مادرِ مادران – پانزده شعر برای مادرم – از مجید نفیسی

Majid Naficy and his mother Batul Okhovat in Istanbul, Turkey, May 2011.

 

        The Mother of Mothers

        Fifteen Poems for My Mother

        By Majid Naficy

 

 

One: To My Mourning Mother*

The times broke you

Like a red pomegranate

At  the threshold of the ossuary*

So that vultures

Could drink blood

Not from martyrs

But from your warm heart.

If I knew that life was so red

Would I not hide myself

In your womb?

        October 30, 1986

*- My younger brother Sa’id Naficy (April 30, 1954 to September 9, ۱۹۸۲) and his wife Fahimeh Okhovat were killed by the Khomeini regime in Tehran. The method of murder and the place of their burial are not known.

*- The Zoroastrians in Yazd, Iran, placed pomegranates near a bone house, where they used to expose their dead.

 

Two: Green-Grape Soup

… And my mother says:

It seems that

Someone has burned your hair!”

This is I, Simorgh*

Joining my family from LA

Through the narrow mouth piece of a phone.

They are sitting cross-legged

Around a colorful dining cloth

In our guest room in Isfahan.

There are china bowls in front of them

And their eyes are fixed on a serving bowl of green-grape soup.

My mother  takes each person’s bowl

And fills it with the help of a ladle.

Then she wraps a piece of kebab and a sprig of basil

Within a roll of flatbread

And says: “This is your soup

And this is something to go with it!”

When it is my turn

I take the ladle from her hand

And like Rostam, son of Zal,

I plunge it into the serving bowl

And by chance in one stroke

Take out all of its meatballs.

My mother  laughs and says:

“As always, God is with you”.

I say: “I don’t want kebab and bread.

Give me soup, only soup”.

When I finish my fourth bowl

I fall back from the dining cloth.

Then I roll myself to the patio

Under the mellow spring sun

Next to my brothers and sisters

And drift into a trance of green-grape soup

As Sufis do

Who do not care about “musts” and “mustn’ts”.

Then, when everybody is asleep,

With my sporadic cannons

I make Akvan Demon* escape

From the sky of our house

And spread my mother’s dining cloth

In my homeland again.

        April 5 2004

*- In Iran, when you think of someone and that person calls you right away you say: “It seems  that someone has burned your hair!” This expression might be rooted in the story of the mythological bird Simorgh. According to the epic Shahnameh, composed by Ferdowsi in 11th century in Persian, Simorgh appears whenever Zal, the hero, burns one of her feathers that he carries with him. Zal is the father of Iranian Hercules, Rostam.

*- Akvan is a  demon who takes Rostam to the sky in order to smash him into pieces.

    

Three: Lost Paradise

After death

There is no bridge for me

Upon which I can cross.

All is nothingness

And there is no paradise or even an inferno.

The gone are all gone,

The coming are still on their way

And I have no companion.

There, my mother

Does not water the hedges

And my sister Nafiseh

Does not wash her feet

In the courtyard pool.

No bench can be seen near the flowerbed

And the scent of bread and cheese

Does not mingle with the aroma

Of basil and mint.

No hand makes a snack for me

And no one calls my name.

I wish there were a bridge for me

Just like my mother’s

Upon which I could cross

And regain my lost paradise forever.

        June 19, 2005

 

Four: In the Spice Bazaar of Isfahan

Today I go to the spice-sellers’ lot with my mother

So that once more I can look at specks of the sun

Pouring down from a skylight into the dark bazaar.

I ask her: “Can I poke my pinkie

Into this waterfall of light?”

Mother stops at the fragrant threshold of a small shop

And I look at the green skullcap of the spice-seller

Who takes his first step

To put a white sugar-cheese-

And a red barberry-candy in my fist.

Mother wants cinnamon and cardamom for the tea pot,

Saffron, turmeric and cumin for the pilaf platter,

Clove and ginger for ginger cookies

And vanilla for home-made ice cream.

