Saturday, July 19, 2003 MEHY AXAVAN-CALEC 1928 Born, Mashad 1951 The Organ, poems 1956 The Winter, poems 1959 The End of Sahnameh, poems 1966 From This Avecta, poems; The Hunt, a long verse 1969 The Autumn In Prison, The Lovely & The Purple, Omid's Best, all poems 1970 Collection of Articles, poetics From his prose: "1 am the slave of instant." "Every meaning that comes to a poet's mind seeks its own form, and automatically, it finds it." "Poetic dress includes symbols, allegories, and metaphors." "Thought and content supercede form and style." "Rhyme has no natural implication in poetry, it is only for ornamentation." "Meter, regardless of vowels and consonants, has shifts in space and time." "An artist is one of the most sensitive branches on the tree of humanity." "A human who is a poet in any society and at any time has responsibilities and obligations to that society and to that time." "When you are familiar with and are able to communicate with the near man, you will know the far one, too." "To flow and to be free are better than to be logical." "One cannot say his own words using another's language." "Gradually I noticed some of the social problems.” “The connotation of open expression leads to an unbalanced and complex language.” "If you have precise and delicate feelings, your diction will be precise." "Poetry is not, has not been and will not be everybody's." "The role of poetic language is great, moreover, it is the totality of the work.” “When the domain of poetry is wide, the range of words is wide, too." "The audience must be accounted for." "Be correct and precise [in language]." "A new aesthetic system has its difficulties." Axavan-cafec represents the combination of poet and scholar in a more striking degree than any other, with a thorough training in Arabic and antiquarian. Classical Poetry is his special field and a most astounding technical skill enabled him to reproduce in the New Poetry the complex classical diction and rhythm with their intricate harmony. He is a tempered objective observer who strongly leans toward nationalistic ideals- with all the homely virtues of his ancestry. His conservatism is more deliberate than it is instinctive. He uses the old forms with taste and discretion because they belong to the past not because they serve any definite function. He knows more about verse than to believe that the easiest verse is necessarily the best one. His mastery of word music stems from his early training in music (playing tar). His extensive use of propositions softens his poems and reduces the amount of information per line in his poems. Looking around for innocent forgotten and heroic subjects and falling under the archaic diction, he employs suitable language and form. But he is as passionate as he is honest. He neither understates from irony nor overstates from rhetoric. Every word is the right word in the proper place and yet the effect is never of artifice but always of spontaneity in itself. He is interested in public events of his own day as well as in the past. He pretends to be a sturdy commoner and always retains a certain affinity with the mass. Traditional meters assume new life in his poetry. In every one of his poems the rhythm is unmistakably personally his own. There is an epic narrative element in his poetry. It is not, on the whole born of his experiences but his studies. His feelings rapture; and tears are born of reflection. REFERENCES THE FLOWER The same color, the same face the same leaves, the same stem the same silent smile with many hidden secrets the same shame, the same charm the same white petal as dew, the dew as a falling tear the same appearance and look. Neither wilts nor withers- for the wilt of face is caused by the wither of heart. But there is no heart behind this face. If there are leaves and a stem, they are not the product of water and soil. View from afar. Display this sight and sit to observe. But the tale of perishable hope, your heart has- never tell. Do not smell. For there will be no fragrance from such a tale. Do not stretch out your hand. For there will be but colored paper in your hand, a few pieces. IN THE BAR I am in the bar. Like me many others are here. The wine is ready but I have not reached for it. I must kiss this barmaid tonight. Now I say that I am not in ecstasy and drunk. ** I am in the bar. Now there is no one else here. An in my glass there is no reddish wet. I am wounded and drunk; and the cop takes me. Is there no man, no he]p, no heart-seeking pal here LIKE A THIRSTY VESSEL... Filled with emptiness, the stream of moments is flowing. * Like a thirsty vessel sees water in a dream, and within the water, sees sand; I know friends and enemies. I love life; enemy of death. Lo, but to whom must I tell this?- I have a friend from whom I should take refuge in an enemy. ** The stream of moments flows. THE EXCUSE Yes, you are that which the heart desires. But, alos! It is a long time since that bloody pigeon, the searcher of the lost enchanted tower, has flown. LYRIC 2 Until she fills thousands of thicket's hives of her mind by sweet juice she sucks honey from every flower. Not thinking of the green nest or colorful greenhouse -the former is from Springs; and the latter from Autumn- she used to dart from the garden of one's arms to another's arms. Oh! I see my little drunken and golden bee, now at beautiful daisy plant's side, she has swept her hive in forgetfulness, oh! I am watching- no other memory is with her, no other delight is in her heart, at the side of this shore's plant. She is like an ambitious and wind-brought leof; she stares in the dense thicket; the dense thicket of stillness. * She asks herself what is this enchanted wonder? And what enchanted forgetfulness? She asks herself who used to suck the honey from every flower. THE WINDOWS We, like two windows face to face. Each informed of the others' words. Each day greeting, asking, and laughing. Each day the appointment for the next day. Neither the sun bewitched nor the moon enchasnted. Curse travel! That which was done, it did. Now my heart is broken and tired. For one of the windows is closed. THE MOMENT OF MEETING The moment of meeting is near. Again I am crazy, I am drunk. Again my heart and hand shake. Again, indeed, I am in another land. . Hey, do not nick my cheek carelessly, blade! Hey, do not muss my groomed hair, hand! And do not disgrace me, heart! The moment of meeting is near. "While the night goes on, I am crying and my tears are flowing like rain. I suspect the night, like me, is crying for the arrival of the morning." Laadry THE NURSE It is a night of autumn nights- one of those, sympathetic and kind to me, suspicious night- woeful and heavy-hearted, weeping and lengthy. The night, which I suspect either, weeps on my night, with such sympathy, or weeps on my morning, also in secret from me. I am telling it and the night is going on. Silent and kind to me like an antecedent black-dressed nurse, who has given up the patient- sitting by my side, the night weeps. I say these words and the night goes on. ELEGY It is angry, drunken and mad. It sets up the soil like o dark and shaky tent. Again destroys soon whatever it makes. As a powerful wizard, whatever it wants, the wind can do. The invisible, wild elephant is free again. Drunken and mad, it rushes to the earth and time. It