MANOUCHEHR ATASHI [10.114]

Manouchehr Atashi

Manouchehr Atashi (25 septiembre 1931 - 20 noviembre 2005) fue un poeta persa, escritor y periodista.

Nació en 1931 en Dashtestan, provincia de Bushehr Su poesía es la poesía del guerrero de la tribu del sur humillado. Se toma su trabajo en serio y aunque unido a su lugar de nacimiento, sus poemas son de alcance universal. En sus últimos trabajos Atashi cambió de estilo y se movió hacia la expresión directa de las emociones.

OBRA:

Poetry Collections by Atashi:

Āhang-e digar (Another melody), Tehran, 1959

Āvāz-e ḵāk (The song of the earth), Tehran, 1967

Bar entehā-ye aḡāz (At the end of the beginning), Tehran, 1972

Bārān-e barg-e ḏowq: daftar-e ḡazalhā (The rain of joy: the book of ghazals), with ʿAbdol-Majid Zanguʾi, Tehran, 2001

Če talḵ ast in sib (How bitter is this apple), Tehran, 1999

Didār dar falaq (Meeting at dawn), Tehran, 1970

Ettefāq-e āḵar (The last event), Tehran, 2001

Gozina-ye ašʿār (Selected poems), Tehran, 1987

Gandom o gilās (The wheat and the cherry), Tehran, 1992

Ḡazal-e ḡazalhā-ye Sorenā (The ghazals of Sorena), Tehran, 2005

Ḥādeṯa dar bāmdād (The event at dawn), Tehran, 2001

Ḵalij o ḵazar (The Gulf and the Caspian), Tehran, 2002

Majmuʿa-ye ašʿār (Collected poems), Tehran, 2007

Rišahā-ye šab (The roots of the night), Tehran, 2005

Vaṣf-e gol-e suri (In praise of the red rose), Tehran, 1992

Zibā tar az šekl-e qadim-e jahān (More beautiful than the old shape of the world), Tehran, 1997

Jinete del caballo rojo:

Una vez más ese extranjero orgulloso

en este tumultoso crepúsculo

apareció sobre un caballo en las calles ruidosas de la ciudad.

En la encrucijada,

otra vez pasó el semáforo en rojo

y su caballo salió en estampida,

por el silbato de la policía

y el claxon continuo de los coches.

El, orgulloso

presionó sus pies sobre el estribo

dio intensamente la rienda a la quijada del caballo,

y el caballo, se agarró al aire

sobre dos patas traseras

dispersó las olas asustadas de la muchedumbre

en los callejones oscuros

Mas allá ,él tomó las riendas

y con una sonrisa calmada

se dobló sobre la perilla de la montura

y miró a las chicas de la ciudad

yendo a casa desde la escuela"

¿Ese extranjero otra vez?

"Murmullaron las chicas:"

¿ese jinete salvaje otra vez?

"pero, él, indiferente,

dejo ésta tímida exhibición de coquetería y el pesar del

suspiro por la ansiedad del instinto

Más allá,

en el bullicio de la plaza,

su caballo piafó los cascos

oliendo un enemigo invisible

y comenzó a relinchar

hacia el caballo que brinca de la estatua.

Después la ciudad grande,

con toda su majestuosidad y tumulto,

quedó atónita por un terror desconocido.

Cuando el ardor del atardecer

moría en las cabañas del agua,

y un ave, desde la jungla del horizonte,

cantaba sobre la rama rota de una nube,

los escépticos del reino de la leyenda,

desde los techos,

vieron con sus propios ojos

que ese extranjero orgulloso

monta sobre la llanura azur del mar.

Selección de Poesía Contemporánea iraní

Traducción de Fariba Gurguin

The Lay of Regret 

One morning 

- One true morning -

If the sun rises according to your wishes;

....

A frame of mountain and valley,

A frame of window, if the bird had reaches you -

....

A wide plain, wet tulips!

No!

