Showing posts with label Poesia. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poesia. Show all posts

Thursday, September 18, 2008

Cesare Pavese



Verrà la morte e avrà i tuoi occhi

Cesare Pavese
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چزاره پاوزه

مرگ خوآهد آمد با چشم‌های تو



خواهد آمد مرگ با چشم‌های تو
همین مرگ
که از کله ی سحر تا دسته‌ی شب
ما را همراهی می‌کند
کر و بی‌خواب ، ه
مثل یک پشیمانی کهنه یا ادایی کودن
چشم‌های تو حرف مفتی خواهند بود
گریه‌ای ساکت
سکوتی که هر صبح می بینی‌اش
وقتی
تنهای تنها
طرف آینه نزدیک می‌شوی
آه ای امید ارجمند
آن روز ما هم خواهیم دانست
که همه همه همه زندگی تویی
هیچ و هرگز هم .ه


برای هر کسی مرگ قیافتی دارد
مرگ
با چشم‌های تو
خواهد آمد. ه
مثل زدودن لکه‌ای
همین گونه که آینه نشان می‌دهد
صورت مرده دوباره پیدا می‌شود
انگار که به صدای لب های خاموش گوش می‌دهد
ما هم در گرداب فرو خواهیم رفت
ساکت و خاموش ! ه


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Verrà la morte e avrà i tuoi occhi


Cesare Pavese


Verrà la morte e avrà i tuoi occhi
questa morte che ci accompagna
dal mattino alla sera, insonne,
sorda, come un vecchio rimorso
o un vizio assurdo. I tuoi occhi
saranno una vana parola,
un grido taciuto, un silenzio.
Così li vedi ogni mattina
quando su te sola ti pieghi
nello specchio. O cara speranza,
quel giorno sapremo anche noi
che sei la vita e sei il nulla
Per tutti la morte ha uno sguardo.
Verrà la morte e avrà i tuoi occhi.
Sarà come smettere un vizio,
come vedere nello specchio
riemergere un viso morto,
come ascoltare un labbro chiuso.
Scenderemo nel gorgo muti.

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Friday, July 18, 2008

Kay Ryan,named Poet Laureate




کِی رایان ملک الشعرای آمریکایی ، شاعری که در کالیفرنیا زندگی می کند و مشهور و مشعور به شعرهای خیلی شخصی و خصوصی ست.ه



Transcript

I wrote this—well, I'm sure that I was thinking that I had made a lot of very stupid decisions in my life and that I was now suffering the consequences of them having all piled up and come home. This was a very personal poem, I'm sure, when I wrote it, although I like to write personal poems in such a way that nobody has to know that.

"The chickens are circling and blotting out the day." Now that's a really funny thing to say. You know, somebody has written me a letter and told me: "I love your poem 'Home to Roost' but you should know we raise chickens, and you need to know chickens don't really fly."

Home to Roost

The chickens
are circling and
blotting out the
day. The sun is
bright, but the
chickens are in
the way. Yes,
the sky is dark
with chickens,
dense with them.
They turn and
then they turn
again. These
are the chickens
you let loose
one at a time
and small—
various breeds.
Now they have
come home
to roost—all
the same kind
at the same speed.

Carol and I were reading the paper on Sunday morning in bed, and Carol is reading the funnies, and she says in this stricken or awed or something tone, she says: "Kay, read this out loud" and she passes me the funnies. I start reading this cartoon and it is Boondocks and in it, the little brother, who wants to get his bit of the action now and is complaining is smacked down by his big brother, Huey, who uses my poem "Patience" in this cartoon. It was just astonishing. He says: "You know, a poet named Kay Ryan once said, 'Who would have guessed it possible that waiting is sustainable—a place with its own harvests. Or that in time's fullness the diamonds of patience couldn't be distinguished from the genuine in brilliance or hardness.' What do you think that means?" Huey asks Riley. Riley answers: "It means you're a nerd and poetry is stupid."




From The Poet's View: Intimate Profiles of Five Major American Poets. Copyright © 2008 by the Academy of American Poets.

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Friday, June 20, 2008

Jorge Carrera Andrade




خورخه‌ کارِه‌را آندراده / اکوادور

1902 - 1978

FARSI: YASHA A. SARAMI
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هیچ




در کتابفروشی‌‌ها هیچ کتابی‌نیست
در کتاب‌ها هیچ کلمه‌ای
در کلمه‌ها هیچ جانی :ه
پوسته‌ای و همین. ه

در موز‌ه‌ها
در اتاق‌های انتظار
بوم‌های نقاشی و ماس ماسک‌های آویزان
در مدرسه‌ها
فقط ضبط و کپی‌برداری از وحشی‌ترین رقص‌ها

در دهان‌ها تنها دود و همین
دورها در چشم‌ها
و در هر گوشی صدای طبل
خمیازه‌ی صحرا در سر

هیچ چیزی ما را از دست کویر نمی‌رهاند
هیچ‌چیزی نجاتمان‌ نمی دهد از دست طبل
کتاب‌های رنگی صفحه‌هایش را می‌بُرد
پوسته‌ای پر از هیچ . ه


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