Pære-ker-dansk

Drawing by Jens Walter Peter Burau

Introduction: February 21st has been declared the International Mother Language Day by UNESCO. For this occasion the text below has been published today in the Danish major newspaper, Politiken. It is my first poem in Danish and it pays homage and alludes to the poem "World's Citizen in Denmark" by the Danish renowned poet, Benny Andersen.
Upon the news of the publication of my poem in Politiken, Jens Burau has drawn the caricature you can see above.

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Pære-ker-dansk
af Vahid

Køb bananer hver morgen
Og to kolde fra kassen
Jeg spiser leverpostej
Og har onde drømmer hver nat
Det smager godt
Selv om nogle siger det er klamt
Men jeg er ik’ ramt?

Jeg taler dansk med munden fuld af rugbrød
Med fløde
Og danser med Lars og Danebrog i hånden - rødt i rødt
Jeg danser to-tur til Vejle,
Kald det kærlighed sejler op ad åen og raballer i strædet
Jeg danser til dem alle
"Men jeg danser dem temmelig udansk."

At være baggårdskat det er et hundeliv
Men det rager mig
Hallo!
Jeg bor heldigvis på asylcentre
Hvor du fra?

Jeg bor i Danmark
Min seng er fra Serbien
Min kæreste fra Chile
Madpakken fra Røde Kors
Min au pair fra Thailand
Min fugleinfluenza og ecco sko fra Indonesien
Min løn fra Saudi ”Lykkelige” Arabien
Mine sår er fra Afghanistan
Og mine lidelser fra hele verden.
Men nu
“Lyder de mere og mere som danske”

Jeg betaler skat, stemmer i Tarm,
Arbejder i Malmø, for at bo i København,
Får abort i København,
Jeg mister mig selv i mængden,
Bliver buret inde i Guantanamo
Og dør langsomt på Riget
“Men midt i det hele er jeg så pære-ker-dansk
Alverden samles i mig
Og bliver godt rystet sammen!”

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Note: 21. februar er udnævnt til International Mother Language Day af UNESCO. For at fejre mærkedagen, vil jeg dele mit første danske digt med jer. Jeg benytter også muligheden til at hylde en af mine yndlingsforfattere, Benny Andersen og hans digt Verdensborger i Danmark.

G. G. Marquez: A Farewell Letter

If for an instant God were to forget that I am rag doll and gifted me with a piece of life,
possibly I wouldn't say all that I think,
but rather I would think of all that I say.
I would value things,
not for their worth but for what they mean.
I would sleep little, dream more,
understanding that for each minute we close our eyes we lose sixty seconds of light.

I would walk when others hold back.
I would wake when others sleep.
I would listen when others talk,
and how I would enjoy a good chocolate ice cream!
If God were to give me a piece of life,
I would dress simply,
throw myself face first into the sun,
baring not only my body but also my soul.
My God, if I had a heart, I would write my hate on ice,
and wait for the sun to show.
Over the stars I would paint with a Van Gogh dream a Benedetti poem,
and a Serrat song would be the serenade I'd offer to the moon.
With my tears I would water roses,
to feel the pain of their thorns,
and the red kiss of their petals.

My God, if I had a piece of life...
I wouldn't let a single day pass without telling the people I love that I love them.
I would convince each woman and each man that they are my favorites,
and I would live in love with love.
I would show men how very wrong they are to think that they cease to be in love when they grow old,
not knowing that they grow old when they cease to love!
To a child I shall give wings,
but I shall let him learn to fly on his own.
I would teach the old that death does not come with old age,
but with forgetting.
So much have I learned from you, oh men...

I have learned that everyone wants to live on the peak of the mountain,
without knowing that real happiness is in how it is scaled.
I have learned that when a newborn child squeezes for the first time with his tiny fist his father's finger,
he has him trapped forever.
I have learned that a man has the right to look down on another only when he has to help the other get to his feet.
From you I have learned so many things,
but in truth they won't be of much use,
for when I keep them within this suitcase,
unhappily shall I be dying.

Read the original Spanish text.

Beware!