The man wraps the items in paper

And puts them in Mother’s basket.

I am filled with scent and color

And look at my red candy rooster

Perched on his slender stick

And shrinking with each of my licks

Until it totally disappears

Before we reach the bazaar square.

Mother has forgotten pepper:

The king of spices

With a red cape on its shoulders.

We return to where we started.

A camel driver is standing

With a rein in his hand

Near a bazaar courtyard.

A male camel stretches his neck

To look at me

behind his long shady lashes.

His big lips are trembling.

“Camel! Who are you bullying?

I can pass under your belly

Without letting your misshaped legs

Smash me on the ground.”

Mother says that they come from Bushehr Port

Where Arab and Indian sailors

Unload Malabar’s pepper, Ceylon’s cinnamon

And Zanzibar’s ginger from their barges

So that the  sharveh-singing* camel drivers of Dashtestan

Can carry them across the sandy desert of Loot.

The man puts the package of pepper in the basket.

I fling the empty stick of my rooster

Toward a  baby camel

Walking behind the caravan.

I smile at my mother who like me

Has good nostrils.

        September 17, 2005

*- “Sharveh” is a sad style of song in the Bushehr  province to the north of the Persian Gulf. It has some similarities with African-American Blues.

 

Five: First Snow

 

Mother stands by the window

And looks at the falling snow.

It is the first snow fall

On Father‘s grave.

She has wrapped herself

In a red blanket

And leaned her knees

Against the radiator.

Father’s overcoat

Still hangs on the hook.

A limb of a persimmon tree

Bends under the weight of snow.

She longs to stretch out her hand

And shake it off.

        January 13, 2008

 

Six: Lettuce Heart

You are a four-year-old boy

Sitting on your mother’s lap

At her women’s summer party.

“Is a dark bowl of vinegar better

Than a bright bowl of sekanjebin syrup?

Are the leaves of a baby lettuce better

Than the shaved heart of a Mama lettuce?”

Hands reach for platters of lettuce

And bowls are empty and refilled.

You are afraid of old Bibi

Whose voice is masculine

And her eyes are shining.

You squeezed your lettuce heart in your fist

And rap with Iran-Khanom

Who plays tambourine with a tray

And sings coquettishly:

“Does she have ants on her? Yes! Yes!

Should she remove them? Yes! Yes!”

And you watch Mehri

Who shakes her body

Snaps her fingers and raises her eyebrows

As she removes her clothing one by one

Like leaves of lettuce

Until she finds a playful ant

In the last hiding place of her body.

“Is the shaking of breasts better

Than the whirling of buttocks?

Is the raising of eyebrows better

Than clapping hands and snapping fingers?”

You grip your lettuce heart in your hand

Lest Bibi snatch it from you.

But she grabs your mother’s from her.

You see the redness of your mother’s face

And hear the pounding of her heart.

You get up from her lap

So before the guests leave the house

You can take revenge on Bibi.

“Is squirting water from a garden hose better

Than shooting piss from a plastic syringe?

Is throwing eggs better

Than casting a handful of salt?”

Because your bladder is half-empty

And cannot fill the syringe fully

You ask your brother for help

And, at the last moment

You wet Bibi from behind.

Is the soiling of a chador worse

Than the shaming of your son?

Is taking a childish revenge worse

Than the hiding of your son’s guilt?”

Bibi should be informed

Otherwise wearing a soiled chador

Will nullify her prayers.

So your sister is sent to Bibi’s house

And you, to a dark room in the basement.

Perhaps your mother’s tongue is biting and bitter

But her gaze through her eyeglasses

Looks so motherly sweet!

        July 15, 2009

 

Seven: The Way Home

 

My mother and four sisters

Have a nightly flight.

They look like a constellation

In the sky

Showing the way home:

With a single golden star in the middle

And four silver stars around.

I tell them:

“May your light be on!”

And I think of four brothers

Who are dispersed throughout the world

And tonight

They are looking at one sky.

