Author Archives: mshiva

 ﮔﻮﯾﻨﻮﻣﻪ ﺩﯾﻤﻪ 
ﺩﺍﻭﻭﺩ ﺣﺴﻦ ﺁﻗﺎﯾﯽ

ﺭﻭﺯﮔﺎﺭ ﺍَﻟﯿﻧﮓ ﺩﻥ ﭼﻮﺥ ﮔﺋﻞﻪ ﻭﺍﺭﻭﻡ
ﺍَﻝ ﮔﻮﺗﻭﺭ ﺑﺎﺷﻭﻡ ﺩﺍﻥ ﮔﻮﯾﻨِﻭﻣﻪ ﺩَﯾﻤَﻪ
ﺷﮑﺎﯾﺖ ﻣﻦ ﺳﻥ ﺩﻥ ﻫﺭ ﺍﺋﻠﻪ ﻭﺍﺭﻭﻡ
ﺑﯿﺮﺷﯿﺪﺍ ﻣَﺠﻨﻮﻧﺎﻡ، ﻟﯿﻠِﺋﻤﻪ ﺩﻳﻤﻪ

ﻋﺠﺐ ﺧﺯﺍﻥ ﺳﺎﻟﺩﻭﻧﮓ ﭼﻣﻨﺌﻤﻪ ﺳَﻦ
ﻋَﺠَﺐ ﺍﻭﺕ ﺳﺍﻟﻤﻮﺵﺎﻧﮓ ﺑﺪﻧﺌﻤﻪ ﺳﻦ
ﻋﺟﺐ ﺑﯿﺪﺍﺩ ﺍﺋﺪﻱﻨﮓ ﻭﻃﻨﺌﻤﻪ ﺳﻦ
ﺗﻔﺭﻗﻪ ،ﭘَﺮﯾﺸﺎﻥ ﺍﺋﻠﺌﻤﻪ ﺩﯾﻤﻪ

َ ﻫﻤﺌﺸﻪ ﺧﺰﺍﻥ ﺩﺋﺮ، ﺑﺎﯾﺮﺍﻡ ﺁﺯ ﺍُﻻﺭ
ﺳﻭﺯﻭﻡ ﺍﻭﺭﮔﺌﻢ ﺩﻩ ﻗﺎﻟﻮﺭ ﺭﺍﺯ ﺍُﻭﻻﺭ
ﺑﻮ ﯾﺎﺭﺍ ﮔﻮﯾﻧﻮﻣﻪ َ ﻏَﻢ ﺩَﻣﺴﺎﺯ ﺍﻭﻻﺭ
ﻏَﻡ ﺩﻥ ﮐَﻤﺎﻥ ، ﺳﺋﻨﺌﻎ ﺑﺋﻠﺌﻤﻪ ﺩﻳﻤﻪ

ﺩﺍﻍ ﻻﺭ ﺑﺎﺷﺋﻪ ﺩﺍﻫﺍ ﺗﺭﻻﻥ ﺗﻭﻻﻤﺎﺯ
ﺧﺎﻟِﻭ ﺩﺋﺮ ﺑﺉﺸَﻪ ﻟَﺮ ، ﺁﺻﻼﻥ ﺗﻭﻻﻧﻤﺎﺯ
ﭼﯿﭽَﮑﻠﺋﻪ ﭼﻮﻟ ﻠﺮﺩَﻩ ﺟِﯿﺮﺍﻥ ﺗﻭﻻﻧﻤﺎﺯ
ﺁﻏﻮﺭ ﺍﺋﻞ ﻟﺮ ﻗﻮﻧﺎﻥ ﭼﻮﻟﻮﻣﻪ ﺩﯾﻤﻪ

ﯾﺋﻞ ﺍﺳﻤﺌﺶ ﻫﺮ ﯾﺎﻥ ﺩﺍﻥ، ﻗﻮﭘﻤﻮﺵ ﺩﻭﺭ ﻃﯿﻔﺎﻥ
ﻗﻮﺭﺭﻭﻣﻮﺵ ﻗﻮﻧﭽﺎﻻﺭ ، ﺧﺎﻟﯽ ﺩِﺉﺮ ﺑُﺴﺘﺎﻥ
ﮔِﺋﺮﺩَﮔَﻪ ﺍُﻭﺗﻮﺭﺍﻥ ، ﺑﯿﺮ ﮔﻮﻥ ﻭﺋﺮﺭ ﺟﺎﻥ
ﺧﺰﺍﻥ ﺩﺍ ﻗﻮُﺭﺭﻭﻳﺎﻥ ﮔﻭﻟﻮﻣﻪ ﺩﯾﻤﻪ