pounds, disturbs and fells to the soil; what fruitful strengths and idle leaflessness that it shook and plucked from the root! For which happy celebration is sweeping the house, the wind? But there, lo... Who could you speak to? On a tree eternally far away from the grace of springs and away from the streams, there was a nest -the indigent limited to its fence of loneliness That was a nest, which was disarranged, destroyed, carried by the wind... Does the wind ever know? GRAFTS AND GARDEN She remained silent for a moment, then once again, the red apple which she had in her palm, she tossed into the air. The red apple spun for a while and came back. She smelled the apple. Said: "It is enough to talk of irrigations and grafts. Well, what do you say?" -"Oh, what do I say? Nothing." *** She wore a dress woven of green and colorful blossoms. Her skirt saturated by the fresh wave was like the sea. She wore a harmonious necklace of black-cherry and peach blossoms around her neck. She was a coquettish curtain of velvet- now asleep, then awakened by the silk which was gently sweeping. The happy soul of the neighbor's garden, intoxicated by sweetness was strolling and talking, and her kind words faced me. I put my head near to the iron fence of her garden that separated me from her and my sight like a butterfly was darting in her garden's space- the roving of a sad fairy in the fictitious garden. She took a look at my eyes. Saw my tear. Said: "Hey, how well it reminds me, crying is also something. Sometimes this is grafted with a tear, or a curse sometimes with joy, or smiling, or sorrow or rancor, and those alike, but there must be this graft." Once again she smelled the apple and remained silent. I took my sight like a dead bird to my garden. Ah, Better silence. Although what I had to tell her, what I had to say! Though silence is the beginning of oblivion. Better silence Sometimes, though, that necessary graft she spoke of is silence. What do I say? Nothing. The stream has dried and from too much thirsting at the edge of the stream the plants of plantain, mint and mallow are fallen into sleep. With selfless bodies, perchance, in their dreams they will be carried by water, perhaps, already, they are carried by water. To your hasty mourning, o, ignoble garden, after you be eternally gone with the wind, all the clouds of fury be pregnant with the tear of hate, everywhere, as my cloud of regretted silent-shower . O barren trees your roots covered in the wasted soil, a dear bud will not grow from any part of you. O the group of leaves- dirty fiber, dirty welt, the reminder of the dusty droughts, no rain could wash you. posted by Sam at 3:53 PM AHMAD SAMLU 1925 Born, Tehran 1947 The Forgotten Songs 194 Manifesto 195 Irons and Feelings 1957 The Fresh Air 1960 Mirror's Garden 1964 Ida on the Mirror, Moments & Always 1965 Ida, Tree and Saber and Memory 1966 Phoenix In the Rain 1969 The Soil's Elegies 196 From Air and Mirrors 1968 Selected Poems 196 Solomon's Song of Song’s, translation 1970 Unfolding In Fog From his prose: "A need leads me to poetry." "Poetry's effect is to confute by itself." "With a limited vocabulary, thinking is limited, too." "We think with words, not with images." "I do not approve of correcting a poem, for there will not be anything left, the rest will be technique." "The first thing I notice in someone else's poems is if they are sincere." "Painting, poetry, dancing,... all are poetry in different forms." "Meter is not necessary in a poem." ”Poetry is a spontaneous thing.” ”The father of a language is the people." Prolific as he is in various genres, Samlu is a poet; the rest of his work, therefore, is important primarily for its relationship to his poetry. He has demonstrated an amazing combination of skills in poetry, criticism and translation. He understood well the advantages of European cultures and methods but taught himself to redirect those values in the Iranian context. Conception, empathy, compassion and technique become inseparable functions of his poetic process. He agrees with E. Pound: "Poetry happens to be an art; and artists happen to be human beings.” What Samlu gives us is a lyrical statement of a mood- a mood that grows out of immediate experience- repeated, qualified, elaborated until it becomes a metaphor, finally a representative state of mind. He writes the most graceful and delicate lyrics in Iranian since Hafez (14th century); at the same time he develops a muscular vers libre style that suited his strong attraction to prophecy as the poet's major role. Samlu tells us that the solution of all problems is love. This idea hangs in thin air, and the poet leaves it there to explore other possible roads to ultimate truth. Man, he continues, may find eternity in woman who will give rest to his endless striving. He may find it in the preservation of mankind through the generations. He strives to impress in one pointed paragraph, line, and word what others had said or failed to say in a whole poem. Thus Samlu compresses the poem into two, three, or four concise stanzas. REFERENCE A SONG OF THANKS AND PRAISE Your kisses are the talkative sparrows of the garden and your breasts are mountains' hives and your body is an eternal secret that in a great silence relates to me. Your body is a rhyme and mine is a word that will be adherent to it " until bringing into existence: A song whose beat is Continuance In your look are all kindnesses: The messenger that announces life. And in your silence are all sounds: The cry which experiments in Being AN EPIGRAM Mountains are together and alone- like us, together and alone. THE SONG OF AQUINTANCE Who are you that I trust you so that I am telling you my name, putting in your hand the key of my home, sharing with you the bread of my joys, sitting by your side, and on your knee so gently falling asleep? Who are you that with such seriousness in the land of my dreams I pause with you? STREET A continuous tunnel within two walls, and a solitude that heavily like an old man leaning on a cane is passing in the tunnel of silence. And then the sun and a refracted shadow worried and refracted. Houses House of houses. A people and a cry from the incline: -Checkered city! Checkered city! * Two walls and the tunnel of silence, and then a shadow that breathes the decline of the sun. A people, and a cry from the depth: -Not pieces! We are not pieces! POVERTY I am tired of a suffering that is not mine. I have sat on the soil that is not mine. I have lived with a name that is not mine. I have cried from a pain that is not mine. I was given life from a pleasure that is not mine. I will give up my soul to a death that is not mine. TOMBSTONE Neither in going was there a motion nor in staying a rest. There was no separation between the branches and the root. And the tale-bearing wind did not tell such a secret to the leaves that it should. The virgin of my love is a strange mother. And the hurrying star in a hopeless path in an orbit eternally rotates. I STOOD ON THE SOIL EARNESTLY... I stood on the soil earnestly, and the soil was as a firm certainty. I doubted the star and the star shone in my doubtful tear. And then I doubted the sun by which the stars as white faced maids in his glorious harem became hidden. The walls do limit the prison. The walls do no more than limit the prison. Between