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نویسنده :Farbod Azsan
تاریخ:شنبه 2 بهمن 1395-12:18 ق.ظ

اشعار من #7: A Poem On the Uselessness of Poems


A Poem on the Uselessness of Poems
(A Parody/Pastiche of Pope’s “An Essay on Criticism”)

“If Galileo had said in verse that the world moved, the inquisition might have let him alone.” 
Thomas Hardy

I steal Prometo’s flame, in form of phrase,
To faze with fire, what made fire blaze.
I don’t invoke the muse; I know she knows
We are to blame for nonsense we compose.
Our story starts when man invented speech,
To organize his mind, to learn and teach.
He made up words to express his simple thoughts,
To entertain, impress or call the shots. 
In time, his simple life got mixed with cants, 
His rough, coarse shouting turned to tribal chants.
The tribes expanded and gave rise to cities, 
The people chose professions, formed committees.
Order, culture, intellect were prized.
In sooth, that’s how the folks were civilized.
From this event, arose a mighty chain
Of basic roles that most, still, remain:
The architect’s a geometric seer; 
From what he’s jotting down, titans appear.
The thinker spends long years to read, construe, 
In hope he write one sentence that is true. 
The scientist, with discourse clear and terse,  
Writes models that explain the universe.
The engineer invents; the doctor heals,
And the chef cooks us delicious meals. 
But then, the poets, like the phoenix rise,
To waste our time and fill our heads with lies.

For centuries, verse was heart of culture’s heat,
Till songs and lyrics made it obsolete. 
The poets who still readership demand,  
Are those who can’t find friends to form a band. 
‘Tis not a noble deed, and ill advised
To mock a thing by Nature satirized.
The throng of poets, once a mighty race,
Got marred in time and lost their former grace.
For once, Augustus sought what they could write,
And through their art, affirmed his sovereign might. 
They strode with pride in courts of kings and queens,
And generous patronage secured their means.  
‘Twas a virtue just to read their verse,
To copy, learn by heart, recite, rehearse.
Sometimes, like Bede, struck by Caedmon, awed
So much, their verse was deemed the voice of God.
But now, the poet is a creature poor, 
Neglected, sad, behind a closéd door, 
Indulged in weakness, wanting clear notion
With vague speech, exposing vague emotion,
With style so lame, and ideas so few
“I Press Enter,
So I’m
A Poet 
Or if his taste’s antique, he throws a show,
Repeating rhymes of thousand years ago. 
Some, every chance they get, promote their ditty;
Perchance a friend would read it out of pity.
Some send them to some journal no one sees
Except their staff and other wannabees 
Who hope to taste whate’er their ilk have brew,
To ape their style and publish something too. 
Some win awards by chance or strong rapport;
They think themselves neglected act no more;
Their name might float around till they are dead,
Forsooth, the volumes still remain unread.
But those who hate to see themselves ignored,
Or long to be, by public eye, adored,
They sell their soul for seconds of applause,
And turn themselves to servants of a cause.
They hunt for headlines, heed the talk of day
And set their song to every tune they play. 
An artist’s worst offense is lack of pride .
When art is sold, ‘tis Art Undignified. 
But brace yourselves, the worst is yet to come;
O god of expectations, roll your drum;
I sing of “Death of Art”, a shameful fad,
A ritual worse than those that Aztecs had;
The foulest con in age of artful scams,
I sing of competitive Poetry Slams,
Where left-wing youngsters, acting as a sage,
Discharge their empty rage upon the stage.
They rant, they curse, without a trace of craft,
They sing (they mewl!) of subjects trite and daft,
With grace of actors in a high-school play,
The audience claps to wash the cringe away. 

But ‘tis not fair to fight a verbal round
With rivals who are plastered on the ground.
Let’s back away to times of glories past
When sun of age on them no shadows cast. 
Let’s censure verses of the bundled best,
The Homers, Virgils, Wills and all the rest. 

