poetry translation project
Manifesto
In the fast-paced growth of technology, where the advancement of social media outstrips the pace of human brain cell growth, and with AI taking over human intelligence in writing and poetry, I find myself questioning where I can be myself—a poet not reliant on machines, but one whose work bears the touch of my soul, shaped by both pain and ecstasy.
I’m not trying to be a Don Quixote, riding a horse and imagining myself as a knight battling an imaginary enemy (namely AI). Instead, I’m starting this experimental project where I scan my handwritten poems, leaving them unedited and filled with human mistakes, and then ask AI to translate them into English. This experiment aims to observe the distinction between the translation and the original. As Walter Benjamin once said, “Translation is a form,” suggesting that the act of translating transforms the text in unique ways. Similarly, Abbas Kiarostami’s film “Certified Copy” explores the idea that a copy can hold the same value as the original, challenging our perceptions of authenticity.
Now, is the translation a form, or is it as valuable as the original? Does an AI-generated translation of a poem bear the same authenticity as the original? The point about an artist’s manifesto is that it does not answer questions but embraces experimentation. Just like the life of the artist herself, her work is experimental, not purely fundamental.
Cry
this poem is translated from Farsi by openAi
in the dance of my trembling hands,
Your body’s movement fades,
Black and white settling on the snow.
Gray in the moments without you,
With you, and in the isolation of an unfulfilled laughter.
I am a woman with masculine hands.
My chest is womanly and no longer
A shield for preserving humanity.
My lips are pink and unscarred,
But my hair,
A relic of that time,
On the axis of my directionless head.
I harvested the feminine growths,
Entrusting the season of fertility to others.
How often do your doll-like eyes
Lead the day?
Do you call out to another?
The unconfined bustle of this city,
The lust at 4 AM,
The weary cats of the drill ground!
When will you go to the gallows?
I’ve sewn my white dress,
I am the bride of that moment you didn’t cry out,
The moment your red tongue hoisted your blackened head on the gallows.
I wish the guardians of this mourning me would not show mercy,
Pull the wooden chair from under,
And fix your intense gaze until the end of memory,
On me,
The unquestionable bride of your dreams.
Blackness in the solitude of my eyes,
The dance of rain and snow passes,
I faint,
Open my eyes, intoxicated,
You are not on the gallows.
You are not…
You release my bound tongue,
To my forgotten longings.
This masculine nature of yours
Travels to Vanak Square and
Is buried in the garbage of the revolution.
How many times have you circled this path and me?
Now that your roots have withered in that framed memory,
Speak…
I am a servant of this moment.
Listening to the final songs of this Vanak-Revolution route,
Mischief surpasses the road signs,
Here, one side leads to freedom,
And the other to the Islamic Republic.
I step this way,
Where my home is,
Where you paved the road to freedom,
With a few Lur workers?
Or a fallen woman?
Go to the gallows,
Go without a cry,
I become the essence of these men.
You, the residue of your masculinity, be my groom.
Pull the sacred chair of memory from underfoot,
Disappear from memory…
poem is black 