مژده موذنی: شاعر و نویسنده

 

Mindless heart, Heartless mind and other poems

Moazeni, Mozhdeh

پس از سبک شعر سرایی کاملا فنی و زمان گیر دوره کلاسیک، عوامل شعر سرایی در دوره رمانتیک از منطق و ساختار کاملا جا افتاده تبدیل شد به احساسات و قلیان آن که شاعر بعدا هنگام سرودن شعر آن احساسات را به یاد آورده و آنی شعری می سراید.

هر شاعری سبک شعر سرایی خود را دارد و هر سبک شعر جایگاه خود را دارد و نمی توان برای یک سبک شعر برتری قائل شد، مگر بر اساس ذائقه شخصی.

در سرودن این اشعار این دفتر، من در لحظه ای احساسات خود را به صورت جمله و یا کلمه ای حس می کردم و در خلوت خود، آن را به شعری بسط می دادم، چنان که گویا خود من حذف و تنها شعر در من می ماند و اگر او را نمی نوشتم، در او غرق می شدم. می توان گفت این احساسات به صورت موجودی زنده، مرا وادار به ساختن پیکری از جنس شعر می کرد تا از من کنده شود و مستقل از من، موجودیت خود را بیابد.

 

‏سرشناسه

:

موذنی، مژده، ‏‫۱۳۷۸‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏‏-
Moazeni, Mozhdeh

‏عنوان و نام پديدآور

:

‏‫Mindless heart, Heartless mind and other poems (Book( ‏‫/ Mozhdeh Moazeni.

‏مشخصات نشر

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تهران: گنجور‏‫، ۱۴۰۱‏‫= ۲۰۲۲م.

‏مشخصات ظاهری

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‏‫۳۶ ص.‏‫؛ ۵/۱۴ × ۵/۲۱ س‌م.

‏شابک

:

‏‫978-622-302-320-0

‏وضعیت فهرست نویسی

:

فیپا

‏يادداشت

:

زبان: انگلیسی.

‏آوانویسی عنوان

:

مایندلس …

‏موضوع

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شعر انگلیسی — قرن ‏‫۲۱م.‏

‏موضوع

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English poetry — 21st century

‏رده بندی کنگره

:

‏‫ ‏‫PR ۱۴۰۱

‏رده بندی دیویی

:

‏‫۸۲۱/۹۲‏‫/م۸۳۱م ۱۴۰۱

‏شماره کتابشناسی ملی

:

۹۰۷۸۰۷۸

مژده موذنی: شاعر و نویسنده

Preface

The first poem I ever wrote was when I was fourteen years old. Ever since then, I have written poetry in a span of ten years, with often months, sometimes years in between each poem. Poetry always comes to me at times when I need it the most. It seems to be my mind’s way of bleeding out poison and it comes from the deepest regions of my consciousness.

When it comes, it feels as though it consumes my thought and compels me to write it; otherwise it will not leave me in peace. I imagine a large, divine hand which possesses me and uses me as a pen to write its own poetry. Once it does a small portion of the pain and madness is transferred into the poem. Perhaps the hand is divine assistance, helping me exorcise my demons and trap them in a container which takes the form of a poem.

That is why I feel as though my poems are perhaps not my creation, but a living and breathing creature to which I merely gave a tangible body.

If one reads these poems and finds a shadow of their own demons within them, or if they are disturbed by the darkness within them, I ask for them to believe in the divine intervention that helped me concretize them, and perhaps find comfort.

 

The Old Story of Darkness

 

The old story of darkness

And his love for the sun

In his dark and lonely days

He was fine

Or so they say

The sun was curious

She meddled to the corners

She saw darkness

Or so they say

Darkness was fascinated

By the beauty of the light

He knew the dangers

But still, he didn’t look away

The sun reached out

Wanting to see better

She took his hand

Smiled her light out

Or so they say

He took her hand

Took her light in

Touched by the light,

He slowly faded

Soon, the night fell down

The sun left darkness

He was alone again

Touched by the light

He couldn’t wait

To see her once more

But when the sun came back

He faded away

Or so they say

Every day darkness waits

For a moment glimpse at light

But every day

He fades away

Touched by sunlight

In the dark and lonely hours

Darkness was darker than ever

For he had seen the light

But could never have her

The wait and hope

Slowly made him darker

In his time of loneliness

Darkness wasn’t fine any longer

Or so they say.

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