When I wrote my very first poem, I was 11. We fled the town and had to remain in a dirty village for a while because of the terrible war. Once, I saw a group of Darwesh ( = a group of religious followers with different points of view in the religion) came to the village and practice their ceremony as if there was no war or refugees around. They had very long hair and carried swords or knives as a part of their ceremony.
As far as I remember, these Darwesh's job was to demonstrate horror in public. Stubbing each other with knife, beheading somebody or eating bulbs when the light was on ! Then they treated all the wounds as if the wounded has never been injured ! Basically to boast the power which they had from the Sheikh, the chief, therefore to show the power of the faith.
Then, I came up with the idea of teasing them in a poem. My father liked it and corrected all the mistakes and added a few lines. Still I have a very clear picture of the time he was trying hard to correct the poem and to find the appropriate vocabularies. He was as excited as I was. Later on, I was officially named as the poet of that comic poem. Afterwards, my father would introduce me to his guests and ask me to read the poem in front of them, at the parties, looking at me proudly.
Two or three years later when I was writing serious( and kiddy) poems, my father advised me to give up poetry and focus on my lessons at school, despite of the fact that he was a good poet in his early years. Then when he was a successful businessman, never tried to illuminate our future in the business. His dream was to send the nice characters and educated members to the society, as many parents wish to.
I couldn't be a poet- which I don't envy- but I could maintain my education - and I regret for not finishing my study.
In spite of many failures and disappointments my father had, he was a very confident, optimistic and charming. Yet, I think his death by the heart attack was a disaster. He wouldn't die because of his heart disease, his heart was supposed to be more stronger than it actually was.
Tonight I was thinking of what I have inherited from my dad ? Confidence ? Optimism ? Anything else ? ... Lets say Confidence !
When I do something so risky and so strange, I am impressed by feeling absolutely confident !!!
... and I have put my mind in a risky situation again... and I feel confident, same as ever .
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سلام هوشیار جان
وقتی به بخش تصحیح شعرتان توسط مرحوم ابوی رسیدم در دلم به ایشان آفرین گفتم چون فکر نمیکردم پدران آن نسل این گونه باشند - یادمه کلاس چهارم ابتدایی بودم و باید نقشه ایران رو میکشیدیم میبردیم نشان میدادیم - نمیدانم بالاخره کاغذ رو از کجا گیر آوردم ولی مداد نداشتم - ناچار بجای مداد از سوخته های چوب کبریت لابلای درز خشت های کف مغازه پدرم استفاده کردم - پدرم هم شاهد قضیه بودو حتی یادمه نه تنها برایم مداد نخرید بلکه از این ابداع من خوشش هم اومده بود.فردا نقشه رو بردم به معلم نشان دادم - نقشه من برای نصب به دیوار انتخاب شد بدون آنکه کسی متوجه شود با سوخته چوب کبریت رسم شده است- من هم روم نشد صداش رو دربیارم- شانس آورده بودم که کف مغزه موزاییک نبود و گرنه اون چوب کبریت ها هم گیرم نمی اومد و
راستش فرید عزیز! حالا که فکرش را می کنم، با آنهمه توجه که بهم می شد، باید آخرش یک پخی می شدم ! در مقایسه با خیلی از هم نسلان خودم در آن شهر های محروم و دور افتاده. اما می دانی که خیلی فاکتور های دیگر هست که بر زندگی انسان تاثیر می گذارد.
یادم می آید وقتی سالها پیش ( پیر شده ایم ...نه؟!) خاطره هایی از کودکیت تعریف می کردی متاثر می شدم و توانایی و اعتماد به نفست را ستایش می کردم.
اما خیلی عجیب است، باور نمی کنی اگر بگویم دو سه روز قبل خاطره ای را که به نقل از پدرت برایم گفته بودی یادم افتاد. نمی دانم چرا!؟ درباره یکی از همسرانش که بیماری رماتیسم داشت و او یک بار اقدام عجیبی برای درمانش کرده بود. اگر اشتباه نکرده باشم ! اگر فرصت کردی درباره اش ایمیل بزن.
ممنون که به وبلاگ سر زدی
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