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Excerpts from A Stone for Life, A Stone for Death: A Long Poem

May 14, 2017/in Summer-Fall 2017, Translation, Translation / by Shahram Sheydayi, translated by Lida Nosrati

1

The ogre is bad-tempered
He throws a fit
Hurling rotten stones
Giant stale rocks, to be more precise
The ogre wants fresh stones
And the dream doesn’t leave him alone:
I want stones
Timely stones
My exhaustion wants them
Living stones
Stones that break away from your seconds fall over me
Stones that pour out of your mouths and cross your minds lie heavily on me
Your stones aren’t healthy
I want newborn stones
Child stones
Stones whose stoniness hasn’t been tested or proven yet
The ogre pulls up the trees by the roots
Demanding stones from them
He yells at their trunks and leaves
Begs them
To show him the stones they have swallowed
The ogre looks for a massive stone
To fill the void of his father’s death
The ogre wants special stones
To put on top of shadows to stop them from moving
The ogre goes as far as threatening his inner-ogre
Demanding from him stones that can be applied to
Life and death alike.

 


3

His manner was far from ordinary
So was his gaze
Devastating storms of silence
Nested in him, always:
He housed in his body a disintegrated planet
with all its particles, history, and inhabitants

He could pick your star from the sky, eat it,
And spit out the seeds in the form of your
Distant and not-so-distant relatives
—at different stages of their lives.
Don’t take offense but
Where in this picture are you?
I am reporting back in a clear voice
But can’t see a trace of you anywhere
Wait! I bet you are the one who in the process of translation
Lost so much color
That you look almost dead in the other language
and only people like me
Appreciate you, even when you’re dead

If I list here the names of all of you that I’ve lost
Will we be together in one place, in silence?
Often I feel you,
Yes, I mean you!
Show me where you are in these images:
In harsh winters
He perched up on your rooftops
Hugged the square brick chimney and
Fell asleep.
Out of all the light and heavy notions of life
This was the only warmth
That made him drunk with joy.

He thinks from below the belt
Not his brain
He always carries a handful of human seeds that he can plant on a whim
They grow at the speed of light, stand up and move.
None of them surprised to see the others
All fixated on the time within their brains
Not even noticing who’s sitting next to them
Unless one recognizes the other and calls out their names inadvertently
To breach the air between them
To make them both alive.
They find each other
But what’s there to talk about on night zero?

When they come and sit on the edge of your shadow
One of them suddenly dives into it, falling back to his personal time
The rest stay away from it and return to where they were
Until the time comes for the shadow to form again, to be complete
I too have stood many times at the razor edge of these photos, smells, and memories until my knees gave out
Or until my heart was filled with temptation
At times I’ve even plunged into dreams
Pitch black throughout
Falling until there was no more end to my fear
The more my head hit the rocks,
The less I woke up
I was capable of dying twice
Three times
Over and over actually
This was my revenge on immortality
Only death could be alive
With no claim to wisdom, no pretension
If one day my face appears next to yours
Be kind to it so
It can fall asleep
Technically, it’s dead but sometimes gets playful and craves to come back amongst you
But like I said, it’s dead

A boy from behind a window sees it and asks his father:
“Daddy, when someone dies, does he take his shadow with him?”
“No, my little girl.”
“But I’m a boy, Dad!”
“No, my little boy.
Shadows don’t know what dying means.”

 


11

Death had on several occasions
Sniffed him up close
That’s why the texture of his words had changed
And he smiled constantly and his eyes were
Elsewhere
Not with us.

 


23

The given: family, city, school, university, geography, army, borders, wars, Heraclitus, Xenon, rabbits, turtles, Hegel, Marx.
The taken: belt, shoelaces, watch, pants, shirt, photos, writings, personhood,individuality, identity, memory, tomorrow, time.
Mother! How I need you!

What the current order of things is:
Behind bars, covered in the dust of all these listed below you don’t know what meaning means any more: Pills, 11-o’clock shocks, 2-o’clock shocks, guffaws of the male and female prostitutes, files, your beard growing at the same speed as your madness, and the grass under your feet. The game is over.
Shoot!
Nothing like being screwed over, especially on an overcast day.
Shoot!