This is another poem by Nossrat Rahmani. Here is the original: Hoshdaar!

Beware

Beware!
Never bind
A bird’s beak
Or it will sing with its wings.
Do not break its wings
Or it will fly with its voice to the peak of the galaxy.
Don’t bind poet’s lips…

A Poem by Nossrat Rahmani

Nossrat Rahmani is one of the most renowned Iranian modern poets. Here I have translated into English one of his famous pieces. Read the original text in Persian.













These days
Thus I am, look:
My hand moves so slow, as if
I had already written every virgin poem
My legs drag me so very tiresomely, as if
I have already gone through every path
To ending of everywhere
Even have heard
Each time
Wail of the coup de grâce
My friend

These days
Whoever I make friends with, I feel
We’ve been friends long enough
That it is now time for treachery

Amount of sorrow has exceeded
Its own bounds and borders
It’s been a while I have nothing to do
Like a minister
You are nothing
When you have nothing to do
I am nothing; I am a poet
I suppose you don’t understand the allusion
These days
Thus I am
An apparition-of-Farhaad *
Who has lost his hammer

That’s how demolition commences
Thus began decline of men’s dynasty
Comrades
When the clamor of the event fades away
Carve on my gravestone
“A warrior who never fought
Yet … was defeated.”


* Farhaad is the name of a legendary character who fell in love with Shirin, the wife of Khosrau II of Persia.

© Vahid 2007 Goossun Art-illery

She says, "You're my sexual disease"!

I don't believe the prophets, but I believe in prophecy.

It's so sad; I don't have any desire to kill myself, even though I've got so many reason for it.

... and I want freedom to be my slave.

I drink my shoes
and eat my dreams
you'd better put yourself together
before I stomach your eyes.

How blue would be the earth if trees could fly.

Everybody has a demon in his head
You'd better make sure that yours is not mine.

Eventually, I have moved to my Home.

عيساای ديگر

تکه ای از گوشت ِ دست ِ من
در پس ِ ميخ ِ آهنينن ِ سخت
در دل ِ چوب ِ صليبم
دفن شده است.

عروجم به ديگرسو نيست؛
مرگ ِ تن است
در منجلاب ِ روح.
آمين!

سنگسار ِ کلام

سحرگاهان
کتاب ِ مقدس از سقف باريدن
باريدن گرفت.
مذاب ِ کلمات
در پياله ی ِ کفر
ِرِنگ ِبی رمقی را
به تلنگر ِ سقوط
رقصيدند.


در بستر ِ عمومی ی ِ عشق
در چنبر ِ تنهايی
به خواب رفته
گناه ِ آخرين.


نون
رَنگ ِ نگاه ِ تو را
دايره می زند
و قلم
سر از تيررس ِ سايه ی ِ سردت
می دزدد.
پرده ی ِ دالان ِ شايعه
لرزش ِ شرم را
در تشنج ِ سوگندهای ِ پاک
به غشغشه
نشسته است.


ُرُمبيدن ِ سقف ِ تقدس
از وزن ِ کلام
چادر ِ مهيبی از تطهير
بر جسد ِ معصيت پوشيد.


بر گوری بی نشان،
زوزه ی ِ سگی چلاق
باران ِ آمرزش را
در گندآب ِ آسمان
می گريد.

بهانه ی ِ پرواز

آبی تر از هميشه
دست هايت را
در قفس ِ مرده ی ِ مرغ ِ عشق
رها می کنم،
پرواز را
بهانه می کنم.

بهتان
پرنده ی ِ افليجی ست
خزيده در مغاک ِ اشک؛
گريه هايت را بشور.

آبی تر از هرگز
بهانه را
در قفس ِ دست هايت
پرواز می دهم
آواز می دهم
آبی ی ِ چشم هايت را.

ميخ ِ مرگ

تلخی ی ِ قهوه ی ِ سرد
سخت ی زبانم را
به مرگ
باز می کند.
گرداب ِ خاطره دشوار بود
نوشوار هم بود
چون خنجری
خضاب بسته به شهد
در سينه ی ِ زهر.