Saturday, March 27, 2021
از مجموعه: همراه با پانزده سالگیام
صدای ریزش آب آمد. قطره قطره. مثل باران. بعد مثل آبشار.
و خواب پانزده سالگی ام بیادم آمد.
“در خانه بزرگی بودم پر از درخت نارنج و حوض آبی زلال با کاشی های سفید. مردی که بلوز و شلوار پلنگی چریکی به تن داشت، شلوار خاک آلودش را تکاند. با کنجکاوی نگاهش کردم. بی اعتنا بود. با چشم هایی به رنگ سبز فندقی و موهایی بلوطی. می دانستم فرانسوی است.
سر وصورتش خاک آلود بود. و غرق در فکر. نمی دانستم به چه چیز فکر می کرد. و همین کنجکاوم کرده بود. لبخند زدم. و لبخند من او را کنجکاو کرد. و من اولین آذرخش را توی چشمهایش دیدم. خوشحال بودم که آن حس را پنهان نکرده بود. در این حس پنهان نشده حس کردم چقدر آزادم و چقدر بی هراسم. حس کردم که در فرهنگ این مرد، پنهان کردن احساسات جایی ندارد. و همین مرا به طرف او می کشاند.
بقیه در اینجا....
“Part of the magic of poetry is that, when you write the words, you’re a writer,” Pollack continues. “And once you put them down, they’re not really yours anymore. The reader has to do the other half of the work.”
Pollack says that’s part of why she’s so enamored by poetry.
“I suppose this is true with poetry particularly, because it’s much more compressed. You need to spend time with it and let the words soak in. I think many poets have had the experience of writing something, and only later do you realize that it has layers you didn’t even recognize. So that’s one of the things I love about poetry, is that it’s so multilayered.”
Thursday, March 25, 2021
It ought to be lovely to be old
to be full of the peace that comes of experience
and wrinkled ripe fulfilment.
The wrinkled smile of completeness that follows a life
lived undaunted and unsoured with accepted lies
they would ripen like apples, and be scented like pippins
in their old age.
Soothing, old people should be, like apples
when one is tired of love.
Fragrant like yellowing leaves, and dim with the soft
stillness and satisfaction of autumn.
And a girl should say:
It must be wonderful to live and grow old.
Look at my mother, how rich and still she is! -
And a young man should think: By Jove
my father has faced all weathers, but it's been a life!
David Herbert Lawrence
My unarticulated suspicions about Asian women being objectified, dehumanized targets have been confirmed.
"After 14 years in the US, I have learned to be vigilantly hyperaware of
my skin. Racism most of the time rubs more like a rash than a gash.
Sometimes it’s hard not to feel like I’m whining. I am, after all,
ensconced in my own kind of privileged position. I can be read at the
outset as a kind of bougie cosmopolitan academic—from Singapore, just
Saturday, March 20, 2021
Dr. Nilofar Shidmehr
Chief Editor and Curator,
The Bombay Review’s Iranian Edition (Vol I & II)
Thursday, March 18, 2021
The author Cathy Park Hong sees the recent upsurge in violence as a turning point for Asian Americans.
“The indignity of being Asian in this country has been underreported,” the poet and essayist Cathy Park Hong writes in Minor Feelings: An Asian American Reckoning.
1: Norman Mailer vs. Gore Vidal
One of the true legends: the time Norman Mailer head-butted Gore Vidal backstage before appearing with him on the December 15th, 1971 episode of the Dick Cavett show (alongside journalist Jane Flanner). There’s no footage of the head-butt, but happily there is footage of the ensuing squabble, which you can watch here. As Dick Cavett himself described it:
Wednesday, March 10, 2021
I am much too alone in this world, yet not alone
to truly consecrate the hour.
I am much too small in this world, yet not small
to be to you just object and thing,
dark and smart.
I want my free will and want it accompanying
the path which leads to action;
and want during times that beg questions,
where something is up,
to be among those in the know,
or else be alone.
I want to mirror your image to its fullest perfection,
never be blind or too old
to uphold your weighty wavering reflection.
I want to unfold.
Nowhere I wish to stay crooked, bent;
for there I would be dishonest, untrue.
I want my conscience to be
true before you;
want to describe myself like a picture I observed
for a long time, one close up,
like a new word I learned and embraced,
like the everday jug,
like my mother's face,
like a ship that carried me along
through the deadliest storm.