A Critique of Homer and Epic Poetry

“Achilles’s wrath, to Greece, the direful spring
Of woes unnumbered, heavenly goddess, sing!” 
And thus begins the song of war of Troy
A sad affair, expressed in mood of joy.
The muse is asked to praise the cause of pain 
Of thousand Greeks, by sinful hands, slain.
This sight, to human sense, must seem so crude,
But Homer snares our sense in servitude; 
Where we should feel disgust, we feel delight,
For measly words make light of human plight. 
We praise Ulysses for his clever ploy 
To pass, with Trojan horse, the walls of Troy. 
But feel the weight: how precious Troy was trashed, 
How dames were ravished, infant skulls were smashed,
How trust and peace were breached by gross foul play, 
 How innocent blood was wildly shed that day.
Paint all this carnage with the eyes of brain,  
Hear every scream and soak up all the pain;
Up close, this sight would break the staunchest heart, 
In verse, who cares? “This trickster’s mighty smart!”
The Epics, by their lofty grand design,
Make heinous deeds and conducts seem benign. 
Their so called heroes: villains well-disguised,
Their crimes revered, their vices idolized.
The poets, though, through no fault of their own
Make angels out of devils by their tone. 
This tone, by nature, empathy-abound,
Makes Satan seem a saintly king uncrowned. 
How can Laertes’s son be cursed, despised,
When Odyssey makes him thoroughly humanized? 
Although by Roman troth to Trojan pride,
In Aenid, they the “cruel Ulysses” chide,
The hero they applauded in his place,
The “pious Aeneas”, is not a better case.
In Carthage, he was bound to Dido’s heart,
With a hint from gods, the bond was torn apart.
But ‘tis the habit of us earthly clods;
What we can’t know, relate to faith and gods.
He FLIED from there in manner most unkind,
What kind of hero leaves his love behind? 
By this unkindness, Dido pricked with scars,
Unleashed a curse that caused the Punic wars. 
So Dido’s suicide, as Romans thought, 
And thousand deaths, in wars they later fought, 
Were all the fruits of one man’s disregard,
“But he’s a hero,” quoth the Roman bard, 
And that he is and that he shall remain, 
For ethics die in place where poets reign. 
Why Vikings killed and pillaged, seeking fame? 
In hope that Skalds eternalize their name. 
How Germans turned vindictive, moral-blind? 
With Wagner’s music, Wessel’s words in mind.
How Persian men turned soft and aimless Rends? 
By message and the vibe that Hafez sends. 
Let’s not forget: how Iskander’s bloody quest
And empty dream, for sake of glory’s zest, 
Were caused by taking Homer as his guide,
In sooth, he slept with Iliad by his side.
The poets, though, are mimics in disguise,
They mirror what their cultures idolize;
In epics, they’re repeating myths, ‘tis true;
Retaining lies is what they really do. 
Our brain is rich with different retinues, 
Some occupied, some dormant in disuse;
The retinues, by culture, reinforced, 
Are strengthened and by people’s heart, endorsed. 
If poets choose one retinue to grow, 
That retinue will form the status quo.
And so, when Homer idolizes war, 
And treats Achilles as a superstar,
The warlike, brutish spirit he displays, 
In form of dream, in Grecian psyche, lays. 
Until, one day, in course of many years, 
A driven man, just like Achilles, appears;
They deem him a messiah sent from skies,
To realize the dream, the people rise, 
Not knowing they’re being duped and played like toys,  
They cheer their leader as he kills, destroys. 

Sometimes, the poets, heed the vice they bring;
And based on reason, say the moral thing. 
Thersites cries: “what cause we have to fight?
One man is wronged; should thousands feel the plight?”
He should be viewed as shepherd guiding sheep,
Instead he’s made a lame and ugly creep,
Who by Ulysses’ scepter’s brought to tears,
Whilst the stupid crowd scorns and jeers. 
The poet knows what righteousness ordained;  
But lets it pass, perversion’s, thus, maintained. 
Sometimes the poets’ deeds their words impeach;
They practice vice and virtue’s what they preach. 
Take Edmund Spenser, master of sublime,
With verse so pure, but life stained with crime. 
He penned the loftiest lines the world had seen, 
To venerate a vain and murderess queen.
He wrote a tract on how to subjugate 
By force and ethnocide, the Irish state. 
He turned the Essence of the artist’s dream,
To sycophantic, money-grubbing scheme. 
This happens oft, take Sadi or John Donne
Whose moral stance and credit’s made undone
By dirty lines their dirty minds produced,
Who knows what dirty acts their minds induced? 
In age of “reason”, poets were obsessed, 
With Classic writers, so they set a quest
(Which, in hindsight, seems like a senseless chore),
To mimic feats that they achieved before.
They censured poetasters of their time, 
Shared lightweight wisdom, wrote some witty lines.
They trapped their rage inside from all their tussles,
And fed on hatred, built satiric muscles;
Then used their verbal prowess to upset, 
Each Dick and Jack and John and Tom they met.
When might of polished pens can topple kings, 
Why waste your talent on such petty things? 

