Paris in Renault

Paris in Renault 

Author: Ali Abdolrezaei

Translation: Abol Froushan

 

Out of the blue,  past so many deaths we were born - mad

how would we know the mirror forgets whatever it sees

we believed the wind gets through the chink of  the wall

how would we know the wind stays behind a closed door

senselessly past so many deaths we are a graveyard across

we U turn only a hop away from our destination

we weave in and out of outdistancing one another

How many more margins does our distance stretch?

 

This damned hooha rising from which neighbourhood window

which damned ear does it corner in?

And revolves around which clock hand?

This very tomorrow which rained a remote smile on lips heads

in which station of the wind shall I stand to say Seven?

 

I'm such a weeping willow for all this withstanding the wind unswayed

that in the whereabouts of the hand on the clock

     worn-out by this coming and going of all the Sevens   I'm spent

what town calls out its travellers to return? Which road?

 

I swear in the name of the water that drips from our hand

I won't shrink from wanting you

you just write Death all over my letters   

I will live!

 

 

Mr! Hey Taxi! Tour of all Isfahan for a thousand!

I threw thirty hearts to the sea  to keep three arches for lovers on Khaju bridge

Madam! I'm not afraid of the police

I can raise havoc

and dream long pavement crowds of the main street

rioting in dreamy love making heaths

At times fear is a lecherous mayor

who parks his mistress

Sir! I can move from this house too

become the sidled dream of walls

and be no gypsy lover

I won't blame the moon for distance

this rain that has brought the sea to my side

is a saying that speaks

like a poem  or the youth I left behind on a bicycle

I won't blame the moon for distance

When there was no way through

you so short cut that Saturday it poured down from my calendar

There are only two paths ahead

I won't take the third

 

I am woebegone at the foot of the poem I am writing

Just say I love you and die

these days  star means the ultimate woman who's coming

 

The kite was only a lifelong captive in my hands

A man who with a kiss on a hand calls an old city

A man who walked on his weeping

slept in the dream of your eyes

I am far enough from the sea to be a heretic for you

sit in my eyes and pray at the bottom of the sea

these days star means the ultimate woman who comes

 

After her 'bird's a goner' poem

like an apple living on a tree side  I am wonder struck

and don't know that I means which?

 

Roads arrive from town to town

bridges from highway to parallel highway

why don't we arrive anywhere?

Still the mirror jails an unnamable

that does everyone's loneliness

Still everywhere there's a road   for me to traverse

no pedestrian is the last one alone

no pedestrian practised the man

no pedestrian ever asked hey Mr

and my spouse wept last night 

for the coffee house that died under water last night 

for the sea embracing the houses last night 

I saw the Sea of Chamkhalee in my notebook   and crossed it out

the poem is not like the poet

each night wanting a new bosom

you want to let me go?

You think I'll die of grief?

I'll go North              Never mind the girls who don't rhyme

 

- Ding!  Dong!

 

- Who is it?

 

- It's the Milkman.     O the Milkman!

 

Sorry! I have no child to get more milk

No name to peddle around town

For all the gauges gaping at I Know Not

when do we arrive anywhere?

There where we arrive may be not where you are

for one night that hasn't gone in my arms, stay with me

I'll be spending my days knocking around the margins

following out fallen in love - ever toward you

Even though I hear no wailing in this instrument

say a word and I'll become the song of the reed

I wish the sky had a heart to tear away from me

I wish it hinted at when we'll be feathered together

I'd not have picked from desire's bunch of grapes

and wouldn't have said this bottle shall be wine

I said hey,              bring back my furthest desire

what shall I do it didn't work out,  will I be yours? Hey?

I wanted to offer you so much heart

to hell it didn't work out, I'll fall in love with another

 

 

Not much time was left to the conversation of the cockerels

 

I said Right

 

I can't sleep again

 

I said Right

 

They must have gagged the cockerels

 

I said Right

 

I had to tell you   Good bye!

 

As I was saying right          she hung up

 

 

I'm standing next to the door

the architecture of your body is etched 

on the bed in the corner of the floor

I keep puffing  and staring at the hanger

trouser legs from behind whose stripes a bird flew

 

I wish I clipped its wings forever

 

Where are you carrying these days?

Whatever there was in the mirror, the pictures intimated

How can I find all sevens in the mirror?

How many more margins does our distance stretch?

How many more seconds   Ha?

 

You pounded the sea on the opposite wall so I sit and watch the extravagance of youth on my face?  Just two clock hands till dawn can I stay in the corner of the square, where are your windows?

 

Next to a man turning the pages of history I flew a glimpse to the skies and said how blue are your eyes!

But my biro was not always blue

only our faces see the mirror and through the chink of a wall  a woman

those days my thoughts strolled through the windows of the class

and paused so long on the tree opposite

that autumn  beckoned falling in the village

and breaking              kept calibrating the wind on my wings

 

I arrived late for a lifetime

like all the benches in the park

that were installed for the falling of leaves

I'm sick of all this

which road's pebble broke this window?

