the reader has exerted the conscious effort needed to solve these incongruities, s/he may inescapably come to accept a fresh evaluation as to rethink their life on the basis of the poem’s insights.
Abdolrezaei’s position comes close to trapping the elusive truth and making it available to the conscious mind. The truth that this poem reveals may be a serious insistence on the impossibility that humankind speaks truth. By the same token, it is inevitable that humankind suffers from past experiences.
 

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
 

Poetry is itself an instance of play-acting to reveal something to actors who may never come to realise what they are really like off-stage. This poem implies the poet can say something true only on the page face, as the stage on which he verbally plays. The poem asserts that speaking the truth may irritate the reader. So Abdolrezaei indeed contradicts Keats’s axiom that “poetry should surprise by a fine excess and not by singularity”. His poetry is meant to scare those incapable to face truth. It requires an effort to discover the exact relevance of his allusions used in this stanza. In poems, he acts as cat scaring readers, mice-like, to run for the hole.
 

In the massacre of my words
they’ve beheaded my last line
and blood ink like is hitting on paper
there’s death stretched over the page
 

The poem starts in earnest with an outright violence “massacre of my words” which is responsible for the rest of it. The rebellious massacre of words occurs when the assumptions behind `truth` are confronted. Via a system of dichotomies, someone who desires `beauty` assumes it is `truth`. Those who are shocked into moral awareness beyond the dichotomy of the pretty and the ugly must have waged such a bloody war on the poet’s words. Their demands are simple and absolute. The naïve, enraged audience marched on to massacre his words and behead his last lines. But their enduring belief would bring them to grief elsewhere.
This “Achilles’ heel” constitutes the contrast between what the poet looks for and what the power relations expect him to show.
Despite the expectations, the poet moves, deliberately on not trying to be aesthetically pleasing or emotionally adhering to the dualistic vision of `manhood` versus `womanhood` as in the nursery rhyme “Jack and Jill” learnt at school.
 

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
 

The new weaponry safeguards the same long literary and iconographic tradition believing that aesthetic qualities signify righteous ones.
The theme of pain, running through the entire poem, refers to the difficulties inherent in the execution of poetry that might elevate humans from such prejudiced assumptions. This endeavour forced the poet to leave his homeland and immigrate to Britain. In spite of such a huge step, he says he is still the same “meagre room” in an alley back home. The lines in the following stanza describe his plight not yet relieved in the exile.
 

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
 

Abdolrezaei’s experiences of life in London are presented here in an abstract form because literal depictions can’t be met by instrumental language.
If poetry isn’t wish-fulfilment, what is it? Abdolrezaei would say it’s a means through which our aspirations for the developmental truth and existential rebirth are satisfied.
In the very last stanza, the poet appears to have contempt for poetry:
 

I was somebody
Did the foolish thing became a poet!
 

Is his assertion to be taken at face value? His poetry says it all for him: he made his poem and it is our turn to “cross it out”, censor it or face reality.
This heavy metal poem exhaustingly manages to achieve the metamorphosis of pain and vision into art. The beauty of the representation and the ugliness it represents are both affirmed and concealed under the success of its illusion.
In this poem, the role of the reader is crucial; for what it sets up is an open-ended interpretation in which the hermeneutic circle is never closed.
Abdolrezaei’s poetry is a carnival rite rather than a solemn memorial, and his language has an astonishing lexical range and ironic implications.

1- DICHTUNG UND WAHRHEIT-VIII-1959
2- I should thank Dr. Helen Pearce once again for her friendship and kind contribution in auditing this article.

Kelimelerimi hep beraber öldürende

Son sat?r?n önsözün kestiler

Ve kan mürekkeb gibi ka??ta can yak?c? olup

Ölümdür sayfa üstüne uzanmakta olan

Ve ya?amak aç?k b?rak?lm?? bir pencere ki ta? ono öldürdü

Yeni bir tüfek dünyan? yok olmaya ula?t?r?p

Ve ben ki e?ya gibi bu soka??n kap?lar?na tan??am

Hâlâ ayni küçük odayam ki evden göç etti

Ya?am?mda kalemim gibi bu sayfan?n sat?rlar?la annele?mi?em

Kedi kollar? oynamaktad?r hâlâ

Ki doldurulmu? delige

S?çan ko?tursun

Okulda yapt???m okuma??n pe?inde

Daha sevgili Sârâ’ma varl? deyilem

Yeni ödevimi yapmak etmekdeyim

Silin siz

Ve bu ?iirin sonunda y?k?lacak k?zda

Bir ev bina edin

Yaras? aç?k olmu? kap?dan dolu

Ve ölümün iç içesinden

Bir oda gibi gitmi? olsun bu evden ki mutlu oldu

Bir k?z ki beni akraba istemi? olsun

Tohum serpsin sesinde huzurumu dilesin

Ve boybosunun tekkesinde

Dolans?n dayanmadan dolans?n gözlerim yeniden dervi? etsin beni

Gözler

Bu bombo? delikler

?ki insan aras?ndaki oyunda ne kader bülbüldüler

Ne kader varl???n bu ba??nda ki varam fazla o ba?liyam hepsi ?ran’d?lar

Ata?r? ana?r? arkada?r?m !