In poets’ realm, hypocrisy’s a must. 
So lofty claims they make, we cannot trust. 
Since their discourse is based on paradox, 
Abiding them unfolds Pandora’s Box,
From which, the absurd impulse of the brain,  
That consciousness oft rightfully restrain, 
Is set upon the mind, with ready claws 
To tear our thinking strengths to feeling flaws. 

Not all the time the poets aim to preach 
Or spray their lines with dull didactic speech;
In words of Sydney: poets cannot lie,
When nothing they affirm, and none deny. 
Our hermeneutic brain is oft inclined,
To filter Nature through subjective mind,
That’s what some poets struggle to achieve 
To imitate, with words, what they perceive.
Each object, concept, notion, law and norm
In earthly realm is shadow of its Form,
Which in perfection, in some abstract world, 
Dictates some traits, defectively, unfurled. 
This imperfection, filtered through our mind, 
Is more diminished from what Form designed. 
The poet molds perception into phrase 
And thus, reduces Form to fog and haze. 
So how can imitation be approved
When, from it, Nature’s Form’s thrice removed? 
With every technique and device he knows, 
The poet writes on beauty of the rose: 
Compares its redness to the lover’s lips 
Relates its withering to love’s eclipse.
Points how ironic is the rose’s thorn, 
How Venus posed like rose when she was born.
The readers, beauty of these lines, adore,
Thinking they treasure rose more than before, 
But ‘tis not rose they like, but lines themselves, 
No Nature’s found in books inside our shelves. 
True beauty of a rose just one man knows, 
The man who dared to touch and smell that rose. 

A Critique of William Shakespeare and Love Poetry

The men who by their pompous tender verse,
Invite a nation to a calm recline, 
In secret, on their psyche, set a curse; 
By Sophist means, all sins can seem divine.
The men who dote upon a younger male, 
With lustful eyes, a husband’s wife, regard, 
Once they get caught, are shunned or thrown to jail, 
But when they versify, they’re called a bard. 
‘Tis strange that people find that love is grand, 
By words of Coleridge, Wilmot, Byron, Keats;
How grand this love can be when it is manned
By junkies, rakes, seducers and the dtiz’? 
All love songs, both in free verse and in rhyme,
Are waste of paper and a waste of time. 

Of all the sonnets, lyrics and the like 
Composed from ancient times to modern age, 
Or songs and tunes performed behind the mike,
By voice of sirens, hot upon the stage, 
Of all the ways the “lovers” loved ones praise,
Comparing them to this and that and such, 
How do they love them? Let me count the ways:
Tens, hundreds, thousands; ahh… ‘tis too damn much!
Of all this noise, the laughter and the cries 
That lovers and their songs have left behind, 
What mankind gained except for shameless lies 
That made some callow youngsters deaf and blind?
Their pain is poets’ folly, for these liars 
In guise of art, adorn our base desires. 

O Elegy! Be my friend and charge my voice
As I repeat the words our lovers say:
“We art accursed with cruel unruly choice
‘Twixt love that hurts and love that fades away.
A fool we were to fill our faulty brain
With thoughts of love that poets promised man,
Of love that never dies, rewards our pain,
Shows us the light divine, like angels can.
We dared to love; to see this light through fire,
But we were shamed, ignored and ridiculed. 
And those of us who reached their heart’s desire,
Saw slender rays, but then, the fire cooled. 
What fancy craves should not be preached by pen;
What’s made for gods’ not fit for race of men.” 

Now that my vision’s ships have set their courses, 
Unlike a man I know, I cite my sources:

- Book 10 of “The Republic” by Plato 

- “Can Poetry Matter?” By Dana Gioia
- “Poets have always been immoral” by John Sutherland 
- “Thersites, the Iliad, and Not Knowing Your Place” by David Auerbach 
- “What Does Hafez Say?” By Ahmad Kasravi

- “The Defense of Poesy” By Philip Sydney 

- “The Language of Paradox” By Cleanth Brooks 

- The Idea of “Anxiety of Influence” By Harold Bloom

- “Dominant, Residual, Emergent” By Raymond Williams 

- Harold Bloom’s attack against Slam Poetry: 
“I can't bear these accounts I read in the Times and elsewhere of these poetry slams, in which various young men and women in various late-spots are declaiming rant and nonsense at each other. The whole thing is judged by an applause meter which is actually not there, but might as well be. This isn't even silly; it is the death of art.” 