        May 31, 2010

 

Eight: Over the City of Istanbul

 

Over the city of Istanbul

A bird circles

And moans in the moonlight:

Perhaps it has come from the strait of Bosphorus

From the port of “Roman Poplar”

Near the stone Russian fort

Where, today at noon

A band of argonauts:

Three brothers and four sisters

Sat at the four corners of a vast table

Under a half-cloudy sky

And ordered swordfish and Alexander kebabs

With yoghurt drinks and fruit sherbet.

They gathered together

From the four corners of the world

So that after the death of their Father of Fathers

They could regain the beauty of their childhood

In a place close to their homeland.

How beautiful were the sky and the sea,

The tall poplars and cherry blossoms,

The sharing of morsels among siblings

The Humming of a familiar song

From an old radio in the Kurdish cafe,

And a narrow path winding down to the port

Passing by pergolas full of flowers

Children’s seesaws and swings

And gift shops for travelers.

Then, they boarded the ship of Argo

(Which had returned from the voyage of Jason and the Argonauts

to the shores of Georgia

In search of the golden fleece),

And with the blessings of the blind prophet

They left the shore of the Black Sea

Drinking Turkish tea and watching beaches

Facing Europe with their backs to Asia.

Fearlessly led by the guiding bird

They passed through ship-wrecking rocks

And sailed the entire strait of Bosphorus

Anchoring at the port of Eminonu

South of the Golden Horn.

After buying a handful of roasted chestnuts

They strolled in the Egyptian spice bazaar

And visited Rostan Pasha mosque

Built by the Ottoman architect Sinan.

Riding two old, yellow dolmushes

They returned to the hotel near Galata tower

Saying “Guleh Guleh!” to the drivers

And hearing “Bon Voyage!” in response.

There, on the balcony

They saw their Mother of Mothers with white hair

Sleeping in her wheelchair in the moonlight

Dreaming of her lost son in Persia.

May 22, 2011

       

Nine: The Signs of My Mother

 

Oh high moon! What are you waiting for?

Follow your path quickly

And carry my message to Isfahan

From the window of my bedroom.

My mother is still awake

And will see you from her window.

Since you don’t know her

I will tell you her signs:

She is a cluster of seedless grapes,

Red seeds of a pomegranate,

Opened black figs,

A sliced lime next to basil,

Oregano in yogurt,

And mint in yogurt drink,

Cantaloupes in summer,

Dates in winter,

And smiling pistachios in all seasons.

She has an open face

With kind eyes.

Her white hair

Reaches her shoulders.

She is not bent, but

like aged Rudabeh*

She still stands upright.

Her other signs?

She loves books.

Her ancestor had a library

Loaded on seven camels.

My mother read Sa’di’s “Golestan”*

At her father’s bed aloud

So he could correct her mistakes

As he was going to sleep!

She still recites the songs

That were sung at the wedding of her brother.

Her other signs?

She enjoys life.

If there is moonlight

She spreads a light carpet in the patio

Next to night-blooming tuberoses,

And lets Taj sing

And Kasaie’s flute and Shahnaz’s lute talk.*

Oh, high moon! Carry my message quickly

And tell her to sing the same song that she sang

Years ago in our balcony:

“- If you are the high moon in the sky

I will become a star turning around you.

– If you become a star turning around me

I will become clouds covering your face.

– If you become clouds covering my face

I will become rain pouring and pouring.

– If you become rain pouring and pouring

I will become grass shooting up.

– If you become grass shooting up

I will become a rose sitting next to you.”

        April 5, 2014

*-  The romance between Rudabeh and Zal is part of the epic of “Shahnameh” written by Ferdowsi in ten and eleven centuries.

*-  “Golestan” is a book of rhymed prose written by Sadi in thirteen century.

*-  Taj, Kasaie and Shahnaz are three stars of Persian classical music from the city of Isfahan.

 

Ten: Fasting

 

Mother!

