5 poems by Abbas Maroufi. Translated by Bahar Momeni

هر شب
 
مرده‌ها از مرگ نمی‌ترسند
درد ندارند
رنج نمی‌کشند
تحقیر نمی‌شوند
کابوس نمی‌بینند
از جنگ نمی‌هراسند
به شکست نمی‌اندیشند
مرده‌ها بازجو ندارند
تحت تعقیب نیستند
محاکمه نمی‌شوند
حساب پس نمی‌دهند
جهان را وا می‌گذارند
مرده‌ها در کائنات می‌چرخند
تنها نمی‌مانند
با بال فرشتگان نوازش می‌شوند
احترام دارند
عشق من!
مرده‌ها برهنه می‌خوابند
و من
هر شب
در آغوش گرم تو
می‌میرم.





آدم‌ها
 
«آدم‌های کوچک
به آدم‌های بزرگ فکر می‌کنند
و آدم‌های بزرگ
به ایده‌ها»
من
فقط به تو فکر می‌کنم
کوچولوی قشنگم!
اصلاً
اگر فکر تو بگذارد
ایده‌های بزرگی در سر دارم
اولیش این که؛




وقتی نیستی
 
  هر زمان که نیستی
فکر می‌کنم تو آمده‌ای
و من رفته‌ام
بیهوده
فکر می‌کنم تو نیامده‌ای
و من آمده‌ام
بی دلیل
حضورم در این جهان
مثل نفرین ملتی تهی‌شده از شعر و عشق است
شهرزاد من!
هر زمان که نیستی
فکر می‌کنم تو آمده‌ای
من هم آمده‌ام
ولی هستی شکل نیافته
هنوز
جهان را نساخته‌اند
و من به دنبال زمین می‌گردم
که با انگشت
بر تنت
روی خاک خط بکشم
بگویم خانه‌ی ما اینجاست؛
و ما دیگر سرگردان نیستم
می‌دانی؟
سرگردانی قید زمان است
نه مکان.




ستون یادبود شهر
  
هیچ چیزی از تو نمی‌خواستم
عشق من!
فقط می‌خواستم
در امتداد نسیم
گذشته‌ را به انبوه گیسوانت ببافم
تار به تار
گره بزنم به اسطوره‌ها
که هنگام راه رفتن
بر قالی ایرانی
ستاره‌های واژگانم
برایت راه شیری بسازند
می‌خواستم سر هر پیچ
یک شعر بکارم
بزنی به موهات
که وقتی برابر آینه می‌ایستی
هیچ چیزی
جز داغی دست‌های من
بر سینه‌ات دل دل نکند
می‌خواستم تمام راه با تو باشم
نفس بزنم
برایت بجنگم
به خاطرت زخمی شوم
و مغرور پای تو بایستم
بر ستون یادبود شهر.




بی کودکان شهر 
 
 اشک‌هام را
دانه دانه از روی زمین
پیدا می‌کنم
می‌ریزم توی جیب کودکی‌هام
که وقتی بزرگ شدم
دست و بالم خالی نباشد
آخر
تو می‌دانی
روزهای بدی در پیش است
روزهای تهی‌دستی
روزهایی که شهرها همه
بی پنجره بی طارمی بی پرنده
برهوت می‌شوند
و هیچ کس یادم نمی‌گیرد
خوابم کوچه ندارد
و هیچ کودکی در آن بازی نمی‌کند.
 

Every Night 
The dead have no fear of death.
They have no pain
And do not suffer.
They are not humiliated
And have no nightmares.
They don’t dread war.
They don't dwell on defeat.

The dead have no interrogators.
They are not prosecuted
Nor are they investigated
Or held accountable.

The dead leave the world behind
And wander in the cosmos.
They are not left alone
Always caressed by angels’ wings
Always respected.

My Love!
The dead sleep naked
And every night 
In your warm embrace
I die.

People 
“Little people think about big people
And big people think about ideas…”
I only think about you 
My little darling!
Indeed 
If your thought gives me space,
I have big ideas in my head
The first being
To fall in love with you again.

When you are not here
When you are not here
I think you came 
And I left
Unreasonably.

I think you didn’t come
And I came 
For no reason. 

My presence in this world
Is like a curse from a nation depleted of poetry and love

My Shahrzad!
When you are not here
I think you came 
And I came also
But existence has not taken form
The universe has not been created yet 
And I am looking for the earth
So I draw a line with my finger 
on the soil of your body 
Saying here is our home; 
 We are not wanderers anymore

You know,
Wandering is defined by time 
Not location.

The City’s Memorial Monument 
I didn't want anything from you 
My love! 
I just wanted
To weave the past through your hair 
Alongside the breeze
To tie a knot on every myth
Strand by strand 
So the stars in my words 
Make a Milkyway for you
When you walk on a Persian rug.

I wanted to plant a poem 
At every turn of the road
For you to put on your hair
So when you stand in front of the mirror 
Nothing flutters in your chest 
But the heat of my hands. 


I wanted to be with you all along
To fight for you, gasping
To get wounded for your sake 
And stand by you proudly
On the city’s memorial monument.




Without children in the City
I find my tears
One by one
On the ground
And store them in the pockets of my childhood
So that when I grow up
I won't be empty-handed.
After all,
You know
There are hard days ahead;
Days of emptiness,
Days when cities become
Windowless, porchless, birdless.
They would turn into barren lands
And no one would learn me.
My dreams would have no streets,
And no child would play in them. 

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Abbas Maroufi, born in Tehran in 1957, was a prominent Iranian author and poet renowned for his influential work, “Symphony of the Dead.” His academic journey in dramatic literature at the University of Tehran was interrupted from 1980 to 1982 due to the revolutionary closure of universities. Overcoming these challenges, Maroufi founded the critical magazine Gardun (Heavenly Vault) in 1990, focusing on literature and contemporary issues. However, his critique of fundamental Islamic values led to the magazine’s ban and his conviction. Forced to leave Iran amidst international protests, Maroufi settled in Germany in 1996. In Berlin, he opened the Hedayat bookstore and continued his literary pursuits. Beyond his writing, he nurtured the next generation of Iranian authors through online classes, catering to new writers in Iran and the diaspora. Maroufi’s legacy in Iranian literature culminated with his passing in exile in 2022. This marked the end of a life dedicated to freedom of expression and the evolution of Iranian literary culture.

Born into the cultural tapestry of Iran, Bahar Momeni is now a writer, poet, and translator. She’s currently working toward her Ph.D. in Literature at The University of Texas at Dallas, where she also teaches creative writing and literature. Bahar has published works in both Farsi and English across Iran, Europe, and the U.S., in reputable journals and anthologies. She skillfully weaves creative writing and translation to explore and illuminate themes of human rights and the subtleties of everyday resistance, making contributions to the fabric of modern literature. In 2023, Bahar received the “Outstanding Emerging BIPOC Creator Award” from The University of Texas at Austin, highlighting her impact as a creator. Currently engrossed in her debut semi-autobiographical graphic novel, The Trees We Carry, Bahar aims to extend her discourse on identity, displacement, and resistance. The fact that Bahar translated Abbas Maroufi’s poems, a mission entrusted to her by Maroufi himself, speaks volumes about the range and depth of her literary abilities.

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