- William Blake’s commentary on Paradise Lost: 
“The reason Milton wrote in fetters when he wrote of Angels and God, and at liberty when of Devils and Hell, is because he was a true Poet and of the Devil's party without knowing it.”

- Section 1, Chapter 1 of “Our Oriental Heritage” By Will Durant 

- “A Modest Proposal” By Jonathan Swift (As a model for a text that is made of a long unbroken “sustained irony”) 

- Philosophy of Stoicism

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نوع مطلب : اشعار من 
نویسنده :Farbod Azsan
تاریخ:یکشنبه 21 اردیبهشت 1393-09:47 ب.ظ

اشعار من #6: تصویری از افسردگی

به تـــازگــی یــخ زده در ســـرم حــــــس تـــازه‌ای                      عـــده‌ای دیدم مــشغول به دفن جــنازه‌ای

ســـــوگـــواران سـرازیـــر زِ هــر سـمت و ســــوی                     همچــو انـــسان نه اشــباحی بی رنگ و بوی

اگــــر این ماجــــرا پاره‌ای است از احـــــساس من                    به اســارت گــرفته چرا ماجـــــرا این جان من؟

صدایی در گوشم شنیدم که با من عهدی ببست                     گفــــت که این احساس تو عین واقعیت است

وقتــی جـماعــت کـردند ســـر جـــایشان جـلوس                   صدایی شنیــــدم به سان سرود صدها خروس

گویـــــی وجودم گـــوشی اسـت و نــدارم دهـــان                     ناله می‌کــند ناقوســی به مقـیاس کـهکـشان

صـــدا زنگ مــی‌زنــد در گــوشم از چـند روز قبل                     دیوانه‌وار می‌کوبد در سرم چون صدای طبل

منـــگ کــرد مــرا طـــغیان این صــدای شـــــدیـد                     آه! طـاقتم طـاق شد و هـوشــم از ســر پرید!

تابــوت از جا کـــنده شد و آن حـــاملین آزمـــــند                      با چــکـمه‌های سُربیٌشان بر روح من تاختند

زمـــین زیـــرم فرو ریخــــت و منطـــــقم زلـه شد                      نقطه‌ی فرودم ماری گزید و جهان بی‌پله شد

ســقـوط آزادم به ســــوی ورطـــه‌ای ناشـــــناس                        عقل سلـیم کـور کرد و پُر وجودم از هـــراس

روشــــن شـــــد حقیــقــتی که لرزاند جان و تنم                       ویــران و تنــــــها و تُـــهی آن جــنازه مَنَـــم

I felt a Funeral, in my Brain,
And Mourners to and fro
Kept treading–treading–till it seemed
That Sense was breaking through–

And when they all were seated,
A Service, like a Drum–
Kept beating–beating–till I thought
My Mind was going numb–

And then I heard them lift a Box
And creak across my Soul
With those same Boots of Lead, again,
Then Space–began to toll,

As all the Heavens were a Bell,
And Being, but an Ear,
And I, and Silence, some strange Race
Wrecked, solitary, here–

And then a Plank in Reason, broke,
And I dropped down, and down–
And hit a World, at every plunge,
And Finished knowing–then–

Emily Dickinson


توی دانشگاه یکی از کارای امتیازی درس "ترجمه ی متون ساده" این بود که این شعر امیلی دیکنسونو به فارسی برگردونیم. شعری که اون بالاست ترجمه ی من از این شعره که البته یه سری تفسیرات شخصی هم بهش اضافه شده.

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نوع مطلب : اشعار من 
نویسنده :Farbod Azsan
تاریخ:جمعه 16 اسفند 1392-04:57 ب.ظ

اشعار من #5: سادیستیک/Sadistic

نسخه‌ی فارسی:

قلب تو از سینه دَرَم، خون تو از سینه جَهَد      خون تو بر صورت من پاشَد و این کینه رَهَد

گوش تو از جـا بِکَـــنَم، بَـر دَر آن داد زنـــم      تا که دلت سوزد و پس گوش تو بر باد زنـم

خـنـجــر خود تیز کُنَم، مو به تَنَت مـور کــند     خــنجـر مـن دیده‌ی تو دَرشِـکَنَد، کــور کـــنـد

حَنجَره‌ات مــن بِدَرَم، خِـرخِـره‌ات من بِجَـــوَم     جـمجـمه‌ات دَرشِکَنم، خــنده کـنم شـاد شــوم

دَست تو من قطع کنم، چکش من همان شَوَد     میخ بر آن سَر بزنم، مغز تو چون عیان شود