ﻣﻦ ﺑﯿﺮ ﺧﺎﻟﺺ ﺯَﺭَﻡ ﺻﺮّﺍﻑ ﺑﻮﻟﻮﻧﻤﺎﺯ
ﻫﺎﯼ ﺁﻗﺎﻻﺭ، ﺍﻫﻝ ﺍِﻧﺼﺎﻑ ﺑﻮﻟﻮﻧﻤﺎﺯ
ﻣﻨِﺋﻢ ﺳﻭﺯﻟَﺮﺋﻢ ﺩﻩ ﺧﻼﻑ ﺑﻮﻟﻮﻧﻤﺎﺯ
ﻗﻭﻱ ﯾﺎﺯﺍﻡ ﺣﻖ ﺳﻭﺯﻭ ،ﺍَﻟِﺋﻤﻪ ﺩَﯾﻤَﻪ

ﻧﻩ ﻋﺼﻤﺖ، ﻧﻩ ﻋﻔﺖ، ﻧﻪ ﻭﺍﺭ ﻃﻬﺎﺭﺕ
ﻧﻩ ﺑﯿﺮ ﻣﺭﺩﺍﻧﻩ ﻟﯿﮓ ، ﻧﻪ ﺑﯿﺮ ﺟﻮ ﻏﯿﺮﺕ
ﺩﺍﻭﻭﺩ ﺑﯿﺠﺎ ﭼَﮑَﺮ ﺭﻧﺞ ﻭ ﻣﺮﺍﺭﺕ
ﺑﺎﻏﻼﻧﻤﻮﺵ ﺯﻥﺠﯿﺮﺩَﻩ ﻗﻮﻟﻮُﻣﺎ ﺩﯾﻤﻪ

ﻣﺠﻠﻪ ﭼﺎﻏﺪﺍﺵ
ﻋﮑﺲ : ﮐﺎﻣﺒﯿﺰ ﻧﺠﻔﯽ

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Do You Remember? (D-S110)

How are you doing, peri?
Write when you can, and let me know,
when you have a moment in between
listening to that guy or this telling you
how gorgeous you are –

And you are gorgeous, you know that.
Your breasts are like chiseled marble,
you stand as elegant as alef, a fragrant spruce,
and your black curls frame your face
as sweetly as the sepals of a rose.

Do you remember, peri, while you slept
I’d stay all night to guard the incredible treasures
of your face and hair, and body?
The day I fell in love with you,
with your moonlit eyes and voice,
I entered into irremediable pain.

Do you remember, peri, I was saying,
“Dawn! Dawn!” a warning and a prayer,
in my state of mind, to preserve you
from being found out and ruined?

You shoved me in a cage and watched,
while my eyes followed you around the room
to catch a glimpse of any breeze of paradise
that might sift from your hair.

Do you remember, peri, that from start
to finish you lent your assets to everybody?
So it seemed, to every rake and drunk
who asked. And kept me caged, to watch.

To Mazun in his poverty, this is unendurable.
He rips his collar from his throat.
Tears well into his eyes. And yet,

he still endures because of you,
wipes his tearful face on your skirt
whenever you draw near, in full view
of your dark and moonlit eyes, peri.

Why

Far be it from me
to start arguing
about the cosmic
proprieties of love,
but consider:

God mixes water
with a little clay
and makes it walk –
and in its form and motion
puts the tidal power
of the moon –

But then he makes it all –
the blackness of an eyebrow,
and the way a braid
can catch a glint of light,
and how a woman’s lips
can purse just so –
he makes it all forbidden!

Why the love-slick,
Sweet, quick-witted girls
if what he wants
is undivided prayer?
If love is such debauchery,
why give us wine
to start with?

The moth won’t burn
without the candle.
The nightingale would keep
its head without the flower.
If Layla hadn’t broken faith,
Majnun would not
have wandered in the desert.

What I’m saying, I’m afraid,
is that both God’s essence
and his beauties irretrievably
are in my inner heart.

Why these troubled words
have leapt from love’s fire
and burnt into Ma’zun’s talk –
I wonder.

Manifestations of Love (D-S60-61)

In the bones and blood
of a lover are the signs
of the one he loves –
and inside that.

He feels her in his veins,
as if the Moon had carved
its signature in his blood –
as if a form of Venus,
scintillating in the evening
sky, had run a current
through his limbs –

Is she really, like an houri,
a descendant of the stars?
Or is this what human beings are –
this blinding body beauty?

In reality the one I love
is born of neither earth nor sky –
Every day her beauty deepens;
every day I’m further saddened.
She’s closer to me than I am
to myself, so close I don’t know
where she is at all –

Like attracts like.
Knowledge has intimate
relations with knowledge,
reason with reason.
So me,
I wander like Majnun,
helpless and accustomed
to the desert.

There’s a kind of guy
who roars like a lion
wanting just to see
his girlfriend’s face
when she’s away.

Another trembles with anxiety
every time he pictures
her hair.

Another can’t stop thinking
of her smooth round breasts –
so helpless that at dinner
when he touches an apple
he’s reminded of them,
and to everyone’s
embarrassment,
including his,
he starts
describing them!

And yet another rants so loud
about her leaving for the weekend,
you’d think he thinks we’re deaf –
To him, the mills of time
are grinding out a cosmic
prison term – they scrape
so loud his voice
seems faint,
to him,
who’s losing her.

