Exile Diary (I956-I967) - Hasan Alizadeh

Perhaps the homeland was this:

A far lonely village,

in an empty window frame,

a dried narrow brook & the naked aspen,

& a dusty rooster

with an oblique comb,

a bucket and a few peasants,

a broken blue tile,

on the stones round the dark we-ll’s mouth.

Above

& in the room

a bed with a sheet spread

— clean —

and a folded chequered blanket,

a table, 2| pen & the ink bottle which was dry,

& a table lamp

turned off,

and in the drawer [called ldiizeh.)

a white notebook, white on white;

only

at the top of the first page

as if from time immemorial

in pale ink

blue

in distinct letters & the inscription:

Daily Memories.

Each time

he woke up

in that

rustic room

but

not to the trickling of the oil stove

or to the rattling windows

at exactly five to seven am.

It was exactly five to seven

when he turned on the radio —

lt was a single vacuum tube radio,

it was a tiny rotating light

that swelled bit by bit,

eyelids opened and through the lids

an eye blossomed green, anxious

& the eyelids wouldn’t blink

& the eye, the green eye was speaking

over the deep, in the morning, the morning of the first day,

at exactly five to seven.

He washed his face,

he trembled —

at the windows in the same hall,

he had dreamed, snow was falling —

The new year is so near.

A well-toa sted piece of bread

with tea;

The cold season returned

and the radio talking to itself.

A shadow, green,

quivered on the window panes

He sighed.

The clock stopped

at exactly five to seven.

---

Hasan Alizadeh (born 1947) Iran

Translated by Kayvan Tahmasebian & Rebecca Ruth Gould

Source: Arc Publications