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MashGhasem MashGhasem (@MashGhasem) on Pinned comment
Comments from readers


Dear Majid,

I have been reading your poetry with great interest and enthusiasm . This last one has a very special expression of “emotional silence “ between the lines.

Thank you for sending your poems.

Warmest wishes
For this holiday season
A hug
Lillian
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MashGhasem MashGhasem (@MashGhasem) on Pinned comment
Comments from readers

From Saeed:
"Majid jan, Absolutely stunning, masterfully using his 'aassar' (his works, is titles) to give your view of him and his politics.
I read it for Haideh and she also enjoyed it and praised you so much.
Khasteh nabashi,
Saeed"

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MashGhasem MashGhasem (@MashGhasem) on Pinned comment
به جلال آل‌احمد - مجید نفیسی


از غرب زده شدی
و بازگشتی از شوروی
به بُنه‌های بلوکِ زهرا
و کیبوتص‌های ولایتِ اسرائیل.

ماشین, جانت را افسرد
و حزب, رویایت را آشفت.
پس در جستجوی شرق
نفرینِ زمینی شدی
که بنه‌ی دهقان بود
و وقفِ مرقدِ آقا.

در جوانی از خانه‌ی پدری بیرون زدی
و شرشرِ ناودانِ کوچکت
در توفانهای سیاسی گم شد.
اما کندوهای عسلت مورچه زد
و بزهای کاغذخورت را
نفتکشها از جزیره‌خارگ تاراند
تو پاپس کشیدی و چون خسی
به شبستانِ پدر بازگشتی.

چون نثرِ زیبایت شتابزده بودی.
افسوس, سه نسل
آن را چون شیشه‌ی عرقی سرکشید
که هنوز از سردردش در شکایت است.

می‌خواستی نیروی سوم باشی
در برابر دو ابرقدرت
افسوس, ملا‌ناجی‌ات
خود دجالی از آب درآمد.

در آرزوی فرزند بودی.
این است سنگنوشته‌اش بر گورت.
اگر امروز زنده بودی
با هم ازین خانه بیرون زده‌بودیم.*

مجید نفیسی
شانزدهم فوریه هزار‌و‌نهصد‌و‌هشتاد‌و‌شش


* جلال آل‌احمد برجسته‌ترین روشنفکر مستقل ایران در دهه‌ی چهل بود. او ده سال پیش از انقلاب درگذشت اما اسلامگرایان او را به دروغ به خود نسبت میدهند. در این شعر به عناوین ده تا از کتابهای او اشاره شده, از جمله رساله‌ی "غربزدگی" و ترجمه‌اش از کتاب "بازگشت از شوروی" نوشته‌ی آندره ژید. من او را یکبار در پانزده‌سالگی در تهران دیدار کردم.

iroon.com/irtn/blog/11790/




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said Saïd Amin (@said) on Pinned comment
Thanks for sharing! I especially got a nice chuckle out of: "Let me be blunt. Thomas Friedman is an ignorant fool - and I do not mean that as an insult." *lol* That's great.

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ashianeh ashianeh (@ashianeh) on Pinned comment
A good piece! Thanks for posting.
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ChamoshChamoshvnd ChamoshChamoshvnd (@ChamoshChamoshvnd) on Pinned comment
At the Tea Garden

By Margaret Hasse




My friend and I mull over the teas
displayed in square jars
with beveled glass labeled by type.
Each name seems part of a haiku:
"After the Snow Sprouting." "Moon Palace."
"Mist Over the Gorges."
I'm drawn to green teas
with unoxidized leaves that don't wither,
hold their grassy fragrance
like willow under snow in winter.

The proprietor offers real china for the Chinese tea.
Animal bones, fine ground, give whiteness,
translucency and strength
to the porcelain that appears delicate,
resists chipping.
The rim of the cup is warm and thin.

My friend's lips are plush: her lovely
mouth opens to give advice I ask for.
We talk about memory of threshold events,
like a first kiss or a poem published.
She can't remember...

I tell her about my brother-in-law's
chemotherapy—his third bout of cancer.
He wants his family to put a pinch
of his ashes in things he liked:
his banjo, the top drawer of his desk, the garden.

I wouldn't mind becoming part
of a set of bone china that serves tea
in a cozy teahouse smelling of incense,
cinnamon, musk, and carved teak.
I'd like to be brought to a small table,
sit between friends' quiet words,
held in hands so close that breath
on the surface of warm drink
makes mist rise over their faces.


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vahabhakimian Vahab Hakimian (@vahabhakimian) on Pinned comment
Beautiful words!
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ChamoshChamoshvnd ChamoshChamoshvnd (@ChamoshChamoshvnd) replied to feridon34 (@feridon34) on Pinned comment
Parisa Reza's novel "The Gardens of Consolation" It's a testament to the recently emerged Iranian Diaspora Literature. This is a type of literature produced in the past few decades by first or second generation Iranians living abroad, published in European languages,..
Ms. Reza's novel, as you mentioned, was translated from French. Wonder if her novel has been translated into Persian?
Even the English translations has its own poetic, magical moments. Especially when she inserts Persian idioms and vernacular, like the story of "Yakhchaal."
Your story also has a healthy dose as well, glossary is a good idea.