.    .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .

What the rain brings: misery, curse, blood, ashes, suffering, hatred, First, Second, Dachau, Auschwitz, Vietnam, Korea, Iran, Sarajevo, Afghanistan
(And there’s no ocean even in dreams to wash away a corner of this madness so
We can get lost without even remembering we’re dead)
We die
They die
They keep dying
And death is no doubt a profanity to name all the above.
Shoot!

 


28

Weight of one month of flying on our wings, our eyes
This is the first night we fall asleep next to each other, collectively.
“I’m young. It’s my first year of landing here, being with the other migrants.
My senses are so untouched, so fresh
Maybe that’s why—unlike others,
I can’t fall asleep. I don’t want to.”

He doesn’t know he’s experiencing
The happiness of happiness of happiness.

 

 

1

غول عصبی بود
سنگهای بیات را
صخره های عظیم بیات را پرتاب می کرد
غول سنگ های تازه ای می خواست
و از این رویا بیرون نمی آمد
من سنگ می خواهم :
سنگ زمان هایتان را
خسته گی من سنگ می خواهد
خسته گی من صخره های زنده لازم دارد
سنگ هایی که از ثانیه هاتان جدا می شود، می افتد روی من
سنگ هایی که از حرف هایتان  بیرون می ریزد روی من است
سنگ هایی که از افکارتان می گذرد در من سنگینی می کند
سنگ های شما سالم نیست
سنگ های تازه متولدشده
سنگ های کودک
سنگهایی که سنگ بودنشان اثبات نشده
من از این سنگ ها می خواهم.
غول درخت ها را از جا می کند
و از آن ها سنگ می خواست
بر سر ریشه آن ها، تنه و برگ هاشان فریاد می زد
التماس می کرد
که سنگ هایی را که بلعیده اند
چرا نشانش نمی دهند
غول برای مرگ پدرش دنبال سنگی عظیم می گشت
که بگذارد جای آن
غول سنگ هایی می خواست  سنگ هایی مخصوص
که بگذارد روی سایه ها تا حرکت نکنند
غول غول بودن خود را تهدید می کرد و از آن سنگ می خواست
سنگی که برای زنده گی و مرگ یکسان باش

 


3

رفتاری روزمره نداشت
چشمانی روزمره نداشت
گردبادهای ویران گر سکوت بود
:که دائما در او می چرخید
سیاره ای از هم پاشیده در او جا گرفته بود
با همه اجزا و تاریخ و موجوداتش

ستاره ات را از آسمان می توانست بچیند و بخورد
و هسته هایش را در هیئت اقوام دور و نزدیکت
-در سنین مختلفشان-
در اطرافت بپاشد
!جا نخور
تو کجای این تصویرهایی؟
من با صدایی رسا دارم گزارش می دهم
اما اثری از تو نمی بینم
نکند تو همانی که در اثر ترجمه به زبانی دیگر
گاهی رنگت چنان می پرد
که در زبانی دیگر مرده ای و آدم هایی مثل من است که
!مرده ات را احساس می کنند؟
اگر نام همه شماها را که از دست داده ام
این جا دخالت دهم، بیاورم
آیا یک جا و در سکوت باهم خواهیم بود؟
خیلی وقت ها حست می کنم
!آهای با تو ام
:جایت را در یکی از این تصاویر روشن کن، نشان بده
در زمستان هایی سخت
بالای شیروانی هاتان بود
دودکش های آجری مربعتان را بغل می زد و
به خواب می رفت
و از تمامی زنده گی و چرخه های سنگین و سبک مفاهیم
این تنها گرمایی بود که به او باز می گشت و
با تمام وجود مستش می کرد

