yalda

قلب من تاريک است
قلب من خاموش است
همچو شبهاي پليد
که پس پرده شب ماه نگين مي گريد

در فضاي قلبم
رخنه هايي است عميق
رخنه هايي که فقط
دردشان را خود من مي دانم

ابر تنهايي و غم
در دلم مي گريد
اشک اين ابر سياه
از شکاف چشمم
مي تراود بيرون

مي چکد تا که پگاه
بنشيند لب ايوان دو گلبرگ سپيد
و به جايي که بنامندش "اشک"
بشنود از لبها
"شبنم" ، "الماس غريب"

ولي افسوس افسوس
که کسي با او نيست
غم او را خود من مي دانم
خود من مي فهمم
و يکي ديگر هم...

آن يکي باران است
که در آن ظلمت سرد
همصدا با دل من مي خواند
از صداي غرش
و صداي فرياد
مي توان تدريجا
آسمان را فهميد

آن يکي باران است
مي خورد بر شيشه
مي خورد بر ديوار
مي خورد بر دل من

آسمان مي غرد
آسمان مي گريد
از فشار اندوه
دل من مثل دل او سرد است
سردتر ميگردد...

آن رفيق گريان ديگر نيست
پا برهنه مي دوم سوي حياط
مشت خود را به يخ حوضچه بي ماهي مي کوبم
يخ نازک مي شکافد
و در آن
آب گنديده حوض
غوطه ور مي گردد!

يخ نازک
دل نازک
يخ سرد و دل سرد
هر دو با هم ، هر دو مانند همند
هر دو در خانه سرد
هر دو تا آخر فصل پاييز
شب يلدا غمها دور همند

ديده را مي بندم
و لباس گرما
در سرم مي بافم
يکعدد کرسي گرم
و دو شاخه گل سرخ
روي آن مي دوزم
روي آن پيرهن پشمي نرم...

يکي از آن دو گل سرخ کنار قلبم
ديگري پيش رفيق تنها -باران- است
گرمي کرسي و گلها هردوشان يکرنگند
مثل تنهايي من با پاييز
مثل غمگيني من با پاييز

قفس تنگ حياط
از ميان خانه گرمتر است
پر نرمي روي مژگان ترم مي افتد
ديده را باز کنم

همه جا پر نور است
همه چيز و همه جا نوراني است
آن طرف کنج حياط
مهربان پيرزني است
پيرزن مي خندد
پيشتر مي روم اما با ترس
نه! نه!
نه ولي ترس چرا؟
ننه سرما آنجاست
مثل ماها تنهاست!

يک سبد نرگس خوشبو با اوست
کوله باري دارد
پر شعر و قصه
شعر حافظ ، سعدي
پهلوان پنبه و شاه پريان

برف خواهد آمد
برف خواهد آمد
ننه سرما پيش من خواهد ماند
قصه اي خواهد گفت
بعد، تنهايي من خواهد خفت
مثل سرماي هوا در پاييز
قصه اي خواهد گفت
قصه سردي من با پاييز
قصه خستگي ام با پاييز



(به ياد استاد ادبيات فارسي کلاس سوم راهنماييم آقاي بيطرف که هيچوخ به قافيه جور کردناي من توي اين شعر نخنديد (!) و همچين خودش رو ذوق زده نشون داد که من فک کردم بزرگترين شاعر روي زمينم... دستش رو مي بوسم)

still lovin you

رفتم مرا ببخش و مگو او وفا نداشت
راهي به جز گريز برايم نمانده بود
اين عشق آتشين پر از درد بي اميد
در وادي گناه و جنونم کشانده بود

رفتم که داغ بوسه پر حسرت تو را
با اشکهاي ديده ز لب شستشو دهم
...