Who is the one over my hair who left?

They put a night on day and say

yesterday left, today passed away, what do you do tomorrow?

Sometimes I have died a thousand men

Sometimes I have torn God apart

I've lost you in your own very eyes

like the neon death of    MIRROR MAN of Armani Street 

                                      MIRROR MA  of A ma i  treet 

                MI ROR MA  o     ma     eet  

                MI  OR MA        ma       et 

                    I   OR  A       ma        t 

                I  O   A     ma         t 

                            I  O   A      m     

                   I                     

                                        zzz zapped out...                    

                                                                                                    

 

Water has brought a mirror to watch

the sound of my skin and the alleys 

that open out a window on my brow

Gossip dropped in on a sitting 

of the women of the alley whose doors had sunset

and gave autumn away to the branches  

simply to take you away from me

I have not trampled the yellow of all the leaves 

to ask your forgiveness

The pomegranate that was shelved on the branch 

never went hunting for suitors

they put a guitar in my hand and a rendez-vous for never

they strolled around in my eyes

snatched all pictures in the mirror

and never noticed this branch doesn't give a stop to the sky

 

Always the one who slips goes all the way to the bottom 

                                                                                    of the precipice, I know

Nevertheless what ever I see in the mirror, is still me

Take a handful of water and tell my face what secret it has to tell             

The pomegranate that is toothless?!

If it weren't for the trees, how would you see autumn?

If spring left, how would neighbourhood apples turn red?

I know the one who says 'I love you' has snatched all the apples

otherwise all these stones are the only excuse 

for the windows' broken smile

 

 

The sound that rushed through the reed has brought me here to say you! 

For you to come back from the most closed window

sit at my table 

and let that debauched flame which fired at the wing of the moth 

come to put a fire on the logs and the alley 

to be the haunting ground of so many cockerels 

so people see me falling asleep behind a door to say you!

A you who would say, behind every window 

there is at times a closed window, why close again?

Sometimes all the clock hands arrive

so you return 

and on the side of a street which dawns next to tomorrow 

be the green light of me so much if you  

if you come back  

I'll take that far holy city to my birthplace

'cause you are more beautiful than very

as grand as the dome of the mosque

you're just these carpet flowers and these eyes 

that flower on road sides

 

Strolling on the summer of Chamkhalee, 

your hair on my shoulder or is it raining?

If you come back I won't kill myself

If you stay I won't do that either

 

Every year, like the girls who come, she goes

I thought, just write - You...

                                 the rest is just the murmur of the rain

Sometimes when drop by drop it puts fingers on your shoulder 

it wants you to come back and take the sea that has fallen by the wayside

these very circles that reach each other on the water and hold hands

 

 

-Hello              that means you're a poet?

 

- If you take smaller than two steps, there is a house I have

 

 

The rain weeps berries in your garden

 

No one says yes twice!

 

Coolies run around to pick the next load and die empty

Our lives that are passing  are not past                          

if you walk       even death won't reach

Always the one who wants without permission

                                 loses without permission

So you alone watch whatever tears I bring

Then               write Death all over my letters

                                                     I shall live

 

 

Without a vase for a lifetime

I have poured a river out of the sea in my backyard 

I am bored with the sea surrounding me and the Caspian's plea, 

how can I return to Tehran, where I've left myself behind?

No longer will I go back to those days of Langerood 

- hot and humid climate suits death

I adore Tehran of Friday's parks, why should I return?

Fallen into the tea cup and the spoon's wake

my eyes keep swaying in and out of

you so stir together sugar, water and wine

they form an accent for all the fantasies I have for you

you're so cold and cruel you drink up the walls 

not knowing the mirror doesn't forget its glimpses

When I think of you, I let the window embrace me 

and wipe the moon with a cloth 

that sucks the dust off our pictures

I take no umbrella there, nor wear a hat 

the rain is just me who comes sobbing

            not wine but end to end water

I'm so brimming full my bottle's overflown

this falling over myself has crests like the sea

but I don't know  which hand's throw is upon you? - Me?

When will I be palled to pal around?

But my bent branch was not immune

from the thrown ravages of stone

The one who found a moth flown on fire 

is not me. You, the sun and me the earth 

lived like a lone moth on fire, even though wings 

paid in moths for my glowing desire, how can I 

put a guard at the door of the house I have not?

The red of which branch was it that drove me mad?

How can I travel the apple

through a town that inherited zilch?