Benim hal?m a?r?dan kötüdür

Yazmak benden fazla yaz?kt?r

Ve London ki süslenm?? iklimi var hâlâ

K?z karde? gibi bekliyor

Ölüm bedenim üste uzans?n

Ki ya?amak yeniden beni öldürsün

Kelimelerinin s?ras? uzun olmu? ?aire yüre?im yan?yor

Budaks?z serçeye ki c?v?ldamas? bo?az?nda ?i?ip

Dinlenmeye elektrik teli olmayan kargaya

Kendime ki

I??k gibi evden gitmi?em

Bir insan idim

Yanl?? yapt?m ve ?air oldum !

?????? ??? ?????????? ?? ???? ???????? ?????

http://www.Antoloji.Com/ali_abdolrezaei

Saeed Ahmadzadeh Ardabili

Her ?iirin bir olu?um süreci vard?r. Bu olu?um sürecinde son görünüm, süt ve kaymak gibidir. ?iir, bu sürecin kayma??d?r. Süt de bu kayma??n alt?ndan alabilece?imiz ba?ka bir ürün ya da kaymak için kaynak. ?iirin geri plan?nda da söz konusu sürece ba?l? tarihsel etkileyiciler vard?r. Bireyin zihinselini ilgilendiren, onu etkileyen bir tarihselliktir bu. Bu tarihsellik, ?airin, ?iiri için özel çevrenini olu?turur. Bu, ?iirin tarihselini olu?turan: durum, olay ve olgular bütünüdür. Elbette bir de ?airin ?iirsel yetene?ini olu?turan zihinseli vard?r. Ve her ?iir bize, bir yandan yazan bireyin tarihselini, bir yandan da ruhsal?n? yans?t?r. Söz konusu tarihsellik, ?iirin kendi içinde anlatt??? tarihsel ya da öykü de?ildir. Bu durumda ?iirin bir aç?k ve gizli tarihseli, bir de aç?k ve gizli ruhsal? oldu?u söylenebilir.

Bir ?iiri anlamak, anlamland?rmak bu iki etmenin ortaya ç?kar?lmas?d?r. Bu konuda da okurun deneyimi devreye girer. Genelde ?iir diliyle, özelde ?airin ?iir diliyle ilgili deneyimi ve de yöneldi?i ?iire ilgisi ve deneyimi. Bu, bazan arka arkaya ç?kar?mlarla geli?ebilir, bazan da çok uzun ara?t?rmalara götürebilir. Bir dilin ileti?im içindeki i?leyi?i, bir aritmetik sorusunun çözülmesi gibidir. Bilinmeyen her öge, ?iirin anlamsal?na giden yolu t?kayan bir engeldir. Derhal çözülmeyi bekleyen bir engel.

Ali Abdolrezaei nin ?iirinde kültürel düzleme bakt???m?zda do?ayla içiçe bir ya?amsal deneyim içindeki k?rsal kesim insan?n?n, elden geldi?ince yal?nla?t?r?lm?? bir anlat?m diline tan?k oluyoruz. Böylece ?airin bir özelli?i yal?nl?k olarak beliriyor. Bu ?iirde kendi güçsüzlü?ünü, güçsüz b?rak?lm??l???n? ya?amdan ald??? bir i?aretle hayk?ran isyan?ms? bir söylem var. Ali Abdolrezaei nin ?iiri k?rsall??a ve yal?nl??a uzan?yor. Yani ilk önce ça?r???m düzeyinde kurdu?um bu te?et ili?kinin köksel, kökensel bir ilintisi var diye dü?ünüyorum ?imdi. Özelli?i ise eylemsellerde kendini hissettiriyor: edilgenlik. Bu edilgenlik, önce olumsuzluk, gücü yetmezlik olarak beliriyor. Sonra da ussalla?mayla, (asl?nda hem etkin, hem de edilgin bir biçimde tak?nakla?an, nehir imgesiyle) etkinle?iyor.

