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An Oddly Satisfying Existence/ Leading Light/ The Anser

December 4, 2019/ Mahdi Ahmadian

An Oddly Satisfying Existence

They made them virgin again,
purged them by burning their villages,
raping their women,
killing their children
and shooting them as they crossed the border,
systematically,
the bastards knew what they were doing.
they endured democracy and death,
the heroes of modern times.
And maybe the old man looming a carpet with the hands of death
blames their darker skin or religion.
And the terror in a man’s eyes—
those that gazed at his sister’s sons running toward freedom,
embracing it,
headless, decapitated by an understatement, one 8, one 9 and
that makes them 89.
Old enough.

Shame,
his eyes,
the lens of that camera
closed to capture the image of infants thrown into the river,
while the sweet soldiers wearing pink blush tried to teach them
in that river                   how to swim while their hands were tied to their back.
that pit
And ultimately their aim is to create a world free from the displaced,
the homeless and the hopeless, a world of which each and every corner
is a true sanctuary, where there is no fake news, and inhabitants
will have the freedom and the capacity to live in peace, stripped naked,
with a bully above, holding a sturdy wooden branch, whipping them,
making them reach the rope’s end,
plucking their eyes out,
beating them to death
in that game,
that pyromania,
that retaliation.


Leading Light

There,
beyond the thin bars,
their hidden figures,
a flock of tired travelers,

startled,
and their darkened bodies,
gazed from the heart of darkness to that bright, burning light.

Their black and red wings were fluttering,
though a drained beating heart,
as the lonely agonized listener
gave his ear to their hushed struggle.

Gazing at the visage of the cage,
those tarnished iron bars,
and at the acute silence of natural slaves
within the abandoned cell,
despair broke his backbone. It’s not fair, he shouted
and like a fetus in his mother’s womb
astonished by the hysteric movements
of that large mass,
those hidden bodies,
ready to depart
to there, that light, that illumination.

Freeing the moths from the cage, he witnessed
how they gathered before the glazing light and their wings,                             were ablaze.
the roots of a plane tree,

Time stood still to show the memory of the suffering men,
the other was not to blame,
not this time,
he turned and remembered the blood-soaked reflection in the mirror is him,
that vile treacherous I.

Turned and turned,
the dodder
the parasite love vine,
upon the body of the swarthy old woman
and sucked the thick blood running in her veins.
You filthy old man, her lips whispered before she died.
He noticed the ignorance filling his brain,
forgetful he was, tired, yet awake,
You coward
A picture was in his hand
obscure and dim
incoherent

it showed a path,
there is war on,

his feverish body boiled like the spilled blood of his friends
and he pushed the buttons of the broken typewriter of his father
the one with dried ink,
scribbling words on the blank paper
obscure and dim
incoherent
and when he wanted to fill in the blanks,
he metamorphosed into a crimson moth.

Lost and abandoned,
he fluttered his wings toward that manifested nothingness,
that immense oddity of tomorrow,
but before he could free himself from the world taking him hostage,
to keep time,
making him indifferent to meaning,
he felt the premature joy of the man who killed him
with the sole of a dirt covered fetid shoe.

He turned into nothing but still his weak eyes gazed into that light burning bright.
And in the end there was a glow,
obscure and dim
incoherent


The Anser
Sitting among the taxis derma
I asked from the sad Anser in the corner:
“What was your crime?”
“I will never know! The Abject Body,
without giving an answer
uprooted my tongue with a naked dagger,
to behold the whispering lyre
giving the kiss of silence on my lips.

He washed his bloody hands
and slurped a cup of tea with bitter sugarplum,
so what? He hoped to sweeten the memory of the Yesterday’s poison?

Gaze upon the weak-being sleeping with one open eye,
waiting for death,
that artful loneliness,
to avenge him for nothing.

And his tired eyes did not go to sleep
for he dreamt about living happily ever after,

‘Abandoning home is inevitable,
for it is to the heartsick’s benefit to travel’ 1
to where that is not ‘I’,
and all is laden with essence.

Before leaping into sky,
I died in a corner
without a love,
without a family,
alone,
in the corner of the room,
looking at the fences,
the erect walls,
and there was no ‘Other’ to accompany me.

Abandoned, shrieking the harrowing elegy of departure,
half-dead in the rain,
waiting for death,
that artful loneliness,
to avenge me for nothing.

Tender was my final breath
and when the other eye went shut,
pressed tight,

my neck twisted,
as when you twist a stillborn baby stepping out of a mother,
but still, my deaf ears could hear the voice of other ansers
bidding farewell, far far away.