Not a bubble      but a feather  

through so much wind              

that I have lost from a canary wing

I'm the dashed lines of a rain not inclined to fall out of your sight

I am gone from myself like the wave on a beach

As wave upon wave of the sea 

I am falling upon myself 

 

Sound Junkies

A Prodigal Son's Journey

by Guido Garayblas

The Grocer’s Son
(Le fils de l’épicier)

Directed by: Eric Guirado
Written by: Eric Guirado and Gilles Sacuto

Cast:
Nicolas Cazalé
Clotilde Hesme
Daniel Duval
Jeanne Goupil
Stephan Guerin Tillie





When I was asked by a colleague of mine if I would be interested in reviewing a French film, I immediately said, absolutely! Why not, I have always been fascinated with the French, from the food, to the country (though I have never been there, but one day I will), to the artists and most importantly the movies. That’s why I was very much excited in seeing the film “The Grocer’s Son” (Le fils de l’épicier). I did not really know what to expect. I read the synopsis and pretty much got the idea of what the film is all about, but not quite. I guess it’s not the same as watching the film itself.


The film is about Antoine (Nicolas Cazalé), a thirty year old guy who leaves his family and the town of Provence 10 years ago. All of sudden Antoine is at a crossroads when he finds out that his father is in the hospital and is very ill. Antoine’s parents have a mom-and-pop shop. His mother runs the store, which happens to be at their house, while his father drives the van full of groceries selling them to the residents nearby. Now that his father is sick, Antoine is asked by his mother if he can fill in and do his father’s job. Antoine is reluctant at first, he does not really want anything to do with his family, but as you would say it, everything fell into place, not quite in the beginning but it did, eventually.


What makes the film very interesting and worth watching is the way the characters develop throughout the movie from beginning to end. It’s funny because Antoine is at opposing ends with his father, one of the reasons he moved out 10 years ago. Yet when you see the movie, you’ll see a similarity between Antoine and his father (Daniel Duval). I guess its true when they say like poles repel and opposites attract. Antoine’s character starts off in the film as being a recluse man, does not have a lot of friends and most often than not, does not have a permanent job. Someone who doesn’t see the beauty in life. Someone who is sad, lonely and bitter. Yet when he moves back to be with his family, all of this changes. It’s as if his return has a deeper reason than just helping out his family temporarily but putting a closure to something that was unsettled, discovering the beauty of life and what it has to offer. The movie was able to convey to its audience the dynamics (or lack of it) of a family. From his brother Francoise (Stéphan Guérin-Tillié) whom the parents adored and thought of as being the successful one, yet in reality, deep inside he is living a lie. To a mother who is torn between the love she has for her children and the love she has for her husband. Lastly, one of the most important characters in the film is the character of Claire. Her role in the film is very crucial to the story mainly because of the role that she plays in Antoine’s life. She was basically the catalyst that broke Antoine out of his shell for him to realize that, indeed, life is good.


The Grocer’s Son opens on September 5, 2008 at the Embarcadero Center Cinema in San Francisco, CA, Shattuck Cinemas in Berkeley, CA and Lark Theater in Larkspur, CA.




For comments and suggestions e-mail: acinephilespointofview@gmail.com

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Gang of Souls

GANG OF SOULS: A GENERATION OF BEAT POETS
"GANG OF SOULS (1989) is Maria Beatty's engaging documentary exploring the insights and influences of the American Beat Poets. The film conveys their consciousness and sensibility through candid interviews with William Burroughs, Allen Ginsberg, Diane Di Prima, among others. Designed as a tribute to them and to their spirit of artistic freedom, Gang of Souls also weaves in additional commentary from contemporary musicians, poets and writers such as Marianne Faithfull, Richard Hell, Lydia Lunch and Henry Rollins. The film seeks to truly capture the magic of the Beat generation and it's continuing legacy. It brilliantly expands upon how the poets reached new levels of creativity and inspired unprecedented social change." This sixty minute documentary (Bleu) is due out March 18th.

SUGGESTED RETAIL DVD: $19.95

Face the Book: Guardian article

This was posted by Jeff Triano on Facebook.
Tom Hodgkinson The Guardian, Monday January 14 2008
+44 (0)20 7278 2332
"This article appeared in the Guardian on Monday January 14 2008 on p6 of the G2 comment & features section.
It was last updated at 09:36 on January 16 2008. The following correction was printed in the Guardian's Corrections and clarifications column, Wednesday January 16 2008.

"The US intelligence community's enthusiasm for hi-tech innovation after 9/11 and the creation of In-Q-Tel, its venture capital fund, in 1999 were anachronistically linked in the article below. Since 9/11 happened in 2001 it could not have led to the setting up of In-Q-Tel two years earlier.

"I despise Facebook. This enormously successful American business describes itself as "a social utility that connects you with the people around you". But hang on. Why on God's earth would I need a computer to connect with the people around me? Why should my relationships be mediated through the imagination of a bunch of supergeeks in California? What was wrong with the pub?
more. . .

DEERHOOF, FAUN FABLES

DEERHOOF AND THE LOVELY FAUN FABLES
GRACE PETALUMA'S PHOENIX THEATER
ON FEBRUARY 23RD AT 8PM.
TICKETS ARE A MERE TWELVE DOLLARS,
IN ADVANCE OR AT THE DOOR.

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