Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Ali Abdolrezaei

Miss Ziari

My eyes didn’t wander
I just wandered in her eyes
those burning embers
I was fuel to
The deft sculptor
to chisel such delicate nose
was me
The butchering of her lips
between the teeth
What a tongue!
Hands of a masseuse hid in her eyes
O my God
someone come light up
this black pair of cigarillos
squirming like seductive serpents
in such grace
This woman
was born
prettier than any bunch of flowers
I ever put to water
I ever lost my marbles
under the skin of those cheeks
She's still playing marbles
with the little eyes
my childhood possessed
My eyes do not wander
even if under the desk
I’m still climbing up your legs
in the short skirts you wore
to the prep class at Yari Primary
Miss Ziari*

* I was six when I started school. I had long straight hair, a navy blue jacket, wearing a tie of a colour I cannot remember. We had eleven silly girls in the class who kept coming on to me and I didn’t care. There were eight other boys in the class too, but I had become a man, because I was in love with Miss Ziari. I kept coming onto her but she didn’t care. So I kept getting top marks so she would come caress my hair and tell me with her budding lips, Excellent Ali! There was still one year left to the Revolution which put my love in a frame. Tonight when another love was torn away from me, I remembered my classmates and my teacher, Miss Ziari who, I still do not know why, when the schools shut for holidays; they put her against the wall in the middle of summer and shot a bullet in her chest. No, I still can’t believe it. It is impossible to kill a beautiful woman by a bullet.

خانم زیاری

خانم زیاری

هیز نبودم
در چشمهای او هیزم بودم
من می سوختم
اگر آنهمه روشن بود
تراشکارِ ماهری
که بینی به آن نازنینی
در آورده بود از آب
من بودم
قصابیِ لبهاش بین دو دندان
عجب زبانی
تن شوریِ دلاکی در چشمهاش
وای خدای من
یکی بیاید این دو سیگار سیاه را
که چون مار خوش خط و خالی
اینهمه باحال می خزد
به آتش بکشد
این زن
زیباتر از تمام دسته گلهایی که من دادم به آب
به دنیا آمد
خرمهره من گم کرده ام
زیر پوستِ این گونه
که این گونه گویی تیله بازی می کند هنوز
با چشمهای کوچکی
که کودکیِ من داشت
هیز نیستم
اگر چه زیر میز
هنوز دارم
از پاهای تو می روم بالا
که دامنی کوتاه داری
در کلاس اول دبستان یاری
خانم زیاری*

*شش سالم بود که به مدرسه رفتم.موهای لخت و بلندی داشتم،کتی سرمه ای و کراواتی که رنگش یادم نیست.یازده دختر بچه ی لوس در کلاس داشتیم که هر چه پا می دادند تحویل نمی گرفتم.هشت پسر بچه ی دیگر هم بود اما من دیگر مرد شده بودم چون عاشق خانم زیاری شده بودم.هرچه پا می دادم تحویل نمی گرفت،برای همین مجبور بودم هی بیست بگیرم تا دستی به موهام کشیده با لبهای غنچه ای بگوید آفرین علی! هنوز یک سال مانده بود تا انقلاب که عشقم را برای همیشه قاب بگیرد.امشب که عشق دیگری از دلم کنده شد،یاد دبستان یاری افتادم و خانم زیاری که نمی دانم چرا وقتی مدرسه ها تعطیل شد درست وسط تابستان بر سینه ی دیوارش گذاشتند و یک شلیک در سینه اش خالی کردند.هنوز باور نمی کنم نه! نمی شود هیچ زن زیبایی را با تفنگ کشت.
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Miss Ziari

My eyes didn’t wander
I just wandered in her eyes
those burning embers
I was fuel to
The deft sculptor
to chisel such delicate nose
was me
The butchering of her lips
between the teeth
What a tongue!
Hands of a masseuse hid in her eyes
O my God
someone come light up
this black pair of cigarillos
squirming like seductive serpents
in such grace
This woman
was born
prettier than any bunch of flowers
I ever put to water
I ever lost my marbles
under the skin of those cheeks
She's still playing marbles
with the little eyes
my childhood possessed
My eyes do not wander
even if under the desk
I’m still climbing up your legs
in the short skirts you wore
to the prep class at Yari Primary
Miss Ziari*

* I was six when I started school. I had long straight hair, a navy blue jacket, wearing a tie of a colour I cannot remember. We had eleven silly girls in the class who kept coming on to me and I didn’t care. There were eight other boys in the class too, but I had become a man, because I was in love with Miss Ziari. I kept coming onto her but she didn’t care. So I kept getting top marks so she would come caress my hair and tell me with her budding lips, Excellent Ali! There was still one year left to the Revolution which put my love in a frame. Tonight when another love was torn away from me, I remembered my classmates and my teacher, Miss Ziari who, I still do not know why, when the schools shut for holidays; they put her against the wall in the middle of summer and shot a bullet in her chest. No, I still can’t believe it. It is impossible to kill a beautiful woman by a bullet.

Miss Ziari

My eyes didn’t wander
I just wandered in her eyes
those burning embers
I was fuel to
The deft sculptor
to chisel such delicate nose
was me
The butchering of her lips
between the teeth
What a tongue!
Hands of a masseuse hid in her eyes
O my God
someone come light up
this black pair of cigarillos
squirming like seductive serpents
in such grace
This woman
was born
prettier than any bunch of flowers
I ever put to water
I ever lost my marbles
under the skin of those cheeks
She's still playing marbles
with the little eyes
my childhood possessed
My eyes do not wander
even if under the desk
I’m still climbing up your legs
in the short skirts you wore
to the prep class at Yari Primary
Miss Ziari*

* I was six when I started school. I had long straight hair, a navy blue jacket, wearing a tie of a colour I cannot remember. We had eleven silly girls in the class who kept coming on to me and I didn’t care. There were eight other boys in the class too, but I had become a man, because I was in love with Miss Ziari. I kept coming onto her but she didn’t care. So I kept getting top marks so she would come caress my hair and tell me with her budding lips, Excellent Ali! There was still one year left to the Revolution which put my love in a frame. Tonight when another love was torn away from me, I remembered my classmates and my teacher, Miss Ziari who, I still do not know why, when the schools shut for holidays; they put her against the wall in the middle of summer and shot a bullet in her chest. No, I still can’t believe it. It is impossible to kill a beautiful woman by a bullet.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Prins Bernhard cultuurfonds
Lira fonds
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère