Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Mahnaz Yousefi

Rasht

remember now your heavy accent, Rasht
remember now our bodies drenched in the rain that blew their tops at night
remember now your green hands that are of that stinky gray ilk
no memorial left after the city
from Family Hospital we arrived at Razi Hospital
with a fistful of veins and swallowed pills
with a woman in labor, with honking and pain as always
hey Rasht! with that heavy traffic near your anus
stray dogs won’t understand your drivers’ sleepless nights
truth is, Rasht, truth is when coupled cousins killed themselves in a family feud
we had an eye for Siyahkal and Lahijan and other cities too
we remembered Resalat Street and the ambulance now far from this damned place
destroyed in vain by family distances
city in vain with your four seasons suspended in rain
truth is, we never belonged to you
no memorial left after you
the pungent scents of Zarjoob
the pungent scents of the bazaar
we are afraid of mother’s breasts that smelled of the fish seller
we are afraid, Rasht
many a wolf sniffs at you
"wolf" was the paradoxical identity of your writer too
had a distant relationship with the deceased
but wouldn’t cease
what can make you know what men ended up deceased
oh, what men! with all striped clothes in Lakan
with every other sorry face of theirs behind the bars
what can make you know what crucial role the airport played
like the inflamed buttons of a sick breast
with the never-ending cancer and instinct and nature
what can make you know what it means that nature was blue at times
you are alone with sands you are alone with kites
hey Rasht, you were the North and yet you did not have a sea, Rasht did not have a sea, Rasht did not have a sea
poor Father
just that he planted Mozhdehi in your godforsaken place
poor Father
just that because of you he was unmanly though he was a standing man
just that he stands on Sepid River with a hanging tongue and a tail out of sight
just that he stands with his back to Tehran with a bone in the tooth and a bruised howl
poor Father just that he didn’t know your map looks like the head and neck of a lonely dog
just that forlorn just that mapless just that citizenless just that we are a few drags heavier than you
you can still    Ali
you can still    Hasan
Mitra                     Soheil              Hooman          Farzam
you can still    the neighbor’s kids
Emad and Samira
you can still    Saeed who was lonely in this damn place
only if there were a memorial left of you so we could pray for you
only if you knew that nature was Lahijan which was high at times
you should say hani instead of hande
you should say tara instead of tebe
and use no verb other than fuck
—How long is Amin taking shelter in your fucking place?
you stared, stoned, withdrew with your anus and Amin was silent ...
so many names names
just that we crave names no more names
with you nothing to do, Rasht
with anyone else nothing to do, Rasht
just that we have nothing to do we take to tension
just that we take to tension we have nothing to do
my dearest Rasht! with that ilk of yours sucking off the breast
with the drinking struggle in the mouth
with a few glasses of milk after the suicide pills
we roamed through your pharmacies night and day and every time we were out of antidepressants
we took to contraceptives and every time we were done
we were pregnant
we are afraid of postpartum depression
you tell us you tell us what to do what to do with the orphanage we have in our wombs
you tell us you tell us what to do with the blood clots clots
boys’ bulging arms
girls’ full breasts
and bits and bits and bits of fetus pouring out of out of your threshold
who was home alone?
who was hugging their knees crying into the cuffs of their sleeve?
who in the darkness was the destiny of the gloves in the closet?
who was it that announced the international blood day
when we returned, mature, from the apartment bathroom to your streets
too afraid to tell mother about the below-the-belt pains in the first unfinished municipal pothole?
who was it that walked in you friendless?
only if there were a memorial left of you so we could pray for you
and then come back with our back
to the bona fide madmen of the bazaar
back to the bona fide madmen
back
to the bona fide madmen
no memorial left of the city
no memorial left of the city
no memorial left of the city
no memorial left of the city
no memorial left of the city
no memorial left of the city

Rasht

verwijzend naar je zware accent, Rasht
verwijzend naar onze natte lichamen in de regen die s’ nachts woedde
verwijzend naar je groene handen die tot die stinkende grijze soort behoren
er is geen graf in de stad achtergebleven
van de kraamkliniek kwamen we aan bij het Razi Ziekenhuis
met een handvol aderen en doorgeslikte pillen
met een vrouw die aan het bevallen was, getoeter en een voortdurende pijn
hé Rasht! jij met dat zware verkeer naast je anus
honden begrijpen de slapeloosheid van je chauffeurs niet
om jou de waarheid te vertellen Rasht, om jou de waarheid te vertellen, toen onze neven zelfmoord pleegden tijdens een familieruzie
hielden we ook een oog op Siyahkal, Lahidjan en andere steden
we herinnerden ons het Resalat Ziekenhuis en de ambulance die ver van deze verdomde plek was
voor-niets-vernietigd door de familieafstanden
tevergeefs-stad met die vier in de regen hangende seizoenen van je
eerlijk gezegd hebben we ons nooit met jou verbonden gevoeld
er is geen graf van jou achtergebleven
de scherpe geur van de Zardjoebrivier
de scherpe geur van de markt
we zijn bang voor onze moeders borsten die naar de visboer roken
we zijn bang, Rasht
vele wolven snuffelen aan jou
‘Wolf’ was ook de tegenstrijdige identiteit van jouw auteur
die een verre relatie met de dood had
en toch ging hij maar niet dood
wat weet je van de mannen die al begonnen zijn met sterven
oh, en wát voor mannen! met geheel gestreepte kleren in de Lakangevangenis
en met elk ander spijtig gezicht achter de tralies
wat weet je van de gigantische rol die de luchthaven speelde
als geïrriteerde tepels van een zieke borst
van kanker, instinct en de voortdurende natuur
wat weet je van de betekenis van de natuur die soms ook blauw was
je bent eenzaam met zand, je bent eenzaam met vliegers
hé Rasht! jij was zelf het noorden en toch had je geen zee, Rasht, je had geen zee, Rasht, je had geen zee…
arme papa
degene die in jouw verwoeste plekken het Mozhdehi-weeshuis plantte
arme papa
degene die door jou geen echte man was hoewel hij als een man rechtop bleef staan
degene die op de Sepidroodrivier stond met een hangende tong en een onzichtbare staart
met zijn rug naar Teheran, een bot in de tand en een blauw gehuil
arme papa die niet wist dat jouw kaart op het hoofd en de nek van een eenzame hond lijkt
wie de verlatene was, kaartloos, burgerloos, dat we een paar slepen zwaarder zijn dan jij
je bent Ali vergeten
je bent Hassan vergeten
Mitra, Soheil, Hooman, Farzam
je bent de kinderen van de buren Emad en Samira vergeten
Saeed die op deze verdomde plek in zijn eentje was
was er maar een graf van je over zodat we eens voor je konden bidden, Rasht!
ik wou dat je wist dat Lahidjan de natuur is die soms luidruchtig was
we moeten het woord ‘alweer’ in het oosterse dialect uitspreken in plaats van het westerse
en zo ook ‘jou’
en geen ander werkwoord gebruiken dan ‘naaien’—
hoe lang schuilt Amin al in die verdomde plek van jou?
jij staarde, en trok je terug met je anus, Amin zweeg
zoveel namen namen
we verlangen maar naar namen, geen namen meer
met jou hebben we langer niets te doen, Rasht
met niemand anders niets te doen, Rasht
zodra we niets te doen hebben worden we rusteloos
zodra we rusteloos worden zijn we werkloos
mijn lieve Rasht! met degenen zoals jij die aan de borst zuigen
met het drinkverlangen in de mond
met een paar glazen melk na de zelfmoordpillen
zwierven we dag en nacht door je apotheken en elke keer dat de antidepressiva op waren
gingen we op zoek naar jouw anticoncepties en elke keer dat we klaar waren
waren we zwanger
wij zijn bang voor een depressie na de bevalling
vertel jij maar vertel maar wat moeten we doen wat moeten we doen met het weeshuis dat we in de baarmoeder hebben
vertel jij maar vertel wat moeten we doen met de bloedstolsels
flinke armen van de jongen
volle borsten van de meisjes
en de stukken stukken foetus die uit uit je poort stromen
wie was er alleen thuis?
wie zat in elkaar gedoken te huilen zoekend naar het uiteinde van zijn mouw?
wie, in de duisternis, was het lot van de handschoenen in de kast?
wie kondigde de Internationale Dag van het Bloed aan?
toen we, volwassen, van het toilet in ons huis, terug naar jouw straten keerden
en onze moeder in de eerste onvoltooide kuil van de stad uit angst niets over de onderbuikpijn vertelden
wie was het die in zijn eentje in je wandelde?
was er maar een graf van je achtergebleven zodat we eens voor je konden bidden
en dan terug zouden keren
naar de gekken in het hart van de markt
met onze ruggen naar de gekken
naar de gekken, terug
alles toont het al aan
er is geen graf van de stad achtergebleven
er is geen graf van de stad achtergebleven
er is geen graf van de stad achtergebleven
er is geen graf van de stad achtergebleven
er is geen graf van de stad achtergebleven
er is geen graf van de stad achtergebleven.

رشت

 نشان به لحن غلیظت رشت

 نشان به تن های خیسمان در باران که شب ها از کوره در می رفت

 نشان به دست های سبزت که از قماش بوگندوهای خاکستریست

از شهر پسمزاری نمانده

ما از بیمارستان فامیلی به بیمارستان رازی رسیدیم

 با یک مشت رگ و قرص بلعیده

 با زائو و صدای بوق و درد همچنان

هی رشت! با آن ترافیک سنگین نزدیک مقعدت

 سگ ها بی خوابی راننده های تو را درک نمی‌کنند

 از تو چه پنهان رشت از تو چه پنهان وقتی دخترخاله پسرخاله در یک دعوای فامیلی خودکشی می‌کرد

ما به سیاهکل و لاهیجان و شهرهای دیگر هم نظر داشتیم

یادمان افتاد رسالت و آمبولانسی که از این خراب‌شده دور بود

بیخود-خراب شده از فواصل فامیلی

 بیهود-شهر با آن چارفصل معلق‌ات در باران

از تو چه پنهان هرگز تعلقی بهت نداشتیم

از تو پسمزاری نمانده‌است

بوی تُندِ زرجوب

بوی تُند بازار

 از پستان مادر که بوی ماهی فروش را می‌داد می‌ترسیم

 می‌ترسیم رشت

ورگ‌های  زیادی تو را استشمام می‌کنند

 "ورگ" هویت متناقض نویسنده‌ات هم بود

 با مرگ رابطۀ دوری داشت

 اما نمی مُرد

 تو چه می‌دانی چه مردهایی به مردن افتادند

 چه مردهایی! با لباسهای یکسره راه راه در لاکان

 و صورت‌های یکی در میان متاسفشان پشت میله‌ها

تو چه می‌دانی فرودگاه چه نقش عظیمی داشت

همچون دکمه های ملتهب پستانی مریض

 با سرطان و غریزه و طبیعت همچنان

 تو چه می‌دانی طبیعت که گاهی هم آبی بود یعنی چی

 با شن ها تنهایی با بادبادک‌ها تنهایی

 هی رشت تو خودت شمال بودی و دریا نداشتی رشت دریا نداشتی رشت دریا نداشتی ...

بیچاره بابا

 همینکه در خراب شده های تو مژدهی را کاشت

 بیچاره بابا

همینکه به لطف تو غیرت نداشت و مرد ایستاده بود

همینکه ایستاده روی سپیدرود با زبانی آویزان و دمی نا پیدا

همینکه ایستاده پشت به تهران با استخوانی در دندان و زوزه ای کبود

 بیچاره بابا همینکه نمی دانست نقشه ات شبیه سر و گردن سگی تنهاست

همینکه بی کس همینکه بی نقشه همینکه بی شهروند همینکه دو- سه چوله از تو غلیظ تریم

یادت علی را فراموش

 یادت حسن را فراموش

 میترا سهیل هومان فرزام

 یادت بچه های همسایه عماد و سمیرا

 یادت سعید را فراموش که در این زهرماری تنها بود

کاش از تو پسمزاری بود تا فاتحه ات را بخوانیم رشت

 کاش می دانستی طبیعت که گاهی هم بلند بود لاهیجان است

 باید به «هَنی»  بگوییم  «هَنده»

به «ترأ» بگوییم »تِئبه»

و جز "گاییدن" از هیچ فعل دیگری استفاده نکنیم

 امین چند روز پناه در خراب شده تان هست؟

 تو، نسخ نگاه می کردی با مقعدت پس می کشیدی و امین ساکت بود

 