بَر بَر آن خـیره شَوَم، دیده‌ی من شـیده شود     بـاز شــود، دیـده شـود، بلـکه پَـسَـندیده شـود

باز شــد و دیده شـد، نـیـک پَـسَــندیده شـد       صَـرف شـد و بَـلـع شـد، باقـی قَرَنـطـینه شـد

ناله و نفـریـن کنی، قاطِــر کیـن زیـن کـنی      نوبت من چون رِسَد، ضَجـه چو مسـکین کنی

گویی که من مُفــلِســم، چـاره نـدارم ز کار      چون که به آتـش کِشَمت، بانگ زنم خـنـده‌وار

مُفلِس و بیچـاره تویی ای هَدَف نفـرت من       چــاق کــند خـفـت تو لــذت من فـطـرت مـــن

آتـش خَشمـم ببین، حس کن و در آن بسـوز     لایق مَرگی بِمیــــر! گر نَرِسَد شــب بــه روز

نسخه‌ی انگلیسی:

I rip your heart out, you blood jumps out of your chest
Your blood spatters all over my face, what a joy! I feel my best

I cut off your ears with my bare hands, I holler inside them
Weep when I throw them in the wind, may no one ever find them

I blind you with my brandish steel, it's frightening, just like Fenrir's claw
Frightened you are you poor devil! I was the last thing you ever saw! c

I tear your neck apart with my teeth, I chew all the chunks I get
I press your skull hard till it cracks, you don't feel too good about it I bet

I cut off your arm, it feels like a fine hammer when I hold it in my hand
I bring it down on the spike I hold on your head, your skull crushes and

Your brain appears in that bloody mess, I get delighted at its sight
Let us excavate this beauty, let us bring its secrets to light

The secrets were brought to light indeed, I lick my lips, I savor, I feed
I chew some, swallow, save the rest, you have satisfied a man in need

You scream your curses, you ride the hound of hatred for a while, that's fine
When it's my turn, you rue the moment your path was crossed with mine

You say that I'm pathetic, that I can't be helped for ever and ever after
As I set you on fire on a huge pyre, I exclaim loudly with a mortifying laughter:s

  You're the one who looks pathetic and helpless O' target of my abhorrence
Your misery is my amusement, that's the reason behind all this violence

Now the fire that is my rage will burn you whole, wish you could see, it's quite a sight
Serves your right to die you waste of human flesh, or a day shall never become this night

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نوع مطلب : اشعار من 
نویسنده :Farbod Azsan
تاریخ:شنبه 30 آذر 1392-04:46 ب.ظ

اشعار من #4: سفر عشق

ای یــار دیــریــن من تیــز تــو از جا بِپَر        ای مــاه ســیمیـــن من پــوش طَــلا پا به سر
توشه‌ات از جا بِکن صبر همی قاتل است        خاطره فریاد زن! شَرم و سکون باطل است
گــیـتی سـوتـه‌دِلان جا و مکان خوش مباد        وقت فرار است از آن باد شـویم مَست و شاد
ما که به هم می‌رسیم هَستی ما در هواست       رام وَزیم چون نسیم، مَقصَد ما در صباست             
باد صـبـا خانه اســت خانه‌‌‌ی مــا عـاشقان        روز و شـب سی و شصت در طَلَبش کاشفان
ای مَــلِــک مَثــنَـوی راس مـدادت بخیــس        بازگــشا دَفــتَری، قِــصـه‌ی عِــشقــم نــویس


سوته دلان: دل سوختگان
مَلِک: پادشاه
مَلِک مثنوی: مولوی

این شعر با دوتا شعر قبلی یعنی خیال خام و حسن وصال در ارتباطه. این سه تا به ترتیب نماینده ی سه مرجله ی عشقن؛ یعنی قبل از وصال، هنگام وصال و بعد از وصال.

ضمناً این جزو معدود (یا شاید هم اولین، چون نمونه ی مشابهی سراغ ندارم) مثنوی هایی هست که هر بیتش دوتا قافیه داره.

