Abutorab Naficy 1914-2007
Red earmuffs
I saw my red earmuffs again.
I was sitting on Big Blue Bus
With my son Azad
Coming back home from school.
It was raining outside
And the wind shook palm trees.
He opened his folder
And showed his homework:
"Three scarfs
Two hats
Four gloves
And one ear...whatever it is."
An old man in the front seat
Turned back his head and said: "earmuffs."
My son had to color them
And count each group separately.
The bus was filled with words
And the windows grew foggy.
When I lived in Isfahan
My father gave me a pair of earmuffs
As a souvenir from his trip to America.
I was in the “turret” room
Watching the snow by the window.
He opened his eyes wide
And covered his ears with two hands
Howling like a wolf in the snow.
The earmuffs were soft and cozy
Red on the outside and white inside
With a green headpiece in between.
Friday mornings, we went to Mount Sofa.
The snow was everywhere.
Father put on a sheepskin Caucasian cap
And I wore my red earmuffs.
We passed big bolders
And sat by a trickling spring
To have our breakfast.
Father brought red Istanbul potatoes
And Dr. Khalili, sour cherry jam.
After breakfast, Mr. Varzandeh wiped his mouth
With his worn-out tie.
We leaned back against a bolder
To watch the city skyline
While Father smoked his once-a-week cigarette.
At night when Azad was asleep
I opened his folder.
He had colored the earmuffs red,
All red.
Majid Naficy
January 6, 1994
گوشبندهای سرخ
گوشبندهای سرخم را دوباره دیدم.
در اتوبوس سانتا مونیکا نشسته بودم
همراه با پسرم آزاد
هنگام بازگشت از مدرسه به خانه.
در بیرون, باران میآمد
و باد سر نخلها را میجنباند.
او پوشهاش را باز کرد
و مشق شبش را نشان داد:
"سه شال گردن, دو کلاه
چار دستکش و یک گوش... هر چه اسمش هست."
پیرمردی از صندلی جلو
سرش را به عقب برگرداند و گفت: "گوشبند."
آزاد باید آنها را رنگ میکرد
و هر گروه را جداگانه میشمرد.
اتوبوس آکنده از حرف بود
و شیشهها را بخار میپوشاند.
وقتی اصفهان زندگی میکردم
پدر جفتی گوشبند به من داد
رهآوردی از سفرش به آمریکا.
من از پنجرهی اتاقبرجی"
ریزش برف را تماشا میکردم.
او چشمهایش را گرد کرد
گوشهایش را با دو دست پوشاند
و چون گرگی در برف زوزه کشید.
گوشبندها گرم و نرم بودند
سرخرو و سفیدتو
و سربندی سبز
دو نیمهشان را بهم پیوند میداد.
صبحهای جمعه به کوه صفه میرفتیم
برف همه جا را میپوشاند
پدر پاپاخ قفقازی به سر میگذاشت
و من گوشبندهای سرخم را میبستم.
از میان خرسنگها میگذشتیم
و در کنار آب خاجیک مینشستیم
تا ناشتایی کنیم.
پدر سیبزمینی اسلامبولی میآورد
و دکتر خلیلی, مربای آلبالو.
پس از صبحانه, آقای ورزنده
دهانش را با کراوات کهنهاش پاک میکرد.
ما پشت به خرسنگی مینشستیم
تا شهر را از دور تماشا کنیم
و پدر تنها سیگار هفتهاش را میکشید.
شب که آزاد خوابید
پوشهاش را باز کردم:
گوشبندها را
سرخِ سرخ کرده بود.
مجید نفیسی
ششم ژانویه ۱۹۹۴
from Alice Pero:
This is a wonderful poem. Thanks!
from Naomi Shihab Nye:
It is exquisite, as ever. So gentle, so poignant, so luminous. You have a way with words which creates such potent scenes and transfigures time. Thank you, Majid. I have shared it.
from Lisa:
"BEAUTIFUL AND RICH! Happy Father's Day!"
from Lillian Boraks Nemetz:
Dear Majid
Amazing!
Your poem brought me back my father
Whom I have missed for years.
His poem about lilies of the valley
like your red earmuffs is a reminder
Of how those we love live in us forever.
Thank you for your gift on Father’s Day
One of my loneliest days of the year but one of beautiful memories.
Your friend
Lillian
from Hugh:
Thanks, Majid. Very poignant. Happy Father’s Day.
from Shayda:
Beautiful Majid jan.
Happy father's day!
from Katayoon Zandvakili:
So beautiful. Thank you so much for sharing. And Happy Father's Day, Mr. Naficy!
Warmest regards
Nayereh Tohidi:
Dear Majid,
Your poem on Father’s Day touched my heart!
I wrote a comment on your blog and tried to submit it but it did not go through.
I am not sure how to submit comments.
Anyway, thanks and keep up with your good work.
Your gentle, humanitarian and critical voice is precious.
from the Serbian Poet Snow White:
Dear Majid,
Nobody commented the photograph. It is a poem itself. I was touched by it. Such nice face and talkfull one. You are lucky to have it and I am happy you have shared it with everyone.
Warm regards,
Snežana
P.S. I am not sure everybody could have reached the deepness of the photo, but I am thankfull that I could see what I saw and the way the scene affected my sencere emotions. We do not have to be the members of the same nation to understand each other and there is not necessary to experience some movement to catch the moment. One can percive what the other is not capable.
from Lillian Boraks Nemetz:
Dear Majid here is my father’s poem I had translated from the Polish.
Lillies of the Valley
Lilies of the Valley, fragrant bells
Infant faces on lithe stems
Sisterly souls, golden sunbeams
You strain your arms
Towards your absent parents
Flutter white bells
Ring wistful and tender
While the wind bends your heads
And clouds hide the sun
But wait! When the wind dies
And the sun awakens
I will gather you into a bouquet
Once more and hold you close
To my heart,
Papa
Written on Christmas Day , 1944
Hiding in a barn from the Nazis
In a Polish village while his two daughters were in hiding elsewhere
Separated from each other.