Now,
can you see

that damp corpse,
that rotten body within the swamp,
resembling nothing alive?”
Aye… he is waiting for the oblong tongue of power
to skin him,
suck his body’s flesh,
stuff his brain with cotton,
and sew up his wounded body with his needle-shaped teeth
and transform him into a taxis derma in the room.

1. From a Ghazal by Khwaju Kermani (Persian: خواجوی کرمانی‎), (1280–1352), a famous Persian poet and Sufi mystic.

Leading Light

There,
beyond the thin bars,
their hidden figures,
a flock of tired travelers,

startled,
and their darkened bodies,
gazed from the heart of darkness to that bright, burning light.

Their black and red wings were fluttering,
though a drained beating heart,
as the lonely agonized listener
gave his ear to their hushed struggle.

Gazing at the visage of the cage,
those tarnished iron bars,
and at the acute silence of natural slaves
within the abandoned cell,
despair broke his backbone. It’s not fair, he shouted
and like a fetus in his mother’s womb
astonished by the hysteric movements
of that large mass,
those hidden bodies,
ready to depart
to there, that light, that illumination.

Freeing the moths from the cage, he witnessed
how they gathered before the glazing light and their wings,                             were ablaze.
the roots of a plane tree,

Time stood still to show the memory of the suffering men,
the other was not to blame,
not this time,
he turned and remembered the blood-soaked reflection in the mirror is him,
that vile treacherous I.

Turned and turned,
the dodder
the parasite love vine,
upon the body of the swarthy old woman
and sucked the thick blood running in her veins.
You filthy old man, her lips whispered before she died.
He noticed the ignorance filling his brain,
forgetful he was, tired, yet awake,
You coward
A picture was in his hand
obscure and dim
incoherent

it showed a path,
there is war on,

his feverish body boiled like the spilled blood of his friends
and he pushed the buttons of the broken typewriter of his father
the one with dried ink,
scribbling words on the blank paper
obscure and dim
incoherent
and when he wanted to fill in the blanks,
he metamorphosed into a crimson moth.

Lost and abandoned,
he fluttered his wings toward that manifested nothingness,
that immense oddity of tomorrow,
but before he could free himself from the world taking him hostage,
to keep time,
making him indifferent to meaning,
he felt the premature joy of the man who killed him
with the sole of a dirt covered fetid shoe.

He turned into nothing but still his weak eyes gazed into that light burning bright.
And in the end there was a glow,
obscure and dim
incoherent

The Anser
Sitting among the taxis derma
I asked from the sad Anser in the corner:
“What was your crime?”
“I will never know! The Abject Body,
without giving an answer
uprooted my tongue with a naked dagger,
to behold the whispering lyre
giving the kiss of silence on my lips.

He washed his bloody hands
and slurped a cup of tea with bitter sugarplum,
so what? He hoped to sweeten the memory of the Yesterday’s poison?

Gaze upon the weak-being sleeping with one open eye,
waiting for death,
that artful loneliness,
to avenge him for nothing.

And his tired eyes did not go to sleep
for he dreamt about living happily ever after,

‘Abandoning home is inevitable,
for it is to the heartsick’s benefit to travel’ 1
to where that is not ‘I’,
and all is laden with essence.

Before leaping into sky,
I died in a corner
without a love,
without a family,
alone,
in the corner of the room,
looking at the fences,
the erect walls,
and there was no ‘Other’ to accompany me.

Abandoned, shrieking the harrowing elegy of departure,
half-dead in the rain,
waiting for death,
that artful loneliness,
to avenge me for nothing.

Tender was my final breath
and when the other eye went shut,
pressed tight,

my neck twisted,
as when you twist a stillborn baby stepping out of a mother,
but still, my deaf ears could hear the voice of other ansers
bidding farewell, far far away.

Now,
can you see

that damp corpse,
that rotten body within the swamp,
resembling nothing alive?”
Aye… he is waiting for the oblong tongue of power
to skin him,
suck his body’s flesh,
stuff his brain with cotton,
and sew up his wounded body with his needle-shaped teeth
and transform him into a taxis derma in the room.

