Poetry at Sangam

SangamHouse

 










My Hands Tremble Yet Again— A Soliloquy by Sheida Mohamadi

Translated from Persian by Sholeh Wolpé
 
 
When
the sky
pulls its coat tight over its head, and
the rain keeps nagging, and
my pink doll
misses the sun…
I become weary of you.
 
When
the teacup on the table
is a crow starring at me
my throat begins to taste like caw caw.
Black-beaked clock
                                 until dawn
black-beaked clock
                                 till dawn
             Clock…
The telephone goes mad with silence,
and I, go blue with you.
 
Aromas quit the house.
Happiness ditches me.
And the dirty laundry
keep spinning, spinning…
My mother’s silver spoons drift and dash in the kitchen. Un-ironed shirts
lounge over cactus trees. I put on your dirty socks and waltz
with your black striped pants. The house spins around this washing
machine, round my head. Dirty dishes play games on the kitchen floor.
I yell at the flower pots and blow out the candles. Happy birthday to me!
I bang on the typewriter and am drenched in your hands’ dried up sweat.
I change the TV channel to coax a yawn into my swollen lids.
I hate the pink nail polish on the piano.
 
Black-beaked clock
                        until dawn
Back-beaked clock
                        till dawn
          clock…..
Now
the sycamore’s yellow bluffs
and highway 118 …
don’t pass me by.
 
Strawberries,
like your expressions of love,
make me want to barf.
This month,
that month,
I come to hate you.
I hate you.
 
 
 
(From The Forbidden, Poems from Iran and Its Exiles, Edited by Sholeh Wolpé, Michigan State University Press, 2012)