سلام، خوبي؟ دستم ميلرزه و نميتونم بقيه ش رو بنويسم. احساس ميکنم ميخواد بارون بياد. دوباره از اين عشق پر شدم. بارون... هواي ابري... برگاي زرد و قرمز... رد شدن ماشينا توي خيابوناي خيس... ترافيک... موندن با لباس خيس توي تاکسي... گريه کردن از بادي که بارون رو به صورتت ميکوبه... وااااااااااااااااي من عاشق بارونم... بارون که مياد ديگه باهام نميشه حرف زد... من عاشقشم... اومدنش رو حس ميکنم... باور ميکني؟ الان گريه م ميگيره به جان خودم!!!!!!!!!!!!! قلبم الان ميپره بيرون... بارون توي راهه و من هنوز خودم رو آماده نکردم... اگه فردا بيدار شم و هوا ابري باشه چي؟ ميميرم... امشب خوابم نميبره به جان خودم... کاش امشب همه نوشته هاي باروني رو داشتم که ميخوندم... بهنرينش همينيه که اين بالا نوشتم... با اجازه.

tonight

بر شيشه، عنکبوت درشت شکستگي
تاري تنيده بود
الماس چشمهاي تو بر شيشه خط کشيد
وان شيشه در سکوت درختان شکست و ريخت
چشم تو ماند و ماه
وين هر دو دوختند به چشمان من نگاه!

best friend

او که از من فرار ميکند مرا به چه کاري مي خواند؟
او که مرا مي خواند چرا از من فرار مي کند؟

under construction

سلام، خوبي؟ وبلاگم تا يه چن روز ديگه ظاهرش همينجوري ميمونه (کلمه قبلي رو به هر دو شکل ميتوني بخوني!) اما خودم آروم نميگيرم. حتما زود عوضش ميکنم و به همش ميريزم. نگران نباش! چند شب پیش با یکی از دوستام داشتم حرف میزدم. گیر داده بود به من و میگفت : " تو اصرار داشتی توی پروفایلت بگی که خیلی Crazy هستی." منم واسه ش کلی چیز گفتم. اتفاقا بازم اصرار داشتم که بگم ديوونه هستم. یهو بحث رو کشوندم به درخت. آخه میدونی، درخت واسه من خیلی معنی داره. من میخوام مثل درخت باشم. دیوونه باشم مثل درخت. دیوونه یی که بقیه رو هم دیوونه کنه. تا حالا نشستی سعی کنی یه درخت رو همونجوری که هست نقاشی کنی؟ حتم دارم که دیوونه میشی. البته اگه بخوای صادق باشی و هدفت کشیدن درخت باشه. اما اگه هدفت نقاشی کردن خودت باشه که فک نمیکنم انتخاب یه درخت خاص لزومی داشته باشه...
تو اگه یه درخت باشی دیوونه کننده میشی. مثل تو درخت زیاده اما تو واسه نقاشی من انتخاب میشی. من اگه واقعا دوستت داشته باشم میذارم که فصلها رو تجربه کنی. زندگی تو با فصلها معنی داره میشه و من این کنار فقط یه نقاش هستم. تو سبز میشی. جوونه میزنی. گل میکنی. هر باد رهگذری رو که میخوای به آغوش میکشی. ميوه میدی. اگه نخوای هم همه میوه هات رو قبل از رسیدن میریزی زمین. افسرده میشی و خشک میشی. برگهات رو میریزی و هیچ لباسی رو تحمل نمیکنی. حتی اگه بخوای میمیری. اینجوری من هر بار که واسه کشیدنت میام دیوونه میشم. و هر بار هم نمیتونم این کار رو بکنم. و این دیوونگی رو دوست دارم... آره! من درخت بودن رو هم دوست دارم. درخت قشنگه اما اگه تصمیم بگیری که برگاشو بشماری ازش متنفر میشی. دیوونه میشی و میذاری میری... خودمم دارم دیوونه میشم! نکنه یه نفر باشه که از بس که یه درخت رو دوست داره برگهاش رو شمرده!!!؟ دیوونه ش شده، مگه نه؟ دیوونه!

semisuicide

Love is to be put aside.
It's such a semisuicide.