two prisons the doorway of your house is the threshold of freedom. But on the threshold you have no authority of acceptance between the two! THE SKETCH Night with a bloody throat has sung late. Sea has sat coldly. A twig in the blackness of the forest toward the light is crying out. NOCTURNE A lengthy confession, night is, a lengthy confession. A cry for freedom, night is, a cry for freedom and a cry for chains. Night is a lengthy confession. O If it is the first night of prison or the last evening -till, at the crossroads another sun you bring to memory, or through the noose you remove it from memory. A limitless cry night is, a limitless cry. A cry of hopelessness, a cry of hope a cry for freedom, night is, a cry for chains. Night is a lengthy cry. NOCTURNE Love is a memory sitting waiting to occur and renew. for that, those, now, both ore asleep: at this side of the bed a man and o woman at the other side. A tornado in the door and a shower on the roof.. . a man and a woman asleep. And awaiting the frequence and occurrence- a love tired. NOCTURNE One who knew, held his tongue, and one who talked, did not know... . * What a sad night it was! And that traveler who passed in that silent darkness and aroused the dogs by the sound of his horse's hoofs on the stone without passing in his mind a moment that to come down for the night, indeed was all the dream in a fever. What a sad night it was! WHICH SATAN... Which Satan, in this way fascinates you to say "no"? Or if he is an angel, for which devil's trap in this way does he warn you? Is this a hesitation? or is it the echo of the very last steps from loneliness toward the birth-place of affinity you are descending? posted by Sam at 3:51 PM MY LOVER My lover with that naked, shameless body on his strong legs stood like death. The oblique, restless lines were following in his firm sketch his rebellious organs. My lover seems is from the forgotten generations. Seems that a Tartar in the depth of his eyes lies in ambush for a rider constantly. Seems that a Barbarian in the glistening of his healthful teeth is attracted by the warm blood of a hunt. My lover like nature has a clear, compelling concept. By defeating me he confirms the truthful low of power. He is wildly free As a healthy instinct in the depth of a deserted island. He cleans with the scraps of Majnun's* tent from his shoes, the street's dust. My lover like a god in the Temple of Nepal seems from the beginning of his existence was strange. He is a man from the past centuries; reminder of beauty's genuineness. In his space like a childish scent he wakes constantly innocent memories. He is like a wholesome folk song- full of roughness and sense. He loves sincerely the particles of life. the particles of soil human sorrows- the clean sorrows. He loves sincerely a country road of the village a tree a dish of ice cream a clothesline. My lover is a simple human a simple human that I have hidden in the land of unlucky wonders like the last sign of a strange religion within the bush of my breasts. ________________ * Majnun is the name of ILayly's lover in a romantic story in verse by Nezamy, 12th .century (Tr.) posted by Sam at 8:47 AM THE BIRD WAS ONL Y A BIRD The bird said, "What a scent, what a sun, oh! Spring has come, and I will go in search of my mate." The bird flew away from the edge of the verandah, like a message, flew and went. The bird was small. The bird was not used to thinking. The bird was not used to reading a newspaper. The bird had no debts. The bird knew not of people. The bird, in the air and over the stop lights. at the height of unawareness, was flying; and was madly experiencing the blue moments. The bird I alas, was only a bird. ANOTHER BIRTH My whole being is a dark psalm * which will take you repeatedly in itself to the dawn of eternal unfoldings and growths. In this psalm, I sighed for you, sighed. In this psalm, I grafted you to the tree, water and fire. Life, perhaps, is a long street thru which a woman with a basket passes every day. Life, perhaps, is a rope with which a man hangs himself from a branch. Life, perhaps, is a child who comes back from school. Life may be the lighting of a cigarette in the narcotic interval of two Embraces; or the giddy look of a passerby, who takes off his hat to another passerby, and with a meaningless smile, says, "Good morning." * "My whole being was suspended from a slender hook in the shaft of a deep, dark well.” Hedayat, The Blind Owl, p.45, translated 1 Costello. (Tr.) Life, perhaps, is that enclosed moment when my gaze ruins itself in your eyes' pupils. And, there is a sense in this -which will mingle with the Moon's comprehension and the darkness's perception. In a room, the size of loneliness, my heart, the size of a love, looks at the simple means of its good-fortune, at the sapling you planted in our gardens, at the beautiful decline of the flowers in the vase, and at the song of canaries singing the size of a window. Oh... My lot is this. My lot is this. My lot is a sky which a curtain's drop takes away from me. My lot is to descend unused stairs and to join something in putrefaction and nostalgia. My lot is a sad stroll thru the garden of memories; and to give up the soul in the grief of a voice telling me: "I love your hands." I will plant my hands in the garden. I will sprout, I know, I know, I know. And swallows will Iay eggs in the furrow of my ink-stained fingers. I will wear earrings of twin red cherries. And on my fingernails, I will paste dahlia petals. There is an alley where the boys who were in love with me, still, with the same mussed hair, skinny necks and thin legs think of the innocent smiles of a little girl – one night, the wind carried her away. There is an alley my heart has stolen from my childhood district. The journey of a bulk along the line of time. And making the arid line of time pregnant with a bulk. The bulk of a conscious image returning from the party in a mirror. And, it is in this way that someone dies and someone stays. No fisherman will ever find o pearl in a shallow brook emptying into a pool. I know o sad little fairy who lives in on ocean, and plays her heart into a magic flute gently, gently. A sod little fairy who dies with one kiss each night and is reborn with one kiss each dawn RED ROSE Red rose Red rose Red rose He took me to the garden of the red rose; and he put a red rose in my disturbed hair in the darkness. And at last he reclined with me on the petal of a red rose. Oh, paralyzed pigeons! Oh, the trees of inexperienced menopause! Oh blind windows! Below my heart and in the depths of abdomen, now a red rose is growing. Red rose Red Like a spot of blood Oh, I am pregnant, pregnant, pregnant. THE GIFT I am talking of the bound of night. Of the bound of darkness And of the bound of night, I am talking. If you come to my home, bring me a lamp, oh kind one! And a window from which I can look at the crowd in the lucky street. PAIR Night comes and after night, darkness and after darkness the eyes hands and breaths and breaths and breaths... and the sound of water that drips drop drop drop from the tap then two red tips of two lighted cigarettes tick- tock of the clock and two hearts and two lonelinesses. FRIDAY * Friday's silence Friday's discard Friday like old streets, sad Friday's sick, lazy thoughts Friday's sly, lengthy