1. From a Ghazal by Khwaju Kermani (Persian: خواجوی کرمانی‎), (1280–1352), a famous Persian poet and Sufi mystic.

زندگی لذت بخشِ عجیب
از نو ذهن شان را باکره کردند
عاری از گناه
با سوزاندن روستاهایشان
با تجاوز به زن هایشان
با کشتن فرزندانشان
آنگاه که از مرزها عبور می کردند
پدرسوختگان خوب می دانستند چکار می کنند
می دانستید مرگ و مردم سالاری قهرمانان عصر ما هستند؟
و شاید آن پیرمرد که با دستان مرگ قالی می بافد
تیره پوستشان و یا دینشان را سرزنش می کند. و وحشت درون چشمان آن مرد
که خیره به کودکان خواهرش بود آنگاه که در آغوش آزادی
افتادند، بدونِ سر، گردن زده شده به دستِ کتمانِ حقیقت، یکی هشت، آن دیگری نه ساله
سر جمع می شوند هشتاد و نه ساله
به قدر کافی پیر هستند
افسوس
چشمانش
عدسی آن دوربین
بسته بود تا ثبت کند آن زمانی را که نوزادانِ دست بسته
توسط سربازان شیرین کلام با رخساری سرخ شنا می آموختند و به درون آب پرتاب می شدند
آن چاه
و در نهایت، غایت مطلوب آن ها این است که جهانی عاری از سرگشتگان
در به‌ دران و بی امیدان بسرشتند، جهانی که جای جای آن
زنهارگاهی حقیقی است که در آن اخبار کذبی نیست و ساکنینش
آزادند که در حد امکان در صلح زندگانی کنند، البته لخت
با قلدری بالاسر، با چوبی ستبر در دست
تا کتک زند و جانشان را به لب آورد
و چشمانشان را از کاسه برون آورد
در آنچه نیست چیزی جز
آن بازی
آن آتش افروزی
آن کینه


نورِ هدایتگر
آنجا
میان میله های باریک
بود نهان پیکرشان
مانند انبوهی از مردمانِ خسته
حیران
و جسم های تیره شان
از دل تاریکی دوخته بود چشم بر آن نورِ سوزنده
و آن بال های سرخِ سیاه
مانند قلبی بی رمق می تپید
و صدای تقلای آرامشان می رسید به گوشِ
آزُرده شنوندۀ تنها

خیره به رخسارِ قفس
میله های آهنی زنگ زده
و به سکوت گوشخراشِ اسیرانِ مادرزادی
درون آن سلولِ متروک
نومیدی کمرش را شکست. فریاد کشید انصاف نیست
و بمانند نطفه ای درون رحم مادر
مبهوتِ حرکتِ
تودۀ انبوه
آن نهفته پیکرهای کوچک شد
که بسته بودند رخت سفر
به آنجا، آن نور، آن روشنایی
گشود درب قفس را و آزاد گشتند پروانگان تا او شاهدی باشد که چگونه
همه نزد چراغ پرفروغ گرد هم می آیند و بال هایشان، ، برافروخته می سوزند
ریشۀ درختانِ چنار
زمان ایستاد تا خاطر مردانِ رنج دیده در مقابل دیدگانش نقش بَندد
اینبار تقصیر بر گردن دیگری نبود
چرخید و به یاد آورد که تصویرِ خونی درون آینه کسی نیست جز او
آ ن منِ پست فطرتِ خائن

پیچید و پچید
سِس
پیچکِ انگل
بر تن پیرزنِ سیه چرده
و نوشید خون غلیظ درون رگ هایش را
ای پیر کثیف، لب هایش قبل از مرگ گفتند. فهمید جهل بر او غالب گشته
فراموشکار بود، خسته ولی هنوز بیدار
ای بزدل

تصویری در دستش پیدا بود
تیره و تار
نامفهوم
راهی نشانش می داد
جنگی در راه است
تنِ تب دارش مانند خون ریخته شدۀ دوستانش به جوش آمد
تا فشار دهد دکمۀ ماشین تحریرِ از کار افتادۀ پدرش را
همانکه جوهرش خشک شده بود
و کلماتی بر روی کاغذ پیدا بود
تیره و تار
نامفهوم
و تا بیاید جای خالی ها را با هیچ پر کُند
مسخِ پروانه ای سرخ آبی شد

گم گشته و مطرود
گشود بال هایش را به آنسو که بود نَهَستی پیدا
آن شگفتی بی‌ کرانِ فردا
اما تا برهاند خود را از دست جهانی که گروگان گرفته بود او را
تا بسنجد زمان
بی تفاوت کند بر معنا
شادی زودهنگام مردی که با لنگه کفشِ سوراخِ بدبوی خود
بر نهان پیکر حیرانِ خستۀ او کوبید را حس کرد
نیست شد اما هنوز چشمان تیرۀ کم سویش از دل تاریکی دوخته بود چشم بر آن نورِ سوزنده

در انتها نوری پیدا بود
تیره و تار
نامفهوم


غازِ کبود
میان آکنده پوستان بودیم
که پرسیدم از آن غازِ کبود
نشسته در کنجِ اتاق
«جُرمت چه بود؟»
نمی دانم! آن پیکرِ مطرود»
غافل از پاسخ با دشنه ای لخت
زبانم را از ریشه کشید تا گوش فرا دهم به
نوای چنگی که بوسۀ خاموشی بر لبانم می زد
دستان آلوده به خونش را شست و
سرکشید فنجانی چای با نباتِ تلخ
تا چه؟ امید داشت شیرین شود یادِ این زهرمار دیروز؟