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feridon34 feridon34 (@feridon34) replied to ChamoshChamoshvnd (@ChamoshChamoshvnd) on Pinned comment
Many thanks for your kind comments and the comparison. I have read Reza's book in original French which is much more poetic than the English translation!
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feridon34 feridon34 (@feridon34) on Pinned comment
Many thanks for your kind comments.
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ashianeh ashianeh (@ashianeh) on Pinned comment
Thank you, Mr. Rashidi, for sharing!
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ChamoshChamoshvnd ChamoshChamoshvnd (@ChamoshChamoshvnd) on Pinned comment
This is a splendid short story Mr. Rashidi.
Eshart Khanum of your story kind of reminded me of the character of 'Talla' in Parisa Reza's "The Gardens of Consolations," a traditional woman, originally from the countryside, lost in the ebb and flow of the modern life.
Thank you for sharing.
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ChamoshChamoshvnd ChamoshChamoshvnd (@ChamoshChamoshvnd) on Pinned comment
Course of Treatment

by Linda Pastan



After forty visits, after forty
invisible rays transformed
your body into something
as incandescent as a flashbulb,
they release you into

the world, where it hardly rained
those forty days, those nights, where
your ark was an old SUV shuttling you
back and forth along meandering
highways, taking their daily toll.

Now you embrace the ordinary again—
this small snow shower on the windshield,
which seems in its brevity
to have special meaning—
a shower of angel feathers perhaps,

or the bottle of wine we will
uncork in celebration,
its brothers waiting in a basement
redolent of the earth
you’ve once again escaped.



writersalmanac.org/episodes/20171015/
“Course of Treatment” by Linda Pastan from Insomnia
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ChamoshChamoshvnd ChamoshChamoshvnd (@ChamoshChamoshvnd) on Pinned comment
Sassafras


by Marjorie Thomsen


My grandfather, Hank, ran a hardware store
full of straight–shooting

solutions: washers for faucets,
filters for furnace failures, or

he could just cut you
a fresh key.

The aisles of answers held
no allure for me when I was a kid

so I stood by
the cash register where I’d wonder

which flavor candy stick
I wanted from the giant glass jars

protecting unbroken wands
of vibrant, solid confection. My grandpa

let me get sassafras, the one
sounding most like a bad word.

The store changed hands, my grandparents
continued to love each other.

In his ninety-fifth year
my grandfather got up from the breakfast table

without fanfare, went into the bedroom, sat
on a sturdy black chair and died.







“Sassafras” by Marjorie Thomsen from "Pretty Things Please."


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ChamoshChamoshvnd ChamoshChamoshvnd (@ChamoshChamoshvnd) on Pinned comment
12 LITERARY WRITERS ON STEPHEN KING’S INFLUENCE
HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO THE KING OF HORROR

Of course now besides Stephen King we also have another monumental, non-fictional, real KING OF HORROR.
Wonder who coined the term, Reality is stranger than fiction?

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ChamoshChamoshvnd ChamoshChamoshvnd (@ChamoshChamoshvnd) on Pinned comment
Drift
By Charles Rafferty

Long ago, the old friends stopped calling. I used to think they had
lost my number. Now I forgive them their children and their jobs,
their wives and their divorces, their cancer and their lawns, the fifteen
minutes they allow themselves at the piano every night. I am able to go
on without them—a kind of orphan from the life I used to live. This is
what I’m thinking as I get in the car to take my daughter to her voice
lesson. The ride is a quiet one. She is getting older and has learned to
keep things to herself. When we arrive at the lesson, she makes it clear,
without saying so, that I should wait outside. So I stay in the car—doing
the bills, doing the things I hate—as her high notes drift through the
studio door, the glass of the car window, the air that will be between us
now from here until the end.

“Drift” by Charles Rafferty from The Smoke of Horses.

writersalmanac.org/episodes/20170904/

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ChamoshChamoshvnd ChamoshChamoshvnd (@ChamoshChamoshvnd) on Pinned comment
Nine-Eleven
by Charlotte Parsons

You passed me on the street
I rode the subway with you
You lived down the hall from me
I admired your dog in the park one morning
We waited in line for a concert
I ate with you in the cafes
You stood next to me at the bar
We huddled under an awning during a downpour
We dashed across the street to beat the light
I bumped into you coming round the corner
You stepped on my foot
I held the door for you
You helped me up when I slipped on the ice
I grabbed the last Sunday Times
You stole my cab
We waited forever at the bus stop
We sweated in steamy August
We hunched our shoulders against the sleet
We laughed at the movies
We groaned after the election
We sang in church
Tonight I lit a candle for you
All of you

“Nine-Eleven” by Charlotte Parsons.


writersalmanac.org/episodes/20170911/?utm_campaign=Writers+Almanac&utm_medium=email&utm_source=sfmc_&utm_content=


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