You wanted me

To make a resolution

To fast this Ramadan.

Awaking before sunrise with one’s family is charming

And breaking fast after sunset with dates is sweet.

But in a country

Where religion

Is a tag on state crimes

(Forgive me, Mother)

To break fasting laws

Looks more meaningful

Than fasting itself.

July 14, 2014

 

Eleven: An Inheritance

 

This week I will get ahead of you

And before you respond to my hello

With your welcoming poem,

I will snatch it from you

And recite it with your name on the phone:

“Dear mother! Lovely mother!

Do not put your feet on the ground

Put your feet on my eyes

I die for your eyebrows.”

Whatever I have

I’ve gotten from you.

You gave me your weak eyes

And from childhood

Put poetry into my mouth.

So I return this one to you

And keep the other for myself

As an inheritance.

        November 12, 2016

 

Twelve: The Heater

 

One day our wall heater stopped working

And the charming murmur of the water kettle ceased.

I had chicken pox and was home.

My mother sent Zahra to the basement

To bring out the portable heater,

Clean its wick, shine its body,

Fill it with kerosene, ignite it

And after airing it out

Carry it to my room.

I was eating a sweet lemon

And watching the falling snow

From the window

When Zahra came in.

My mother said: “Why did you bring that damned one?

Do you want it to smoke again

And take away his life?”

Zahra said: “He is blessed”

And closed the door.

I had heard the story of the heater many times

But had never seen it before.

“One Friday evening my family goes to visit Khanom

And leaves me alone with Zahra.

When they return home

The room is filled with smoke

And nothing is visible.

Hamid quickly opens the window

My mother grabs me from the cradle

And hurrys me to the patio.

I had been struggling to breathe

And for six months hence

Soot came out of my nose.”

I turned back and looked at the heater

It was black

And looked tall and firm

On its four metal legs.

Was it the enemy of my life

Or did it make a survivor out of me

Fleeing the jaws of death?

I walked to the heater

And held my hands over it.

A pleasant warm air was rising from it

And a magic light was shining

From its colorful windows.

        August 3, 2017

 

Thirteen: Two Lovers

 

When Father died

You saw him in your dream:

“Sitting in a garden

He beckoned to me to go inside.

I said no and shut the door.”

But today at  dawn

You willingly went before Father

And shut the door behind

With no window where I could

Watch the happiness of two lovers.

But I still hear

The sound of your laughter

On that summer morning

When I suddenly woke

On my wooden bed

By the lotus and the pool

And heard the voice of Father

From inside the mosquito net:

“ I die for your white thighs!”

You giggled and ran

From the patio to your bedroom

And Father ran after you.

By the pool I could still

Hear the sound of your laughter

Coming from your bedroom window

Where I yearned to watch

The happiness of two lovers.

        March 11, 2018

 

Fourteen: First Nowruz

 

This is the first spring

That is passing without you,

Oh, mother of mothers!

What are your grandchildren

And daughters doing without you

At the tablecloth of “Seven S’s”?

In Isfahan

Winds stop breathlessly

And trees feel swollen

Under their skins.

But we, your dispersed sons,

Still sit around a long table

Where you sat at its head

With your long white hair

At our last meal

Five years ago in Istanbul

Under the canopies of an evergreen tree

Which now you have become its earth.

        March 20, 2018

        ۱۵ minutes before the start of Persian New Year.

 

Fifteen: Empty House

 

Every Wednesday since Mother’s death

Four sisters get together

In their empty childhood home

To share memories

And make a plan for the house:

Should they sell to developers

For demolition,

Or let it remain and grow

Like the sycamores in the backyard?

Today is the third sister’s turn

To prepare the lunch.

She wants to cook salmon

Which was bought before Mother passed.

But the fish slips from her hands

And slides from the kitchen to the hallway,

And from there to the parents bedroom

And from its window out to the pool

Where in summer three brothers

Used to swim

And Mother would bring a bowl of melon

To each one of them.

 

July 5, 2018