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a painter, a filmmaker and a playwright
ABBAS KIAROSTAMI
A Wolf Lying in Wait
A red dotted line on the white snow
wounded game
limping away.
The full moon
reflected in water,
the water
contained in the bowl,
and the thirsty man
deep in sleep.
Moonlight
shining on a narrow path
that I won’t take.
What a pity
I was not a good host
for the snowflake
that settled on my eyelid.
White colt
red to his knees after gamboling
in a field of poppies.
Morning is white,
evening is black,
a gray sorrow
in between.
A wolf
lying in wait.
Flight
is the reward of a caterpillar
that wrapped itself
in a cocoon of silk.
A whirlwind
toppled
the shepherd’s boiling kettle
set up on top of a hill.
The smell of smoke
the smell of burning rue
the sound of a baby crying
an abode hut.
A young moon
an old wine
a new friend.
An apple fell from the tree
and I thought of
the apple’s attraction.
Translated from the Persian by Karim Emami.
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TPB' notes: abbas kiarostami's films are awesome.
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Individuality
Individuality?
is not of the substance of elements.
It is an organism, indivisibly
occupied
by elementary objects of a divergent character:
if you
were to attempt division, these parts
would die.
Myself,
for instance: an entire dramatic company.
Enter an ancestor, prophetic;
enter a hero, brutal
a rake, alcoholic, to argue
with a learned professor.
A lyrical beauty, rolling her eyes
heavenward, a case
of chronic infatuation—
enter a heavy father,
to take care of that.
enter a liberal uncle—to arbitrate…
Aunt Chatterbox gossiping in a corner.
Chambermaid Lewdie, giggling.
And I, watching it all,
astonishment in my eyes.
Poised, in my left hand
a sharpened pencil.
A pregnant woman!, a mother
is planning
her entrance—
Shushhh! you
don’t belong here
you
are divisible!
She fades.
Translated by Anselm Hollo
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TPB's notes: Paul Klee is famous for his paintings.
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TENNESSEE WILLIAMS
I think the strange, the crazed, the queer
I think the strange, the crazed, the queer
will have their holiday this year,
I think for just a little while
there will be pity for the wild.
I think in places known as gay,
in secret clubs and private bars,
the damned will serenade the damned
with frantic drums and wild guitars.
I think for some uncertain reason,
mercy will be shown this season
to the lovely and misfit,
to the brilliant and deformed--
I think they will be housed and warmed
And fed and comforted awhile
before, with such a tender smile,
the earth destroys her crooked child.
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TPB's notes: from the collection of uncollected poems of the poet and playwright published posthumously.
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