بنگر تا ببینی آن وجودِ ناتوان را که با چشمی نیم بند
نشسته در انتظار مرگ
آن حیله گرِ تنها

تا انتقام هیچ را از او گیرد

ولی چشمان سنگینم به خواب فرو نمی رفت
چون رویای خوشبختی ابدی را در سر می پروراندم
مرا هر آینه لازم بود جلای وطن”
” چرا که مصلحت کار بیدلان سفرست
به آنجا که “من” نیست
پر ز جوهر است
ولی قبل از آنکه دل به آسمان بزنم
در گوشه ای جان دادم
بی هیچ عشق
بی هیچ خانواده
تنها
در کنجِ اتاق
خیره به حصارهای اطراف
دیوارهای راست
و هیچ “دیگری”نبود که مرا همراهی کند

رهانیده، مرثیۀ دلخراش جدایی ام را فریاد می کشیدم
نیمه جان، در میان باران
نشسته در انتظار مرگ
آن حیله گرِ تنها
تا انتقام هیچ را از من گیرد
نفس آخرم را آرام کشیدم و
وقتی چشمم را فرو بستم
فسرده محکم
گردنم پیچ خورد
بمانند مُرده زادی که تازه از شکم مادر آمده بیرون
اما هنوز گوشِ کَرم می شنید نوای دِگرغازهای کبود
که در دوردست سرود وداع می سرودند

اکنون،
آن جسد خیسِ آب
آن پوسیده تنِ درونِ مرداب
آنکه هیچ نشانی را از زندگانی ندارد می بینی؟»

آری… او نشسته در انتظار زبان درازِ قدرت
تا پوستش را بشکافد
گوشت تنش را بمَکد
و بچپاند پنبه جای مغزش
و تن زخم خورده اش را بدوزد با دندان های سوزن وارش
و مبدل به آکنده پوستی در گوشۀ اتاق کُند

Mahdi Ahmadian is an author/translator. He has an MA in English literature from Kharazmi University, Tehran. He is twenty-six and living in Urmia, a city in north-western Iran famous for its now barren lake. His novella When We All Died is forthcoming in Iran by Rowzaneh Nashr. He is currently translating his semi-autobiographical novel from Persian and still working on the editing of his novel Spring Dawn House. His poetry has appeared in Typehouse Literary Magazine, and an article in Forum for World Literature Studies.

Photo Credit: Saeed Rajai

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Friday Lunch Blog

Friday Lunch! A serving of contemporary essays published the second Friday of every month.

Today’s course:

How to Kill a Cat, or How to Prepare for CATastrophe

March 10, 2023/in Blog / Meghan McGuire
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The Night I Want to Remember

December 16, 2022/in 2023ws-migration, Blog / Sanaz Tamjidi
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From Paper to the Page

November 18, 2022/in 2023ws-migration, Blog / Annie Bartos
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Midnight Snack

Take a bite out of these late night obsessions.

Tonight’s bites:

Point Break & Top Gun Are More Than Homoerotic Action Movies

March 3, 2023/in Midnight Snack / Michaela Emerson
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Mending the Heart and Slowing Down: Reintroducing Myself to Mexican Cooking

October 7, 2022/in Midnight Snack / Megan Vasquez
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The Worth of a Billionaire’s Words

September 23, 2022/in Midnight Snack / Kirby Chen Mages
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Amuse-Bouche

Little bites every third Friday to whet your appetite!

Today’s plate:

Litdish: Ten Questions with Lise Quintana

March 31, 2023/in Amuse-Bouche / Interviewed by Gail Vannelli
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On Such a Full Sea Are We Now

March 17, 2023/in Amuse-Bouche / Jemma Leigh Roe
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The Russian Train

February 24, 2023/in Amuse-Bouche / Cammy Thomas
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School Lunch

An occasional Wednesday series dishing up today’s best youth writers.

Today’s slice:

I’ve Stayed in the Front Yard

May 12, 2021/in School Lunch, School Lunch 2021 / Brendan Nurczyk
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A Communal Announcement

April 28, 2021/in School Lunch, School Lunch 2021 / Isabella Dail
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Seventeen

April 14, 2021/in School Lunch, School Lunch 2021 / Abigail E. Calimaran
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Word From the Editor

Our contributors are diverse and the topics they share through their art vary, but their work embodies this mission. They explore climate change, family, relationships, poverty, immigration, human rights, gun control, among others topics. Some of these works represent the mission by showing pain or hardship, other times humor or shock, but they all carry in them a vision for a brighter world.

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