yawns Friday's uneventfulness Friday's submission Home’s vacancy Homer’s annoyance Home's door shut to youth's rush Home's darkness and the sun's image Home's loneliness, augury and doubt Home's curtain, book, closet, pictures .. ** Oh, how calm and proud it passed My life like a queer stream In the heart of these silent discarded Fridays In the heart of these vacant annoyed homes Oh, how calm and proud it passed.. . __________________ The Iranian Friday is equivalent to English Sunday. "The world seemed to me like a vacant, sad home..." C. Heddyat : The Blind Owl, p. 78 (Tr.) ON THE SOIL I have never wished to become a star in the sky's mirage, or, like a soul of the Chosen, to become a quiet companion of the angels. I have never been familiar with the star. I have stood on the soil. My body, like a plant's stem, sucks the wind, sunshine and water to live. Filled with desire, filled with pain, I have stood on the soil for the stars to appraise me, for the breezes to caress me. ** I look thru my dormer. I am only the echo of a balllad. I am not eternal. I seek nothing but the echo of a ballad in the wail of a pleasure which is purer than the simple silence of a sadness. I do not seek a nest in a body which is a dew on the iris of my body. ** On my hut's shell that is life with the black script of love they have drawn mementos, the passers-by. The arrowed heart, the fallen candle, the pale silent dots on the disordered letters of lunacy. Each lip reached my lip, a star inseminated, in my night that was sitting on the river of memories. Then, why do I wish for a star? ** This is my ballad- pleasant, agreeable. Before this, it has not been more than this. TRANSIENT How long should one go from one land to the other land. I can not, I can not search each time a love and another lover. I wish we were those two swallows that the whole life we could travel from one spring to the next spring. Oh! Now it is o long time since there has fallen down on me, say, a dork crash of the heavy cloud. As I unite, with your kiss on my lips, I suppose, a transient scent gives up the soul. To that extent my sorrowful love is contaminated with the fear of decline that my whole life trembles. When I look at you it is as if from a window at my only tree- full of leaves - in the yellow fever of fall, I look. It seems that at a picture on the turbulent current of flowing water, I look. Night and day Night and day Night and day Let me forget. What are you, only a moment, a moment that opens my eyes to the wadi of consciousness? Let me forget. posted by Sam at 8:43 AM FORUQ FARROXZAD 1934 Born, Tehran 1952 The Captive, poems 1956 The Wall, poems 1957 The Rebel, poems 1958 Cooperates with "Golectan Film" 1959 Trip to England to study film direction and production, Publishes "Notes on European Trjp" in "Ferdocy" 1960-6 Plays and Cooperates in films and plays: The Wooing. The House Black,... 1963 Another Birth, poems 1964 Selected poem. 1966 Died in a car accident, Buried in Zahirodoleh Cemetary, Tehran From her autobiography: "I have never had a guide in [my] life." "Whatever I have is my own and whatever I do not have is that which I could have had if eccentricity, self-ignorance and life's dead-endings had allowed me to have it. " "I do not want to be saturated; I want to reach the superiority of saturation." "I am a shy person. " "Only during the moments of loving and adoring I feel that I am religious." "If love is love, time is nonsense." "There was a time when I thought poetry was like other things, separate from and outside myself. Now poetry is diffused into me... I am longer separate from it." Farroxzad's four books have a structure themselves: The Captive who is placed in a Wall(ed) space, Rebels to Another Birth. It is the last book, which is of paramount importance in the current Iranian New Poetry due to its richness and subtlety, its victorious experimentation with the description of the unartful themes of Iranian society, and the creation of a new music by reconciling the written and the spoken languages. She creates a proletarian art in Iran versus aristocratic art, with a kind hand a merciless mind; creates beauty out of materials not really beautiful in themselves. She is attracted by the world of stars, plants and animals. Her choice is interesting: seeds have peculiar fascination for her; then again, animals which might play a part in fairy tales or myths: birds, rabbits, cats -these are not dangerous but rather wise or sacred; they live their lives uninfluenced by the world of men. Her expressiveness overwhelms her thoughts in a poetry not of definitions but attitudes, not what nature is in itself, but how she responds to it and of a world where depth of space makes communication impossible. Her ultimate aim is to reveal the silent dread solitude and the agonized waiting of a lonely woman at night. She is steeped in the flux of things, but she reaches the heaven where beyond these voices there is peace. She introduced the motifs of urban ennui and modern sexuality into Iranian letters, attacking the accepted bourgeois morality of her readers, and demanding a freer and earthier attitude. Her language and form stress the conversational style, while her themes are the great psychological crises of modern experience as they ore acutely felt by women in Iran. Whereas Axavan-calec identifies nature with an abstract idea, Farroxzad totemistically identifies it with a mood, a desire, or a fear. At heart she has much in common with Samlu and Ahmady. REFERENCES 5. Farzan, M. 11968) "Forugh Farrokhzad, Modern Persian Poet". Books Abroad, 42:530-41. 6. Tikku, G. ( 1967) "Furugh-i Furrukhzad: A New Direction in Persian Poetry". Studia Islamica, 26:149-73. posted by Sam at 8:41 AM O PEOPLE! O people who have sat on the shore, happy [and laughing! There is one in the water who is giving up [his life. One who is struggling permanently on this heavy, dark, hasty sea known also [to you. When you are intoxicated with the thought [of dominating the enemy; when you uselessly reckon to yourself that you have given a hand to the weak -so you maintain better power – when you tie your belts around your waists. .. which occasion shall I mention? One is convulsing uselessly in the water, dear sir! O people who have a pleasant feast on the shore - bread on the tablecloth, fully dressed! One is calling you in the water. He is pounding the heavy wave with his tired hand, opening his mouth, his eyes torn by horror seeing your shadows afar; swallowing the water in the dark hole and each time his desperation grows; pushed out from the waters now his head, now his foot. O people! He is watching this old world from afar crying and hoping for help, o people who are calmly looking from the shore! The wave pounds at the still shore spreading like a drunken man fallen unaware. Then, it goes roaringly on. And this call comes again from afar: "0 people..." And the sound more heart-stinging, and in the sound of the wind, his call, more free through the water near and far again these voices in their ears. "0 people. .." THE SHADOW OF SELF In an area in the labyrinth of the house of you and me, there is a man sitting; next to him a torch of light- Days and nights, for you and me, he has spread a map of this distant night. From his position are aroused the veins of sound. From his lips has