Neither earth- nor sky-born,
but above all that, the one
I love’s compassionate,
like the widows’ husband –
comprehends the evidence
of things unseen –
a candle flame unmoved
by wind or breath, or time –

I am the lover.
My beloved
is the ocean –
and Mazun,
a fish in endless seas.

Pathways (D-S34)

In the market, crowds of people
surge from one booth to another.
The din is unbelievable,
the shouting. One man barters
angrily and loud for jugs of wine.
A woman watches as a vendor
measures out a bag of cumin seeds.
We shuffle past to find a booth
where we can trade our reason in
for love, and we succeed.

The mystic’s shop is different
from the others. Its sign’s distinct.
It trades in journeys.
What you thought
were rugs piled under chairs and wine
in casks stacked out of sight are pathways
past the planets to another world,
as different from the noisy market
as Cairo is from Almaty.

The market-goers plod the dirt
and never realize that paths
through air ascend beyond the booth.
Those familiar with the desert
have no knowledge of the sea
or those who live there. Moses
saw his one beloved on Mount Sinai;
Jesus, while he dangled from a cross
in agony. Another sees in darkness,
still another, through a brilliant light.

Each person finds his own way
to the neighborhood of God.
One crumbles into dirt, and kisses
the doorway threshold, that’s the place
he loves. Another searches
solemnly for light, and when he finds
the flame, becomes as giddy
as a fluttering moth. Another,
like Mazun, tears off his shirt,
and throws his chest out as a shield,
and hopes for arrows.

The Place of Insanity (D-S31)

This place is
insane.

And I
designed it
and built it,
stone drunk
the whole time.

I’m so drunk
with the way
of the spirit
I am the wine.
I’ve disappeared
in the cool
of my friend’s
visit, completely
carefree, so carefree
the whole world’s
come into focus –
I’m so drunk
I’ve sobered up
and see

I’m my own
friend, in
a world
where tar
is setar,
friend
is me, I am
the world,

no world
at all, a placeless
place.

Look! No
things but
in ideas! –
No possessions
here, nowhere!
I’m the sultan
of nothing.

I don’t wipe
tears for no reason.
No solution’s
better than
this insanity.

Why don’t I feel
my own pain?
I’m patient,
physician
and cure.

For unknown eons
I wandered
the stars
for the sake
of my friend,
and broke
my own heart
searching.

Unbelievable!
For eons
I failed
to realize
the lover
and beloved
live together,
here, the same
place,
nowhere.

Mazun,
I degraded
myself.
I chose
to be in love.
I gave
my soul
to my friend,
and it became
the beloved
of itself.

Love’s Religion (D-S 27)

I left my city
long ago
because of you.

And all this time
by myself
I’ve nursed a pot
of flowers
with tears –
don’t take them,
they’re mine.

There’s nothing wrong
with a powerful man
seeking conversation
with a poor man –
but a poor man
who can’t help
wanting to be king
is tortured.

My own desire
arches up the stars,
but my luck
has bottomed out.
Now only death
can cure this pain.

Why is the hound-faced
professor following me
up and down the street,
asking me about faith
then telling me I’m wrong?
He can’t leave it alone.

I tell him:
Religion is desire itself,
the love itself,
the beloved, alone.
He doesn’t hear.

I cut down a side street
of my own, and leave him
pulling his beard and mumbling
and waving his hands
at the sky.

I remember her laughter,
incredibly sweet –
I didn’t love for nothing.
I remember summer nights
of never thinking
a single thought, and
living in her love.

Her shiny black hair
falling near her eyes
beckons to me.
How could I
ever have abandoned
the scent of that hair?

Now if the tall, beautiful peris
come for Mazun’s soul
he can’t help it, he’ll go.

He’s stuck his head
and luck in their gorgeous path
by talking too much of love.

Love’s Religion (D-S 27)

I left my city
long ago
because of you.

And all this time
by myself
I’ve nursed a pot
of flowers
with tears –
don’t take them,
they’re mine.

There’s nothing wrong
with a powerful man
seeking conversation
with a poor man –
but a poor man
who can’t help
wanting to be king
is tortured.

My own desire
arches up the stars,
but my luck
has bottomed out.
Now only death
can cure this pain.

Why is the hound-faced
professor following me
up and down the street,
asking me about faith
then telling me I’m wrong?
He can’t leave it alone.

I tell him:
Religion is desire itself,
the love itself,
the beloved, alone.
He doesn’t hear.

I cut down a side street
of my own, and leave him
pulling his beard and mumbling
and waving his hands
at the sky.

I remember her laughter,
incredibly sweet –
I didn’t love for nothing.
I remember summer nights
of never thinking
a single thought, and
living in her love.

Her shiny black hair
falling near her eyes
beckons to me.
How could I
ever have abandoned
the scent of that hair?

Now if the tall, beautiful peris
come for Mazun’s soul
he can’t help it, he’ll go.

He’s stuck his head
and luck in their gorgeous path
by talking too much of love.