او با زیر شکمش فکر می کند
نه با مغزش
بذر اسکلت آدم هایی را دارد
که هر آن بخواهد یک مشت از آن ها را روی زمین می پاشد
و آن ها با سرعت برق می رویند و بالا می آیند و حرکت می کنند
هیچ کس از وجود دیگری در عجب نمی شود
هر کسی در زمان مغز خود می پوید و
کسی هم کنار دستی اش را نمی بیند
تا تو یکی از آنها را بشناسی و بی اختیار داد بزنی و صدایش کمی
و این هوا را بشکافد و هر دو زنده شوید و
هم دیگر را بیابد
اولین شب ها از چه ها می شود حرف زد؟

آن ها می آیند و بر لبه سایه ات می ایستند
و یکی شان به ناگاه شیرجه می زند در سایه
به زمان شخصی خود باز می گردد
بقیه از سایه کناره می گیرند و باز می گردند
تا زمانی دیگر و تکمیل شدن دوباره سایه و صدا کردن هایش
من هم بسیار بر لبه تیغ های این عکس ها، بوها و خاطره ها ایستاده ام و
زانوهایم اختیار از کف داده اند
یا دلم را وسوسه ای یک پارچه فراگرفته
یا اصلا، پریده ام
در خواب هایی یک سر سیاه
که پایین می افتادم و پایین می افتادم و وحشت تمامی نداشت و
سرم هرچه به سنگ ها می خورد
دیگر بیدار نمی شدم
توانایی دوباره مردن را یافته بودم
سه باره مردن را
مدام مردن را
این هم انتقامی بود که از جاودانه گی ها می گرفتم
فقط مرگ می توانست زنده باشد
بی شعاری، بی دانایی ای در آن

روزی اگر صورتم پیشتان آمد
یا بسیار نزدیک به صورت من بود
با او مهربانی کنید
تا آرام آرام به خواب رود
او مرده است اما گاهی می زند به کله اش و برمی گردد میان شماها
او مرده است
:پسربچه ای از پشت پنجره می بیندش و از پدرش می پرسد
بابا! کسی که می میره-
!سایه شم با خودش می بره؟
!نه دخترم-
!من پسرم بابا-
.نه پسرم! سایه ش نمی دونه مردن یعنی چی-

 


11

مرگ چندین و چند بار
او را از نزدیک بو کرده بود
که جنس حرفهایش عوض شده بود
که مدام می خندید و چشم هایش
دیگر با ما نبود

 


 23

به تو معنی داده اند خانواده شهر مدرسه دانش گاه –جغرافیا ارتش مرزها دشمنی ها
به تو معنی داده اند رودخانه هراکلیتوس زنون خرگوش لاک پشت هگل مارکس
از تو این ها را گرفته اند   کمربند بندکفش ساعت شلوار پیراهن عکس ها نوشته ها
!شخص فرد هویت حافظه فردا زمان  مادر!! چه قدر به تو نیاز دارم-
قرار این است
:پشت میله ها گرد این همه آن قدر بپاشد رویت تا چیزی دیگر در تو نتواند معنی شود
قرص ها شوک های ساعت یازده شوک های ساعت چهارده  خنده های
روسپی های مذکر و مونث و پرونده ها و ریشت]
که دارد سرسام آور سبز می شود چمن ها سبز می شوند علف زیر پایت سال ها
بازی تمام شده است
!شلیک کن
به گا رفتن در هوایی ابری
!شلیک کن

     .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .   .

باریدن لعنت و لعن و نفرین و خون و خاکستر و زجر و نفرت و اول و دوم و
داخائو و آئوشویتس و ویتنام و کره و ایران و سارایه و و افغانستان و
اقیانوسی پیدا نمی شود حتا در رویا]
که بتواند گوشه ای کوچک را بشوید گورمان را چنان گم کنیم
که حتا یادمان نیاید مرده ایم و می میریم مرده بودند و می مرند و مرگ
بی شک نام کثیفی برای این چیز هاست
!شلیک کن

 


28

سنگینی یک ماه پرواز در بال هامان چشم هامان
.و نخستین شبی که کنار هم دسته جمعی به خواب می رویم
من جوانم، اولین سالم است که با گروه مهاجر»
.در این جا فرود آمده ام
و آن قدر حسم بکر است و نو و شفاف
-که شاید به خاطر همین –بر خلاف همه که خوابیده اند
«.اصلا خوابم نمی آد