unfolded not a smile at any time. He sees underneath, the night's ruin . In the light of a spark already cold, in the happiness of a day without the sun, in the passage of a night full of pain, he renews a thousand inner sorrows. But, suddenly, if his gaze falls on the shadow of self, though, not detached from him, he smiles; shouts. "Let it be invisible in time from the eyes of you and me." posted by Sam at 7:14 AM A POEM OF THE TIMES I have whole-heartedly attacked all If I have lost, I have lost myself. If my poem is not in your taste, This is a poem of the times that I have made. IT IS NIGHT It is night- a damp night and the soil has given up its color. The wind, the cloud's infant, from the mount has rushed to me. It is night. Like a swollen body, the warm air has stood. That is why a lost traveler cannot see his way With its warm body, the long desert -like a corpse in its grave, tight- is like my burnt heart, or my tired body that is burning from the fever's phantom. It is night-yes, night. MY HOME IS CLOUDED My home is clouded; all over, the earth is clouded along with it. From the mount's defile- crushed, ruined and drunken, the wind twines around. The entire world is ruined by it. And my thoughts! O reed player! who is taken away from the path by the sound of reed, where are your? My home is clouded, and the cloud is about to rain. In the thought of my bright days, which are gone. I look at my sun's face from the sea's surface. But all the world is ruined and crushed by the wind. And on the way, the reed player who plays permanently in this clouded world has his way ahead. THE YELLOWS… The yellows have not uselessly turned red. The red has not uselessly diffused color on the wall. The dawn is in sight from the other side of mount Azaku, but Vazna is not in sight. Clear, dead powder of snow, all its work chaos, has rested on the glass of each window. Vazna is not in sight. My heart is aching because of this guest-killer inn whose day is dark that puts together, unknown, the sleepy few the uneven few the unaware few. IN A COLD WINTER NIGHT In a cold winter night, the sun's furnace as if the warm core of my lamp, does not burn. And like my lamp, it does not give a light at all. But, the moon, fastened in ice, lights from above. I lit my lamp in my neighbor's coming and going on a dark night. And the night was in winter. The wind was blowing with the pine. In the huts, silently, he was lost -separated from me --from this narrow road. And yet, I remember the story and these words on my lips: Who lights? Who is burnt? Who saves this story in the heart? In a cold winter night, the sun's furnace as if the warm core of my lamp, does not burn. posted by Sam at 6:58 AM Nima Yusij 1895 Born, Yus in Mazendaran 1921 Afcaneh. The Pale Tale, 2 long poems 1922 O Night, a poem 1930 The Saint's Sepulcher, a short story 1938 Edits in "Music Magazine" 1944-8 Neighbor's Words, Two Letters, Evaluation of Feelings, Poetics 1945 Soldier's Family, poems 1950 Afcaneh, prefaced by A. Samlu 1957 Manely, a long poem 1959 Died, Tehran His books which are partially published posthumously include: For the Bloody Hearts, Cries, Other Cries 1971, Robaiyat 1960 Flags & Spots, Chains & Keys, Tales, The Spider of Color l971, Rula, Divan of Classical Poems, My Poem 1966, Night City & Morn City 1967, The Bell 1967, Father' Labor, Satan’s Labor, Coqrim Castle, Max Ula 1965, Definition & Note 1969. From his prose: "I am like a river, one may take water anywhere from it quietly." "A Poem is a saying among our sayings." "Each person is a separate storage." "What is deep is obscure.” “Express your obscurity clearer," "Search in the words of peasants [and] the names of things (trees, plants, animals), each one is a blessing.” "Our literature should be changed in every way.” "Suffering leads a person to God," There are two things in Nima: originality and (V. Hugo:) "an idea whose time has come." And as in Zorba the Greek (p. 229): "Every idea that has a real influence also has a real existence." Nima's creativity is beyond criticism, because it defies all rules and regulations. As a creative artist he does not ask for prestige or success. His own arrival within reach of what he wants is enough for him. Nima's extreme sensitivity transformed every one of his muscles into nerves. He did not create poems to project artistic ru1es and principles; but to calm his mind, to express the truth and to strive for a humane and honest living. Attracted by the genuine character of the peasant and his rich folklore he deals extensively with village life. Many of his images are taken from the life of the sea- boats, sails, islands, waves and tides. He particularly uses descriptions of living "beings": an old turtle, birds with few portraits being distant or dead tuka,... The poet loves the work of human hands. Of all arts he loves painting the most, and in its chaste self-restraint his poetry is like a tableau. Nima was a Northerner, and his landscape is that of Mazendaran, one might even say that of Yus. Nature hardly ever speaks in herself, but only in her human relationship, not the field alone, but the field and the farmer, the field and the night-watcher, not the lake alone, but the lake and the boatman. His language is natural yet powerful as he describes the people, roads and towns. He calls for the liberalization of Iranian syntax and the legitimization of the spoken idiom as well as for rural allusions as the proper resources for poetic language. REERENCES 6. Squires, C. (1971) "Max ula", Poesie Vivante, 28. posted by Sam at 6:57 AM INTRODUCTION Twenty-five hundred years ago, Zartost gave his humanitarian advice in verse to mankind, from Northwestern Iran. Fifteen hundred years later Omar Xayya~m told his philosophic robaiya~t to the intelligentsia, from Northeastern Iran. Fifty years ago Nima Yusij revolutionized the old style of poetry in Iran. The gaps between are filled by hundreds of thousands of poets. The Classical Poetry (720?-1890) was panegyric on 16 themes (flattery, elegy, satire, vituperation, mysticism, lamentation, wine-bibbing,...) in eight forms (qazal or ode, roba~i or quatrain, qacideh or ballad,...). The Modern Poetry (1890-1921) lent itself more to social themes, and its form consisted of modified classical forms. The New Poetry however (since 1921) has adapted vers libre.. The representative Modern poets were Iraj-mirza (1872-1930), P. Etteca~my (1906-41), M. R. Esqy (1893-24), F. Yazdy (1887-1939), A. Q. A~ref (1881-1933), A. Q. La~huty (1887-1957), M. T. Baha~r (1886-1951), A. A. Dehxoda~ (1878-1955) and Sahriya~r (b. 1906). The New Poetry begins with Nima~'s endeavors in subject, word, style, form, rhyme and rhythm. That is why no Iranian poet has attracted more Iranian poets than he, whose humanism particularly recommends itself to poets of any age and stage of development. Contemporary Iranian poets follow Nima's descriptive, natural, conversational and declamatory tone; also his language, techniques, and themes in free style poetry (vers libre) are widely imitated. The representative New poets who use vers libre are M. Atasy, C. Atabay. M. Azad. M. Aminy, R. Berahany. C Cepehry, H. Cayeh, C. Cepanlu, M. Ceresk, F. Gilany, H. Jazany, M. Hoquqy, Karo, J. Kusabady. D. Kacrayy, M. Kyanus, F. Mosiry, N. Naderpur, I. Nodusany, M. Noey, A. Naficy, M. Neemtzadeh, N. Rahmany, Y. Roeyayy. E. Xoyy