Ezra Pound

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ازرا پاوند
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فارسی : یاشار احد صارمی

Henri Cartier-Bresson took many portrait pictures during his life, but his wife, Martine Franck accompanied him to just one — probably atypical — portrait session. It was that of the poet Ezra Pound in Venice in 1971, a year before his death at 87.

“There was a tremendous, heavy silence,” recalled Ms. Franck, herself a photographer. “Pound didn’t say a word. He just seemed to condemn the world with his eyes. We were there for about 20 minutes. I stayed to one side. I huddled in a corner. Henri took seven pictures.”

What Pound felt is impossible to know. Years earlier, he had been interned for mental illness, and in 1960, he lapsed into long periods of depressive silence and stopped writing. And yet, in the image selected by Cartier-Bresson, Pound’s wild hair, burning eyes and tense hands seem to speak volumes about an old man raging against the dying of the light.

محراب*ه

حُسنِ خِتام*ه

برای بانو لولین*ه

آلبا *ه

در ایستگاهی از یک مترو *ه
آرامش *ه
گربه ی خانگی *ه
آیون مُرده ی سال بلند *ه
دخترک *ه



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Giving Myself Up by Mark Strand

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مارک اِسترند

فارسی : یاشار احد صارمی

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از خود گذشتن

چشم می بندم از چشمهام این تخم های شیشه ای
از زبانم می گذرم
دست می شُویم از دهانم که رویای مدام زبانم است
از گلویم می گذرم این آستین صدایم
قلبم این سیب سوزان را می بخشم
از شُش هایم می گذرم این درختانِ هرگز ماه ندیده
از عطر و بویم چشم می شویم که تعلق داشت به سنگی مسافر در باران
تسلیم می کنم دست هایم را این دهگانه آرزو را
می بخشم بازوانم را. از خدایشان بود تَرکم کنند
از گونه های کونم می گذرم ماه و مهتاب بچه گی هام
از کیرم دل بر می گیرم این دل جرات دهنده ی زانوانم
لباس هایم را می بخشم آن دیوارهای وزان در باد
و اجِنه ام را تسلیم می کنم که تویشان خانه داشت
تسلیم می شوم و دست می شُویم
و هیچ یک از آنها به تو نخواهد رسید چون من تازه دارم شروع می کنم بی چیز و چوزی

Giving Myself Up

by Mark Strand

Farsi: Yashar A. Saremi

I give up my eyes which are glass eggs.
I give up my tongue.
I give up my mouth which is the contstant dream of my tongue.
I give up my throat which is the sleeve of my voice.
I give up my heart which is a burning apple.
I give up my lungs which are trees that have never seen the moon.
I give up my smell which is that of a stone traveling through rain.
I give up my hands which are ten wishes.
I give up my arms which have wanted to leave me anyway.
I give up my legs which are lovers only at night.
I give up my buttocks which are the moons of childhood.
I give up my penis which whispers encouragement to my thighs.
I give up my clothes which are walls that blow in the wind
and I give up the ghost that lives in them.
I give up. I give up.
And you will have none of it because already I am beginning
again without anything

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