Five Scenes from Icarus

Translated by Rebecca Ruth Gould and Kayvan Tahmasebian

I Justice

Each word

is sacrificed to a sword

that beams forth its light.

It rains.

Each word wears a white mask

and a self to be

submitted to the rain.

Each word is an angel

trembling from nakedness.

I have lifted the sword.

I rip the mask

off the word

and place it on my face.

I submit myself

to the rain

and before the scent of life ascends,

I take flight

with the angel’s two wings.

The rain has stopped.

The sun of language

draws near!

II Misty Dreams

The sky wanted

a misty sip from me

when the hood of the stroller filled with dew.

In the stroller, sleep seized you!

Through the vineyard, through the mist,

slumber and wine were distributed.

Cheers

in the mist!

Icarus

fell.

III Icaruses

The word with its movement—the word in flight—

has filled the space with the scent of flesh.

What is a poem but the movement of a word?

In the room the women

are talking of Icarus

while Icarus’s poem

is not composed.

Just one word:

the sun!

And if you return someday

from that burning pilgrimage,

I will fill the torches cup by cup with the sea

and you will know that its flame

is the bluest and coldest of flames.

IV In Reverse

                   to Mohsen Saba

1

The one who left will never return

will collapse.

At the cloud the narcissus stares at the cloud.

It rains. It does not rain.

Beneath the wet cloak,

when will I be moved to bring the firewood?

2

Oh, my friend! My friend!

Twice is enough.

The third is spring air.

When Icarus falls

from the green sky

the narcissus’s corolla fills with rainwater.

Look inside! A small Icarus

ascends.

V From Icarus and the Bondsman of the Deer¹

Just as the thunderstorm in the rainbow

mixes colors with colors,

I wish that poetry could mix the two legends together

so that we could stare at each other in the poison sunrise,

and the plants would recognize water in the poison sunrise.

(Water is our majestic selflessness and has taught them

the secret of life and us the secret of death.)

And the sun would fit into the grape.

(The grape is the Holy Last Supper.)

Now that the flood of sun has taken the wing away,

the deer is helpless.

He falls.

Generous deer bestow nothing.

They watch and watch and watch.

Now that the sun slowly

moves west

on the hill, two fires have turned red.

The horizon is recognized in your compromise.

This horizon of bliss: the bondsman of water

concealed in wet firewood.

¹“Deer Bondsman” is a title for the eighth Shia Imam, Reza (whose name, meaning “bliss,” is referenced in the second to last line of this poem). According to legend, Imam Reza protected a deer from being killed by a hunter. He died after being poisoned by grapes. The two legends to which the poet refers are those of Imam Reza and Icarus.