and M. Zohary. Most of these poets spread their efforts over several volumes of poetry, translations, literary articles, novels, radio and T. V. literary programs, short stories, critical essays, scenarios and plays. They still maintain that the supreme literary quality is mastery of words. It is interesting to note, however, that Iranian modern writers have been more successful in prose than in poetry. The reason lies in the writers' complete detachment from the classics and a susceptibility to contemporary Iran. The poets, on the other hand, have had one eye on the classics and the other one on the West, overlooking their own popular culture. The prose writers have had better training in the European languages than the poets, more intercontinental travel and aid from the national movie industry. A long list of well read writers, some of whom gained some fame in the West include: C. Hedayat, A. A. Dehxoda, M. A. Maceud, R. Parvizy. M. A. Jamalzadeh, B. Alavy, M. Hejazy, J. Alahmad, A. Dasty, C. Naficy, Cobhy, Etemadzadeh, C. Cubak, Oxovvat, J. Mircadeqy, T. Modarrecy, Q. Caedy, C. Behrangy, X. Sahany. E. Golectan. A. M. Afqany, B. Tului, A. Hajced-Javady and A. Pahlevan. REFERENCES 8. Ranjbaran. E. (1967) ..Modern Poetry in Iran." Intern. St. Forum, Missouri Univ-Columbia. I # I: 5,8. 9. Rypka, J. (1968) History of Iranian Literature, Humanities. 10. Wickens, G. M. (1960) “Poetry in Modern Persia," Univ. Toronto Quart., 29#2:262-81. posted by Sam at 6:53 AM PREFACE The purpose of this collection of translations is to make a selection of the Iranian New Poetry available to the poets, who may see how much of their work is translatable (in universal language) or retained in the translations; to teachers and students of English who are stimulated by these translations and who may decide to translate additional poems; and to non-Iranians who wonder if poetry in Iran has stopped after Jammy or Attar. The, translations are offered here with the Iranian texts en face. Because each word of a poem is unique in itself and in its order, the reader should read the Iranian along with the English translations. The translator regrets the absence of a number of New Poets in this book and the meager representation of others. He feels that a collection encompassing the works of fewer poets would better illustrate the trend of Iranian New Poetry than the same size collection including a few poems each from a larger number of poets. He hopes to expand the present collection at a later date, at which time a larger selection of poets will be undertaken. For permission to reprint the poems in this book, acknowledgments are made to the poets themselves and to the following copyright holders: for N. Yusij to Seragim Yusij and for F. Farroxzad to Puran Farroxzad. I am particularly grateful to T. Dunn, F. Maleky, T. McAffee, A. Qarebaqy, R. Ranjbaran, D. Sadxu and B. Tului for their help, encouragement and technical assistance. 2 posted by Sam at 6:48 AM CONTENTS Iranian Phonetic Transcription 1 Preface 2 Introduction 3 Nimti Yusij 7 A Poem of the times 10 It Is Night l0 My Home Is Clouded 12 The Yellows 14 In a Cold Winter Night 16 O people! 18 The Shadow of Self 22 Foruq Faroxzad 25 The Bird Was Only a Bird 28 Another Birth 30 Red Rose 38 The Gift 40 Pair 40 Friday 42 On the Soil 44 Transient 48 My Lover 50 Ahmad Samlu 58 Praise 60 An Epigram 60 The Song of Acquaintance 62 Street 62 Poverty 66 Tombstone 66 Fermi Age Theory 112 I Stood on the Soi I Earnestly68 The Sketch 70 Nocturne 70 Nocturne 72 Nocturne 74 Mehdy Axavan-calec 76 The Flower 78 In the Bar 80 Like a Thirsty Vessel 80 The Excuse 82 Lyric 2 82 The Windows 84 The Moment of Meeting 84 The Nurse 86 Elegy 86 Grafts and Garden 90 Ahmadreza Ahmady 96 The News 96 The Future Father of the Street 96 From the Season of Stay 98 "We Sent Rain”100 The Teacher 102 The Death of the Fish 104 A Song of Thanks and Friendship 106 Ecmail Ranjbaran 110 The Prayer 110 The Subtracted Stranger 110 Qazal 4 111 An Epigram 111 Nocturne 112 ROAD & RIVER 1-80 posted by Sam at 6:47 AM Thursday, July 17, 2003 Iranian New Poetry Selected, edited, introduced and translated by ROAD & RIVER A Collection of Poems by Ecma~il Ranjbara~n Poems from 1960- to 1970 Copyright 1972 All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form. Drawings by Ali Qareba~qy. first Printing, August 1972 A~zar Printing House Tehran, Iran CONTENTS Albert Schweitzer: The tragedy of life is what dies inside a man while he lives. IRANIAN PHONETIC TRANSCRIPTION In an Iranian word, each letter has its specified sound: The sound of a letter is not a function of its position in a word. It is in English: car, cell, cello. At the end of a word and preceded by a consonant, y is pronounced as i: Xoyy = Xoyi. The Iranian names are transliterated to Latin using the following alphabet as in an English word. VOWELS: a as in hat, a~ as in far, e as in bed, i as in be, o as in old, u as in loop. CONSONANTS: b as in bed, c as in cell, d as in dip, f as in far, g as in get, h as in hat, j as in jet, k as in kid, l as in lip, m as in mad, n as in net, p as in pal, q as in the French uvular r, r as in Spanish r, s as in sure, t as in too, c~ as in cello, x as in Spanish j in joven, z~ as in azure, v as in via, z as in zone, y as in yet, e as guttural e~ originated from Hebrew and Arabic. posted by Sam at 3:04 PM Monday, July 14, 2003 Subject: Rudi To: TIMES@iranian.com I liked the exposition on the CNN Rudi. However, it is an opinion of an Iranian intellectual for other naggers, with a congested memory lane, looking through a kaleidoscope, sitting behind a steamed window at a foggy high noon. Rudi must be appraised in her milieu including the audience. To expect a grubby, depressed, well-read, unfocused subject-wise, to chatter with the author is equivalent to not understanding the media, the message, the messenger, the temporal spike, the corporate process, the news delivery tradition, and the targeted recipients. The author needs to tune to a marginal medium of a political color of his liking. His exquisite elucidation is utterly out of relevancy. I know people who admire Rudi. Sam Baran, PhD posted by Sam at 9:45 AM Introduction S. Bejan Baran. He dropped the first syllable of his last name, during the Naturalization process, was born in Tehran, graduated from Sharaf High School, enrolled in Shiraz University. He traveled by land through Turkey to Braunschweig, Germany, then came to Kansas City, MO, in the Fall; graduated from University of Missouri-Columbia with BSEE, MSEE, MSNE, and PhDEE. He has worked as an Information Technology engineer since in IL, MO, IN, NJ, CA, OH, MD, VA, DC. He began to write poetry at the age of 10; by 12 he read works by Lermantov, Prevert, Rahma’ny, Yushij, and Iranian Classics (Ha’fez, Khaya’m, Ferdowsi, Saadi). He met Farokhza’d, Akhava’n, Sha’mlu, Sepehry, Ka’ro; was a class-mate of Yushij’s son, Sheragim. He associated with intellectuals among them painters Maleki, Pila’ra’m; writers Gola’ra’, Shahba’z; and musicians Pour-Tora’b. Abroad, he met Theodorakis, Dirac, Caldwell, Miller, McAffee, Voznesensky, Sa’edi, Khoyi, A’zarm. He studied languages and literature in Greek, Turkic, Hebrew, Spanish, Russian, and German. He published Road & River, a collection of English translation of poetry by