چقدر اسم اسم

 همینکه اسم دلمان می‌خواهد دیگر نه اسم

 با تو کاری نه رشت

 با کسی کاری نه رشت

 همینکه بی کاریم تنشمان می‌گیرد

 همینکه تنشمان می‌گیرد بی کاریم

 عزیزجان رشت! با آن قماش مکنده‌ات از پستان

 با تقلای نوشیدن در دهان

با چند لیوان شیر پس از قرص های خودکشی

 ما شبانه روز در داروخانه‌های تو چرخ می‌زدیم و هربار که قرص افسردگی تمام شد

به سراغ اسباب پیشگیری جنسی‌ات رفتیم و هربار که کارمان تمام شد

 حامله بودیم

ما از افسردگی پس از زایمان می‌ترسیم

 تو بگو تو بگو چه کنیم چه کنیم با پرورشگاهی که در رحم داریم

تو بگو تو بگو چه کنیم با لخته لخته‌های خون

 بازوهای درشت پسر

 سینه های برجستۀ دختر

 و تکه تکه تکه های جنین که از پیشگاه تو بیرون بیرون می‌ریخت

چه کسی در خانه تنها بود؟

چه کسی زانوهاش را بغل گرفته پیِ گوشه های آستینش گریه می‌کرد؟

چه کسی در تاریکی سرنوشتِ دستکِش‌های توی کمد بود؟

چه کسی بود آنکه روز جهانی خون را اعلام کرد

وقتی ما از دستشویی خانه بالغ به خیابان‌های تو برگشتیم

 و در اولین چالۀ نا تمام شهرداری دردهای زیر شکم را از ترس به مادر نگفتیم؟

چه کسی بود آنکه بی کس در تو قدم می‌زد؟

 کاش از تو پسمزاری بود تا فاتحه‌ات را بخوانیم رشت

و بعد برگردیم پشت

 به دیوانه‌های کفِ بازار

 پشت به دیوانه‌های کف

به پشت به دیوانه‌های کف

 نشان به نشان

از شهر پسمزاری نمانده‌است

از شهر پسمزاری نمانده‌است

از شهر پسمزاری نمانده‌است

از شهر پسمزاری نمانده‌است

از شهر پسمزاری نمانده‌است

از شهر پسمزاری نمانده است

Close

Rasht

remember now your heavy accent, Rasht
remember now our bodies drenched in the rain that blew their tops at night
remember now your green hands that are of that stinky gray ilk
no memorial left after the city
from Family Hospital we arrived at Razi Hospital
with a fistful of veins and swallowed pills
with a woman in labor, with honking and pain as always
hey Rasht! with that heavy traffic near your anus
stray dogs won’t understand your drivers’ sleepless nights
truth is, Rasht, truth is when coupled cousins killed themselves in a family feud
we had an eye for Siyahkal and Lahijan and other cities too
we remembered Resalat Street and the ambulance now far from this damned place
destroyed in vain by family distances
city in vain with your four seasons suspended in rain
truth is, we never belonged to you
no memorial left after you
the pungent scents of Zarjoob
the pungent scents of the bazaar
we are afraid of mother’s breasts that smelled of the fish seller
we are afraid, Rasht
many a wolf sniffs at you
"wolf" was the paradoxical identity of your writer too
had a distant relationship with the deceased
but wouldn’t cease
what can make you know what men ended up deceased
oh, what men! with all striped clothes in Lakan
with every other sorry face of theirs behind the bars
what can make you know what crucial role the airport played
like the inflamed buttons of a sick breast
with the never-ending cancer and instinct and nature
what can make you know what it means that nature was blue at times
you are alone with sands you are alone with kites
hey Rasht, you were the North and yet you did not have a sea, Rasht did not have a sea, Rasht did not have a sea
poor Father
just that he planted Mozhdehi in your godforsaken place
poor Father
just that because of you he was unmanly though he was a standing man
just that he stands on Sepid River with a hanging tongue and a tail out of sight
just that he stands with his back to Tehran with a bone in the tooth and a bruised howl
poor Father just that he didn’t know your map looks like the head and neck of a lonely dog
just that forlorn just that mapless just that citizenless just that we are a few drags heavier than you
you can still    Ali
you can still    Hasan
Mitra                     Soheil              Hooman          Farzam
you can still    the neighbor’s kids
Emad and Samira
you can still    Saeed who was lonely in this damn place
only if there were a memorial left of you so we could pray for you
only if you knew that nature was Lahijan which was high at times
you should say hani instead of hande
you should say tara instead of tebe
and use no verb other than fuck
—How long is Amin taking shelter in your fucking place?
you stared, stoned, withdrew with your anus and Amin was silent ...
so many names names
just that we crave names no more names
with you nothing to do, Rasht
with anyone else nothing to do, Rasht
just that we have nothing to do we take to tension
just that we take to tension we have nothing to do
my dearest Rasht! with that ilk of yours sucking off the breast
with the drinking struggle in the mouth
with a few glasses of milk after the suicide pills
we roamed through your pharmacies night and day and every time we were out of antidepressants
we took to contraceptives and every time we were done
we were pregnant
we are afraid of postpartum depression
you tell us you tell us what to do what to do with the orphanage we have in our wombs
you tell us you tell us what to do with the blood clots clots
boys’ bulging arms
girls’ full breasts
and bits and bits and bits of fetus pouring out of out of your threshold
who was home alone?
who was hugging their knees crying into the cuffs of their sleeve?
who in the darkness was the destiny of the gloves in the closet?
who was it that announced the international blood day
when we returned, mature, from the apartment bathroom to your streets
too afraid to tell mother about the below-the-belt pains in the first unfinished municipal pothole?
who was it that walked in you friendless?
only if there were a memorial left of you so we could pray for you
and then come back with our back
to the bona fide madmen of the bazaar
back to the bona fide madmen
back
to the bona fide madmen
no memorial left of the city
no memorial left of the city
no memorial left of the city
no memorial left of the city
no memorial left of the city
no memorial left of the city