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نوع مطلب : اشعار من 
نویسنده :Farbod Azsan
تاریخ:دوشنبه 31 تیر 1392-03:29 ق.ظ

اشعار من #3: حُسن وصال

کهنـه‌ی ما تازه شود، مشـکل ما ساده شود          مُژده دهــم عالــمیان، آب جـهان باده شود

مِحنـَـت ما بزم شود، نقــص نفس نظم شود       لُقمــه‌ی غـم بر سَر دل، نیک رود، هضم شود

شور و شعف در سَر ما، شهد و شکر آب دهان        باغ بَرین بَســتَر ما، جشــن و خوشی ردٌ زمان

نور رسد از شــب تار، بــاز شود هر قَفَـسی       چون مِــی صــد‌ ساله مرا مَست کند هر نفسی

ذکر تو در حافظه‌ام غنچه‌‌ی گل در چمن  است       هستی من روز و شب از بهر وجودت سَـمَن است        

این همه نعمت که به من عرضه شده سهل نبود      درد فراق حادثه است، حُســن وصـال فسخ نمود


هستی من روز و شب از بهر وجودت سمن است: وجود داشتن تو به من انرژی می ده.

معنی بیت آخر: موهبت های نام برده شده به راحتی به دست نیومدن و بابت رسیدن بهشون درد فراق تحمل کردم. درد فراق مصیبت بزرگ و دردناکیه، ولی وقتی به مراد دلت برسی، همه ی اون دردا و سختیا یادت می ره.

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نوع مطلب : اشعار من 
نویسنده :Farbod Azsan
تاریخ:دوشنبه 5 فروردین 1392-01:05 ق.ظ

اشعار من #2: خیال خام

ای که فراقــــت دل من چون سگ وحشی بدرد           شوق نفـــــس در طلـــــبت پر ضــرر و درد شود

ای نظرت ایـــــــزد من، ای نظــرم عابـــــــد تو           بر رخ من کــــن نظـــری گر نه که آن زرد شود

ارزش زر، قدرت شر، مظهر گل، نظــــم جهان           قَدر تو در فکـــر من است بی تو تنش گَرد شود

نزد تو این عقل کبیر، طفل صغیر است و همین          مهـــــر تو بر من برسد، رشــد کند، مــــرد شود 

عشق تو چون رود روان سیرت من پاک نمود          ســـیرت بی عـــشق بســی خُـرد شود، خَـرد شود

روی رُخَت زلــزلــه ها بر دل من عرضـــه کند           کس که بر آن چپ نگـــرد، در نظـــرم طرد شود

جمــــله ی این جمـع همه، جمع سراسر نظرم          چون تو به من عرضه شوی، گیتی من فرد شود

ننــــگ بر آن روز ســفر، روز فـراق از بر تو          شـــعله ی این شـــمع همی روز سـفر سرد شود


تنش گرد شود: وجودش ضعیف می شود (ضمیر ش قوه ی تفکر هست) 

خَرد: گِل سیاه (استعاره از پستی) 

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نوع مطلب : اشعار من 
نویسنده :Farbod Azsan
تاریخ:چهارشنبه 9 اسفند 1391-11:43 ب.ظ

اشعار من #1: جوهر جاودان نویس

خنده بکن هلهله کن حزن مبین اشــک نـــریز         ایــن غـــم دل زخــم زند مرهمش این است عزیز

دســـت بــزن پـــای بــکوب تا نرسد وقت کفن          دل که رود جسم بمرد بر شـــعفش دست نــزن

چشم بــپوش از هـمه کس از کس ناکس که زند        بر دُمَــل دل نمـــکی چــرخ خـــود آن را بـــدرد

 مــرگ خود از راه رســد تا که شود عمر بخر         در طــلب نـــاز نـــفس جفت زنی دست به ســـر

غصه ی تو قصه ای از مجمع این حادثه است          رنج مــبین عـظم مکن راه و روش دست ببست

بگذرد این بگذرد آن شادی و غم هر دو چو پر        با ســگ غم نــیک بســاز حــظ چـو الماس ببر

راز قفــس تاج گــلیست بر ســر این بســتر تو        سخت نگیر آن بر سر آن بسته شود دفتــر تـــو

دفتر تو ترکه ی تک یا که یکی سرو ســـترگ         با قلمی پر کــندش جــوهـــر برجــسته بــــزرگ

جوهری جاودان نویس کز طلبش سهم تو داد         جوهـــر جـــاودان نــویس زیـــنت دفــتر تو باد 


دُمَل: زخم

عظم مکن: بزرگش نکن؛ زیاد جدی نگیر

راز قفس تاج گلیست بر سر این بستر تو: دلیل وجود ما توی این دنیای فانی اینه که بتونیم از نعمت استفاده از فکر و عقلمون بهره مند بشیم.

دفتر: استعاره از زندگی

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نوع مطلب : اشعار من