Yushij, Sha’mlu, Akhava’n, Farrokhza’d, Ahmadi, and his own poems in Farsi, The Lyrics and Divan in Columbus-OH, poems and articles in the Iranian/ US periodicals. From that period, he was the publisher of the Persian Post, a cultural bimonthly in English and Farsi. He is currently working on two Web pages to publish his literary and technical research over the years. Baran’s poetry is a lyric description of the milestones reached during the human life cycle in a natural and historical setting: birth, growth, love, children, and death. He has written a lot and published a little. His writing contains a quantitative, scientific analysis of the topics. His ambition is to collect a dictionary of his ancestral language of the people of Caucasus Range, compare it with contemporary Kurdish, to extract the language of the Medes (800 B. C.). He developed a model of the dispersion of the Indo-European tribes of four thousand years ago, from the Northern beaches of the Caspian Sea into Europe and Asia. FERMI AGE THEORY1 When we are born, we know not where, or when we will die. How we will wander around, while we are slowing down in a finite medium! Our scattering seems isotopic; and our average lethargy, independent of energy. Valid is the Diffusion Theory. In every collision, we gain exactly an average lethargy. As we grow older, we have traveled more- the slowing down is zero at a void; and, continuous at an interface. LYRIC 9 For you, my love is a flowing river- remaining the same, never the same. EPIGRAM 1 "The great wall of China..." F. Kafka A wall around you- then, why a door? THE PRAYER Am looking at the mirror, the brook. A leaf is falling. A leaf is being carried away. And, am hearing a leaf is growing. The leaf, in the wind. The cloud, in the wind. The earth, in the wind. The wind, the wind of unification, will wash off the borders. and, the earth, the free earth, again, will become a virgin without make-up. DIASPORA Between two sycamore trees, Grandma slowly appears - with a persimmon in her right hand and a pomegranate in the left. She puts ‘m in my pockets. Holds my right hand, drawing circles on my palm with her pointing finger, saying: Gily gily houzak. Morqak umad a’b bokhore, Ofta’d tu houzak. Then, counting my fingers, Starting with the little finger, saying: In goft daresh biya’rim. In goft bekoshimesh. In goft bepazimesh. In goft bekhorimesh. In goft sahme mane kaleh gondeh ku? Morqak par zad, sare golboteh neshest.2 Closed my eyes, she put her finger on my nose. She slowly disappeared. * Opened my eyes, I see my sister, running to the house. * Oh, my little sister! You're so lucky, going back home. You'll find new friends - boys and girls. I'm sure, you'll have fun to put your new clothes on, walking with ma and pa, visiting folks you know. Everyday, getting up to face new faces - who will adore you. You leave behind your brother - all alone in a foreign land - and your friends who can't share school secrets with you. You pick up the phone and call Joan. It is her birthday - and yours too. She has a gift for you; but can't give it to you, for you are no more her neighbor. You ask her about other kids. * Overhearing your talk, a volcano builds up in me overflows at the top drops of fire on my face. * Why leaving friends behind? Why can't we stop the time? When do we see 'm again if we ever see 'm again? When can we say things we used to say when do we whisper or cry? Perhaps, some day, a sunny day, on the sidewalk, down the street filled with pigeons a familiar face flashes up in the crowd bringing you into the labyrinth of memories. Perhaps, some day, a rainy day, reading the paper by a foggy window, you 'll see a familiar name. Life is a train of memories receding in a foggy course. * Now the call is over, you run to pa and ma crying; and I load up the trunk with your baggage. 1 Fermi Age Theory It describes that neutron’s slowing down process is continuous through elastic collisions; relates the spatial distribution of the neutrons to their energy; and treats the spatial transport of neutrons by Diffusion Theory. Symbols: q: Slowing down density : Fermi age 2 An Iranian Game for Toddlers: Around, around a little pond, A little bird came to get water, fell in the pond. This said let’s catch it. This said let’s kill it. This said let’s cook it. This said let’s eat it. This said where is the share for my big head? The bird flew and sat on top of this rose-bush. posted by Sam at 9:18 AM Cyrus Costliest UK film takes on epic scale Cast of thousands and record-breaking £49m budget to put story of emperor Cyrus on celluloid for the first time Fiachra Gibbons, arts correspondent Saturday May 17, 2003 The Guardian An action adventure with a cast of thousands about the Persian emperor Cyrus is set to become the most expensive British film ever made. Oscar-nominated director Alex Jovey, who has only made one previous feature, hopes to start shooting the $80m (£49m) epic in December. It is the first film about the shepherd boy who founded an empire that stretched from the Mediterranean to India. Jovey, 32, said he wanted to create spectacular battle scenes reminiscent of The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers but with the sweep of Lawrence of Arabia "and the kind of authenticity you can only get by using thousands of extras". He is amazed that the story of Cyrus's rise in the sixth century BC has gone untold on celluloid. "He was an astonishing character who is mentioned in the Bible and the Koran. He's a kind of Robin Hood, a champion of human rights, who drew up a kind of bill of rights for his people - a precursor of the Magna Carta called the Cylinder of Cyrus - which is in the British Museum. "As a child he was condemned to death by his grandfather, who was a king, but was spirited away and raised by peasants. A birthmark set him apart as a prince and he led a rebellion against the emperor. He was surrounded at all times by a fearsome group of 1,000 guards called the Immortals." Soldiers could only join this corps if an existing member had been killed in battle. Jovey - who produced and directed the thriller Sorted - said the five-month shoot would be divided between Britain and probably Pakistan. "It may seem like a huge amount of money, but the budget is very low for an epic of this sort. There aren't many big films shooting in Britain at the moment either, so putting together a good crew at a reasonable price is not as difficult as it used to be," he said. Finance, he claimed, was solid, with distributors already keen to buy into the story, which turns on a love triangle and Cyrus's ultimate betrayal. Jovey said he was in talks with several internationally known actors, but said the project was not "dependent on big names". posted by Sam at 9:09 AM Sunday, July 13, 2003 Nice Thought Many people will walk in and out of your life, But only true friends will leave footprints in your heart. To handle yourself, use your head; To handle others, use your heart. Anger is only one letter short of danger. If someone betrays you once, it is his fault; If he betrays you twice, it is your fault. Great minds discuss ideas; Average minds discuss events; Small minds discuss people. He who loses money, loses much; He who loses a friend, loses much more; He who loses faith, loses all. Beautiful young people are accidents of nature, But beautiful old people are works of art. Learn from the mistakes of other You can't live long enough to make them all yourself. Friends, you and me. You brought another friend. And then there were 3. We started our group. Our circle of friends. And like that circle. There is no beginning or end. Yesterday is history. Tomorrow is mystery. Today is a gift. Eleanor Roosvelt posted by Sam at 6:43 PM