A laughing sepal,

A sigh of contentment and peace 

- O you melancholy and persistent one -

O living stone, an embodiment of patience! -

A defeated life would have been your portion.

The Moon and the Poet

I hung myself to the moon like water,

I hung myself to the moon.

With the moon I mix through water,

And the fishes of my eyes from every direction,

And the fishes of my eyes I let swim from every direction towards him,

And twist 

The green nets of my gaze around it,

(I seek the moon,

I mix with the moon from sleep

And with the rope of my sigh

I reduce its height);

But

The moon

Passes over my body, 

From water I sleep at the mountain feet,

From my slumbering childhood and youth;

From moments and hours,

From days, nights and years

(From years which have passed away in darkness and frightful

Without laying any bright mark

from myself

- In their sandy plain.

I fight the moon; I fight my sigh:

O moon!,

O moon!, you are still the same moon,

Which continuously and with the same pace

Calmly,

Calmly passed from crescent to the quarter of the moon and from the quarter moon to full moon and then to the wane of the noon,

And again rising from the wane of the moon

- Without any frown or feeling - like the former month.

O moon!,

When I was a child

You were a moon;

When I was young

(And was passing everything like an old man)

You were still a moon.

When I was growing to old age

(And was writing about death)

You were still a moon;

And now that I cross

- Shoulder to shoulder with death -

The silent shores,

And throw the daytime pebbles

Into dark and stale swamps,

You are still a moon.

O moon!

O for ever a moon!, we, we,

Are always traveling from crescent to the wane of the moon

And the possibility of becoming full moon

- Even under your light -

Does not hang in the stale waters of our sleep.

We always march from crescent to the wane of the moon; yes

Continuously we march, tired....

O moon!

Tonight again

You are sending your rays from your fixed height with your single pendulum;

You spread your rays on us;

From blue heights to your water, 

And like always your moonlight color

Stretches over us cold and white,

And you cross us

Like the continued passage of water 

From the stone...

O moon!

- Heedless of us and our night - you

Are not afraid of fame or shame,

Neither poetic praise makes you merry,

Nor the abuse of your night-walkers displease you.

You always rotate on your fixed orbit,

Intent in your own business,

Although 

In poetry and in our look

Now you rise from the dark valley of Yush

- And from the confines of the reed grove -

And now atop sandy hills of Dashtestan,

You start to shine,

And you cast frightful shadows 

On the prairies of our whims 

And hurl the doves of the desert of melancholy passions,

Into the grip of the cities

Without consoling your self

With a breath of consolation.

You have always shone with the same color, yes,

From your green height

- From the blue to the water - 

You have shined and will shine,

And you continue to tread your path

Sleeping at distant waters around the world,

And not a moment

Does occur in your cold and dump frame

On whose childhood you have shined,

On whose youthful years, you have shined

Or old age,

Or right at this moment

On whose dark grave and from what tribe 

Are you sleeping.

O moon!

Shine on us but...

We Didn't Know

Had we advanced a bit further

Our path would have perhaps led to the sea,

Our sleep would have perhaps turned into dream.

Had we paddled more

Perhaps we would have an agreeable wind,

If we didn't return to the coast,

The water would perhaps have sucked our corpses into the depth.

We were neither a rushing river,

To gallop over, obstacles, sharp ends, plains to... the sea,

Neither were we a moat to serve as watering trough for the mangy wolf...

Nor a mangy wolf which is after its carnal desires,

To submit ..... to the secret moment of a cursed death undisturbed.

We didn't who called us, when and why? whom we called 

and why we joined the path

Or why we were delayed.

....

We didn't know who we were and when we existed,

And who has tied this dog inside ourselves to the chain of our vein,

And when.

We don't know who we were and who we are,

Whether our pain was from a wound inflected by a heavenly stone

Or we ourselves are a stinking wound in the body of existence...

...

We didn't know.

[Translated to English by M. Alexandrian]