Genel olarak dil, daha ilk basama??nda, adland?rma a?amas?nda bir soyutlamad?r. D?? dünyan?n, zihnimize “similasyon”lar?n?n ç?kar?lmas? ve “simile” (benzetilerek aynile?tirilmi?) ögeler aras? ili?kiler (similasyonun ç?kar?lmas? sonucu olu?an bir dizgeler) bütünüdür dil. Dolay?s?yla her türlü dil, öncelikle bir soyutlama ve bir de?i?tirim (yerine ba?kas?n? koyma) i?lemini içerir. Yani alansal bir kayd?rma söz konusudur. Günlük genel ileti?im dilinde ise sözcüksel (göstergesel) imge alan?na geçilir. Abdolrezaei nin dilinde, yine genel dilden yararlan?lmas?na kar??n, bu dilsel malzemeden yani göstergesel imgelerden yeni birle?tirimlere yeni de?i?tirimlere gidilerek yeni bir düzenleme gerçekle?tirilir ve ortaya yeni, özgül bir dil ç?kar.
Ali Abdolrezaei özellikle bu ?iirinde anlat?m tekni?i olarak terimlemede kayd?rma i?lemini kullanm??. Farscada al??t???m?z söyleyi?leri de?i?tirmi?.
D?? dünyay? oldu?u gibi alg?layan biri için farsca olan genel dilin anlat?m? “sa??m duvar, solum pencere’dir”. Ancak dinsel bak??a yerle?en ki?i için, sa??m(da) Münker, solum(da) Nekir) anlat?m?na al???k biri için bir düzde?i?mece (métonymie) i?lemiyle “sa?da olan”, “sa?”?n; “solda olan”, “sol”un yerine geçirilmi?tir. Ayni zamanda bu kulan?m bir tekrar? önlemi?tir. Daha önce, dizelerinde sa? ve sol kullan?lm??t?r. Böylece anlat?msal düzlemde bir yo?unla?t?rma gerçekle?tirilerek, anlamsal düzlemde, hem mekansal anlat?m, hem dinsel bürün (örtü), hem de bu dinsel bürünün süreklili?i nedeniyle, duvar ve pencere gibi bir s?k??t?r?lm?? mekan anlat?m? sa?layan sözcüklerle Abdolrezaei nin içinde bulundu?u s?k??m??l?k ve bu s?k??m??l???n süreklili?i, dolay?s?yla, kurtulunamayan, sorunsal s?k?nt? ortam? anlat?lm??t?r.
Bu kayd?rmayla olu?an ifade, beden dilsellikten uzakla??yor. Bu belki de Ali Abdolrezaei ?iirini yapamamas?n?n, (yapmak istememesinin) anlat?m?d?r. Zaman dönü?ümü ise ya?am veren ile ya?amsal olan, ya?am?n bir kesiti ömür denkle?tirimini, ve bu iki terimin aynile?tirildi?ini dü?ündürüyor. Art?k ?air ölümün yakla?t???n?n bilincindedir.
Bu dizede “insanin”‘in anlamland?r?lmas? anahtar i?levlidir. ?iirde konu?an ki?inin muhatap ald???d?r. Insan, iki aç?dan de?erlendirilebilir, özü itibariyle, niteli?i itibariyle. Bu durumda bir tek a?k sözcü?ü, hem genel hayata, hem de özel, kendi hayat?na iletmi? olur.
Konu?an Abdolrezaei kendisini ifade edebilme gücünü, ana karn?ndaki ceninin diline benzetmi?tir. Bir cenin kendisini ne kadar ifade edebiliyorsa, o da kendini kadar ifade edebilmektedir. Elbette kendi ya?am?nda kendini böyle duyumsamas?d?r, söz konusu olan. ?iirde oynayan yerine geçen ?air de dili elden geldi?ince yal?nl??a çekerken dildeki fazlal?klar? atarken, suskunun diline, cenin diline dönü? yolundad?r.
Olabilir ki Abdolrezaei için erkeklik bir güç kavram?n?n ba?ka bir göstereni oluveriyor. Ve elbette burada, gücünü hissetti?inde kendini özgür hissetme de devrede. K?m?lt?s?zl?k gibi hissettiriyor kendine. Yani en ayr?nt?daki ya?amsal olan (ya?am veren - an?lar da dahil- ne varsa) bütünlüyeci bir tesbih ipi gibi çekilmi?, ya?amsal? da??tm??, peri?an etmi?tir, -asl?nda bu benzetme de kültürel bir göndermedir.
Yine Abdolrezaei nin dili cenin diline dönmesi ile “dil”den yaln?zca edat?n kalmas?, yani dil(in)de biçimsel en küçük sözcü?ün kalmas?, yani ya?am demek olan dilin, en az anlat?m i?levi olan bir ögeye dönü?mesi gibi, (ana/baba/arkada? da) silinmek üzeredir.
Teknik olarak ?iirde ko?utlamaya ba?l? bak???ml? (ve/ya tamamlay?c?) yinelemelerden söz edilebilir. Bu bak???ml?l?k bazan kavramsal düzlemde tamamlan?yor. Ve bak???ml? yinelemelerin de yard?m?yla, bu ?iirinde baba/o?ul, yaratan/yarat?lan, ya?atan/öldüren ikili aynalar?na gönderiyor okuru.
Burada kara bo?lu? olarak, kara bir bo?luk olur. Kara bo?lu?u, ölüm olarak de?erlendirdi?imizde o?ul/hayat/ana, ki?iyi ölüme yakla?t?rm??, haz?rlam?? olur. ?iirdeki konu?an insan da durumuna serzeni?te bulunan bir varl?k. ?iir de bu insana, Ali Abdolrezaei nin ifadesiyle “insanc?k”a bir arma?and?r. Bunu hayat?n bo?lu?unu besleyen ?iir gibi yorumlayabilece?imiz gibi, konu?an? içine alm?? bir be?ik, bir yatak, bir mezar gibi de yorumlayabiliriz. ?nsan? yutan, saklayan.

Translator: Abol Froushan

In the massacre of my words

they’ve beheaded my last line

and blood ink like is hitting on 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 branch less 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!