او نمی داند که دارد
.خوش بختی خوش بختی خوش بختی را تجربه می کند

 

Translator’s Note: 
This is by far the most fragmented translation project I have worked on. Fragmented in time, text, and paratext. I was introduced to the poetry of Shahram Sheydayi through A Stone for Life, A Stone for Death, his very last book. In March 2014, I received a package in the mail from a dear friend in Tehran who was once a close friend of Shaydayi’s. The note on the title page said: “For Lida. I hope you like Sheydayi’s poetic experience in the form of this long poem, so immeasurable, so mournful.” The lack of biographical context was unnerving, yet intriguing enough to lead me into reading the entire body of Sheydayi’s work. He was a very private person who chose to live a hermitic life in his last years, partly because of his illness, but mostly because he did not want to associate and be associated with many of his contemporaries, whose definition of literary modernism was reduced to formal gestures and swung more to a kind of rhetorical and linguistic extremism. This was against the ethos of Sheydayi’s work. Perhaps he could be best described as a conservative modernist who believed in poetry in the archetypal sense of the word. Sheydayi is a poet whose narratives are devastatingly honest, and that is why I wanted him to be heard and read.

A note on the story behind omitted lines in poem 23: these omissions also appear in the original poem. When I first translated the poem, I thought the ellipses were a formal or stylistic decision by the poet. However, I later discovered via the author’s website that these were words or phrases deemed inappropriate or immoral by the “momayyezi” (review board) of the Iranian Ministry of Culture, and hence removed. The publisher decided to put them up on the website, and so, in my next edit of the translation, I put those words back in. In subsequent edits, however, I decided to stick to the “original,” i.e., the censored version. I thought if the Farsi-speaking readers at home have access only to this version, why afford the privilege to the readership of the translated text?

 

Lida Nosrati is a refugee legal worker in Toronto. Her translations of contemporary Iranian poetry, short fiction, and plays have appeared in Words Without Borders, Drunken Boat, and TransLit, among others. She was a 2014 Witter Bynner Poetry Translation fellow at the Santa Fe Art Institute

Photo by Setareh Delzendeh

 

Shahram Sheydayi (1967-2009) was a contemporary Iranian poet, writer, lexicographer, and translator. In 2004, he founded White Crow publishing house, which featured original and translated works of poetry and short fiction by him and other writers. A Stone for Life, A Stone for Death: A Long Poem, was published posthumously in 2013.

https://lunchticket.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/12/lunch-ticket-logo-white-text-only.png 0 0 Avril Stewart https://lunchticket.org/wp-content/uploads/2021/12/lunch-ticket-logo-white-text-only.png Avril Stewart2017-05-14 15:13:102017-12-07 08:43:45Excerpts from A Stone for Life, A Stone for Death: A Long Poem

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April 29, 2022/in A Transfer, Midnight Snack / Lisa Levy
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The House in the Middle

April 15, 2022/in A Transfer, Midnight Snack / Megan Vasquez
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More coming soon!

Amuse-Bouche

Little bites every Monday to whet your appetite!

Today’s plate:

My Mother’s Hands

August 8, 2022/in Amuse-Bouche / Annie Marhefka
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Defy Gravity

August 1, 2022/in Amuse-Bouche / Megan Peck
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Little Shrimp

July 25, 2022/in Amuse-Bouche / Karen Poppy
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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

The variety in this issue speaks not only to the eclectic world we inhabit but to the power of the human spirit. We live in an uncertain world. In the U.S., we’re seeing mass shootings daily. Across the world, we’re still very much in a pandemic, some being trapped in their homes for weeks on end, others struggling to stay alive in hospitals. War continues to wage in Ukraine. Iran and North Korea are working diligently to make nuclear weapons. The list goes on. Still, we have artists who are willing and able to be vulnerable with one another, to share stories and art to help us try and make sense of our world.

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