Stay up naked till the daylight.
It's such a semisuicide.

No more tears, nor shodows, nor light.
It's such a semisuicide.

Keep me embraced as time goes by.
It's such a semisuicide.

Your flesh would burn and so shall mine.
It's such a semisuicide.

This creation was a true big lie.
It's such a semisuicide.

Oriana Fallaci

"I sat at the typewriter for the first time and fell in love with the words that emerged like drops, one by one, and remained on the white sheet of paper ... every drop became something that if spoken would have flown away, but on the sheets as words, became solidified, whether they were good or bad."

Though she has written novels and memoirs, Italian author Oriana Fallaci remains best known as an uncompromising political interviewer, or, as Elizabeth Mehren puts it in the Los Angeles Times, "the journalist to whom virtually no world figure would say no." Her subjects include Henry Kissinger, Willy Brandt, the Ayatollah Khomeini, and the late Pakistani leader Zulfikar Ali Bhutto, from whom she extracted such criticism of India's Indira Gandhi that a 1972 peace treaty between the two countries almost went unsigned. Already as famous as many of the figures she interviews, Fallaci is a freethinker passionately committed to her craft. "I do not feel myself to be, nor will I ever succeed in feeling like, a cold recorder of what I see and hear," she writes in the preface to Interview with History. "On every professional experience I leave shreds of my heart and soul; and I participate in what I see or hear as though the matter concerned me personally and were one on which I ought to take a stand (in fact I always take one, based on a specific moral choice)."
While Fallaci's morality has seldom been questioned, her interviewing techniques are highly controversial. According to New York Times Book Review contributor Francine du Plessix Gray, Fallaci combines "the psychological insight of a great novelist and the irreverence of a bratty quiz kid." Known for her abrasive interviewing tactics, Fallaci often goads her subjects into revelations. "Let's talk about war," she challenged Henry Kissinger in their 1972 interview. "You're not a pacifist, are you?" When a subject refuses to cooperate, he becomes "a bastard, a fascist, an idiot," notes Esquire contributor David Sanford.
Fallaci denies her reputation as a brutal interrogator, insisting instead that she merely frames the questions other reporters lack the courage to ask. Where others seek objectivity, Fallaci prefers an approach that she calls "correct" and "honest." Each interview, "is a portrait of myself," she told Time contributor Jordan Bonfante. "They are a strange mixture of my ideas, my temperament, my patience, all of these driving the questions."

Full source at:http://www.giselle.com/oriana.html

mutter

Die Tränen greiser Kinderschar/ich zieh sie auf ein weißes Haar/werf in die Luft die nasse Kette/und wünsch mir, dass ich eine Mutter hätte/Keine Sonne die mir scheint/keine Brust hat Milch geweint/in meiner Kehle steckt ein Schlauch/Hab keinen Nabel auf dem Bauch/Mutter/Ich durfte keine Nippel lecken/und keine Falte zum Verstecken/niemand gab mir einen Namen/gezeugt in Hast und ohne Samen/Der Mutter die mich nie geboren/hab ich heute Nacht geschworen/ich werd ihr eine Krankheit schenken/und sie danach im Fluss versenken/Mutter/In ihren Lungen wohnt ein Aal/auf meiner Stirn ein Muttermal/entferne es mit Messers Kuss/auch wenn ich daran sterben muss/Mutter/In ihren Lungen wohnt ein Aal/auf meiner Stirn ein Muttermal/entferne es mit Messers Kuss/auch wenn ich verbluten muss/Mutter/oh gib mir Kraft//