Rasht

remember now your heavy accent, Rasht
remember now our bodies drenched in the rain that blew their tops at night
remember now your green hands that are of that stinky gray ilk
no memorial left after the city
from Family Hospital we arrived at Razi Hospital
with a fistful of veins and swallowed pills
with a woman in labor, with honking and pain as always
hey Rasht! with that heavy traffic near your anus
stray dogs won’t understand your drivers’ sleepless nights
truth is, Rasht, truth is when coupled cousins killed themselves in a family feud
we had an eye for Siyahkal and Lahijan and other cities too
we remembered Resalat Street and the ambulance now far from this damned place
destroyed in vain by family distances
city in vain with your four seasons suspended in rain
truth is, we never belonged to you
no memorial left after you
the pungent scents of Zarjoob
the pungent scents of the bazaar
we are afraid of mother’s breasts that smelled of the fish seller
we are afraid, Rasht
many a wolf sniffs at you
"wolf" was the paradoxical identity of your writer too
had a distant relationship with the deceased
but wouldn’t cease
what can make you know what men ended up deceased
oh, what men! with all striped clothes in Lakan
with every other sorry face of theirs behind the bars
what can make you know what crucial role the airport played
like the inflamed buttons of a sick breast
with the never-ending cancer and instinct and nature
what can make you know what it means that nature was blue at times
you are alone with sands you are alone with kites
hey Rasht, you were the North and yet you did not have a sea, Rasht did not have a sea, Rasht did not have a sea
poor Father
just that he planted Mozhdehi in your godforsaken place
poor Father
just that because of you he was unmanly though he was a standing man
just that he stands on Sepid River with a hanging tongue and a tail out of sight
just that he stands with his back to Tehran with a bone in the tooth and a bruised howl
poor Father just that he didn’t know your map looks like the head and neck of a lonely dog
just that forlorn just that mapless just that citizenless just that we are a few drags heavier than you
you can still    Ali
you can still    Hasan
Mitra                     Soheil              Hooman          Farzam
you can still    the neighbor’s kids
Emad and Samira
you can still    Saeed who was lonely in this damn place
only if there were a memorial left of you so we could pray for you
only if you knew that nature was Lahijan which was high at times
you should say hani instead of hande
you should say tara instead of tebe
and use no verb other than fuck
—How long is Amin taking shelter in your fucking place?
you stared, stoned, withdrew with your anus and Amin was silent ...
so many names names
just that we crave names no more names
with you nothing to do, Rasht
with anyone else nothing to do, Rasht
just that we have nothing to do we take to tension
just that we take to tension we have nothing to do
my dearest Rasht! with that ilk of yours sucking off the breast
with the drinking struggle in the mouth
with a few glasses of milk after the suicide pills
we roamed through your pharmacies night and day and every time we were out of antidepressants
we took to contraceptives and every time we were done
we were pregnant
we are afraid of postpartum depression
you tell us you tell us what to do what to do with the orphanage we have in our wombs
you tell us you tell us what to do with the blood clots clots
boys’ bulging arms
girls’ full breasts
and bits and bits and bits of fetus pouring out of out of your threshold
who was home alone?
who was hugging their knees crying into the cuffs of their sleeve?
who in the darkness was the destiny of the gloves in the closet?
who was it that announced the international blood day
when we returned, mature, from the apartment bathroom to your streets
too afraid to tell mother about the below-the-belt pains in the first unfinished municipal pothole?
who was it that walked in you friendless?
only if there were a memorial left of you so we could pray for you
and then come back with our back
to the bona fide madmen of the bazaar
back to the bona fide madmen
back
to the bona fide madmen
no memorial left of the city
no memorial left of the city
no memorial left of the city
no memorial left of the city
no memorial left of the city
no memorial left of the city

Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Prins Bernhard cultuurfonds
Lira fonds
Versopolis
J.E. Jurriaanse
Gefinancierd door de Europese Unie
Elise Mathilde Fonds
Stichting Verzameling van Wijngaarden-Boot
Veerhuis
VDM
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère