M in an associate professor of Literature, said that “all poetry is about the is fun to be in love and sad to be dead. ” There he told all classes, of course, and surely he had twisted it somebody well, but play the role! It was fun. True, it was not, however: the poetry denies ever the first stage of that affidavit.
Love is my greatest sorrow.
Love is just sorrow, and I look down at my cupped
hands holding the cold tap water just fine,
wash my face once once (…) “
this is stated in Khashayar Naderehvandis poetry collection” Everything sparkles and nothing ends “. Oh my God, not again! That, I think, because I for the moment happens to be saturated in the literature in which sorrow flows out of book pages in a relentless black ink stream. The title is so beautiful, as well as promising hopeful? But: “I have no feelings anymore. / All I want to know is the same thing that everyone else wants to know. / How will it end? “Writes Naderehvandi. Fun to be in love? Yeah, right.
No, time to gas up. Naderehvandi are no young Werther, after all. This his third book – the debut collection of poems “If the moon at all synthesis” (2011) and her first novel, “Resting in your tireless hands” (2013) – in three parts, certainly can in a way be said about it is sad to be in love and boring to be dead. However, there is still no question of a classic “unlucky in love” -diktning.
The love, loss and agony pounding in Khashayar Naderehvandis poetry involves not only the romantic twosomeness, first. Just as the central, if not more important, is the love that goes in the vertical direction; between parent and child. Like when dictated self in the middle part alternately exclaims, “I have two children, it hit me like a hammer” and “I know that I can not die until my mother dies.” In the midst of despair and horror live it; duty towards those who have gone before, and those who come after.
The three poems suites and their diktjag, are at different places and in different times, I read in publishing the text. There is nothing really noticeable, except in the sense that where one appears to be located in a war zone is the second embedded in a secure peace darkness. Most, however, these diktjag cut out of time and space, as well as cut off from the world and its connection with it. Poetry as an outstretched hand; it grasps for something, something to hold in. (Did I really think we should pick ourselves up? I take it back.)
Linguistically separates the three parties themselves to the more. The first part is an ascetic language – barely but the image rich – that could bring to mind the broken Swedish, but I think more on the picture book of poetry:
Wish could show them expanses where we stay
the sky span and
we bury the dead
never dead. “
Suite number two is more filling, more like grownups, while the third part is designed as standard, contemporary poetry. It is also this third part, which mainly addressed to a you who seem to be self child, I think most about. Perhaps because the self in the child sees what can possibly chase the past on the run, a new opportunity. The collection’s last poem reflects its – the one I just quoted – first:
where we might live
a sky that stretches
of the earth
where we buried
“Maybe,” yes. There is light, or at least a hope of light. However, the title is still a kind of false consolation (Naderehvandi seems to work so, try only to “Napping in your tireless hands”; you want to go to there directly, though no hands really are tireless), or a spell. Basically, it all ends here. Then there is just the glitter, and it is evoked almost as a mantra when belief in the permanence brutally mutilated:
Everything sparkles and nothing ends.
We let Stig Dagerman answer Khashayar Naderehvandi: “Sure it’s a lie, it may well happen. I’m just saying we can pretend so. “