crying when i was born

is this my life or is it the life they wanted me to live? god says i came to earth by at my own risk. she said i lived with plants and animals; then i just hated everything (it was more than that of course) and asked her to take my soul with her and put me somewhere different! and then, she showed me different pamphlets of different creatures she made. and i got interested in that of what she called (and u and i) Human. the pamphlet was very cutely designed. a full presentation of the whole thing. it was to the right point i mean. there were two main categories, male and female. and every category was made of different colors. there were also special branches for special uses. like "Singer Human" , "Bitch Human" , "Faithful Human" ,... i liked them all i can't choose one. i asked god which one would fit me best. and she took one pamphlet too and we both tried to find the best suit. after about 365 days (i don't know for sure, u better ask my mom) she found me a new cover! yeah! that's it. it really make sense! she's done great! that was the best Human i've ever seen; good shape, nice color, nice lips, beautiful eyes,... "yes! i choose this one for sure" First i ordered the female human, but god said no and picked a male one. "You love me so much, so you may try to be a new god so better not be female. be male! be a slave!" she winked at me as she was coming toward me with the male suit. "But u got something i always wished to have one on my own!" and helped me wear that cute MALE body.i looked into the ocean (u know there were no mirrors when i was born) "I just look lovely! Thanks cutie, so how much is the price?" she started laughing out loud. "You'll pay as u live with it, now take it for free! be my guest!""what if i want to change it?"- u better not pal. cuz u have to prove it to me."but hey, wait a minute, i luv u more than anyone else in the world..."- u do and all other creatures do. keep it with you. and love everyone as i love u all.there was a deep sadness, i could feel it inside, hurt badly..."thanks, by the way, i'll always luv you cutie"- i hope so, be born.

André Gide

André Gide (1869-1951) came from a family of Huguenots and recent converts to Catholicism. As a child he was often ill and his education at the École Alsacienne was interrupted by long stays in the South, where he was instructed by private tutors. His Les Cahiers d'André Walter (1891) [The Notebooks of André Walter] opened the door to the symbolist literary circles of the day, but the decisive event of these years was a journey to Algeria, where a severe illness brought him to the verge of death and precipitated his revolt against his puritanical background. Henceforth his work lived on the never resolved tensions between a strict artistic discipline, a puritanical moralism, and the desire for unlimited sensual indulgence and abandonment to life. Les Nourritures terrestres (1897) [Fruits of the Earth], the drama Saul (1903), and later Le Retour de l'enfant prodigue (1907) [The Return of the Prodigal], are the chief documents of his revolt.

A result of Gide's revolt was the unprecedented freedom with which he wrote about sexual matters in Corydon (privately published 1911, public version 1924), his autobiography Si le grain ne meurt (1924) [If It Die...], and Gide's lifelong diary Journal 1889 à 1939 (1939),Journal 1939 à 1942 (1948), and Journal 1942 à 1949 (1950).

Gide divided his narrative works into soties such as Les Caves du Vatican (1914) [Lafcadio's Adventures] and classically restrained récits, for example, La Porte étroite (1909) [Strait is the Gate] and La Symphonie pastorale (1919). The only work which he considered a novel was the structurally complex and experimental Les Faux Monnayeurs (1926) [The Counterfeiters].

Until the twenties Gide was known chiefly in avant-garde and esoteric literary circles (he was one of the founders of La Nouvelle Revue Française), but in his later years he became a highly influential, although always controversial figure. He travelled widely. His trip to the Congo led to a scathing report on economic abuses by French firms and resulted in reforms. If in the thirties Gide put off one part of the public by his sympathies with communism, his disillusioned report of his journey to Russia, Le Retour de L'U.R.S.S (1936), scandalized another. Gide's interests went far beyond the confines of French literature. He translated Shakespeare, Whitman, Conrad, and Rilke. He was an influential literary critic (Prétextes, 1903; Nouveaux Prétextes, 1911) and was especially attracted to problematic writers like Dostoevsky, about whom he wrote a book (1923).

Among Gide's last work was Thésée (1946), like the earlier Oedipe (1931) the reworking of an old myth. Gide's collected works have been published in fifteen volumes (1933-39).

From Nobel Lectures, Literature 1901-1967, Editor Horst Frenz, Elsevier Publishing Company, Amsterdam, 1969

André Gide died on February 19, 1951.


source:
http://www.nobelprize.org