Monday, March 17, 2003 Nima Yusij 1895 Born, Yus in Mazendaran 1921 Afcaneh. The Pale Tale, 2 long poems 1922 O Night, a poem 1930 The Saint's Sepulcher, a short story 1938 Edits in "Music Magazine" 1944-8 Neighbor's Words, Two Letters, The Evaluation of Feelings, Poetics 1945 The Soldier's Family, poems 1950 Afcaneh, prefaced by A. Samlu 1957 Manely, a long poem 1959 Died, Tehran

Thursday, December 12, 2002 TOC poets posted by Sam at 5:05 PM Persian Post The Persian Post reflects multi-lingual/ media expressions on culture (arts, literature, technology, and politics). It covers past, present, and future of the subjects in/ about the Iranian Plateau. The culture is composed of the penda'r, gofta'r, kerda'r of the nationalities in the Plateau (language, behaviour, religion, food, dress, rugs, architecture, arts, literature, technology, and politics). The language includes dialects, comparison, dictionaries, linguistics, grammar. and changes. The arts are music, painting, fashion, drama, films, tapes, cd, Web sites, photos, and tv programs. The technology is narrowed down to those empowering the youth in their entrepreneurial, creative, and dissimantion skills. The precursor of democracy and civil society is employment/ economics. The Plateau has a long history and was a component in the Craddle of Civilization. At present, it has natural resources; in the future, it places a large segment of world educated population. The Latin transliteration of Iranian terms are with the 28 consonents/ vowels (a, b, p, t, s, j, c, h, x, d, z, r, z, z~, s, s~, s, z, t, z, ', q, f, q, k, g, l, m, n, v, h, y/ a~, e, o, i, u). The Armenian, Ashurian, Hebrew, Turkic, Kurdic, Arabic, and other alphabets have their Latin equivalents. posted by Sam at 4:32 PM Wednesday, December 11, 2002 I need to work on the blogs template and content. The pictures can be on the photos.yahoo .com and linked on the blog. It needs to be tested in terms of comaptibility and retrieval speed. The template needs to be customized to have links to other blogs. On the Farsi side, the Alkaatib 1.3 files need to be converted to Unicode. The PPC Mac7.5.5 needs to be checked for the followings: StuffIt, utilities, and tools. The Alkaatib files need to save as text, converted to a format to be converted to Unicode for Win2k/98/Word2k editing and upload. Also the downloads from Win2k/IE5 of files > 1.38MB on the Zip100 is another problem. The Mac does not have Zip100. There is a Zip100 on another Mac. But PPC Mac does not have openning in the front to install the Zip100. Mac design is very poor in terms expandability and interoperablity with other platforms. I do research on all these subjects, the prints are 3 " thick stack of papers. I sort them into posted by Sam at 8:14 AM It is wednesday with snow on the ground from last week. It is raining at a temprature of lower thirties. The tree braches are sheathed with ice and so are the roads. It looks like a Russian movie with scenaries around Moscow. The sun is behind a thick blanket of clouds. The trees are ice skeletons against a grey horizon. Marsina asked me to disappear a chocolate coin in her ears, which I did and she believed it. I'll be going to work at 12 noon. So many things to do these days. I have to go OH to vacate the duplex this weekend. Saed said he shot 2 deers last week and wants to make deer kabab in his big house. It has a lake and is on Olentangi river bank. It has a long deck with a breath taking view of the lake, trees, and now and then a blue herrin. There are several tortles and fish. His energy and creativity are commendable. He got a huge chandelier customize it himself, hanging from the living room. The house is a very laarge treetop house! It has light, view and air due to a wall to wall Anderson windows facing the East. He also has a large TV with the blind Italian opera singer humming classical tunes. posted by Sam at 7:58 AM

Monday, December 02, 2002 Djahangir M. Pirasteh Statement of Artistic Work Mashhad was my birthplace and the year, 1943. My father was my first art teacher in drawing, painting and sculpture. He is an accomplished artist now residing in Texas, who then trained my brother, Nasser a sculptor living in Minnesota, and my sister, Maliheh a painting teacher in Mashhad. I finished high school in 1963; and joined the Literary Corps, teaching in Mashhad and Karaj schools for three years. Then, I entered Tehran College of Dramatic Arts and also taking art courses in the Institute of Art & Design. During the year 1973, I studied Classical arts in London, England. Between 1974-80, I worked on my Master of the Arts in Stage Design at St Cloud State University, Minnesota. Later, it followed by Master of Fine Arts and PhD in History of Arts at University of Wisconsin-Madison. In the early 80's, I staged in 10 US cities Saedi's Mama Ensy, a play setting in Tabriz during the Constitutional Revolution. Since 1981, I have been teaching stage design, painting, watercolor and drawing at the College of Art & Design. Over the last 12 years my Persian calligraphic paintings number 68 pieces. Various art collectors in North America, Europe, and the Middle East have comissioned me. My works have also been exhibited in several countries. Their compositions are based on Persian abstract art and stylization of Persian calligraphy and indigenous colors. This art is described by non-shading (flat 2-dimensional and limited 3-dimensional) surfaces, non-perspective, ambiguity and light non-directionality. In my work, figures and Persian non-diacritical scripts correspond to the artist's invisible, mental world. On my canvas, there is nothing physical that is not a symbol of something in that invisible world. The metaphoric intention of a series of my artwork is to express the theme of "Sagheenameh," or "The Song of Love," (Saghi Song) which in English means, "Serving the Wine." This Sagheenameh theme was created by the Persian Sufist of 12th Century, Hafiz. It is his poem about Sagheenameh that constitutes the sole visual metaphor for my painted interpretations. I have attempted to refine and clarify the Sagheenameh theme and bring it into harmony in each compositional arrangement of colors, shapes, lines and patterns in my paintings. Sir John's English translation of parts of this verse is included at the end. Compositionally I attempt to clarify the two-dimensionally rendered dream-like images made in my visual diary. To do this I employ a juxtaposition of stylized human images and stylized Persian lettering. These images as a visual language are like letters to myself that clarify and reflect upon my lyric thinking and, in turn, help me to understand myself. I intend the union of symbolic images and calligraphy to imply the relationship between the spoken representations (God's word) and their corresponding objects (the Creation). The contrast between figures and calligraphy in my works attempts to show metaphorically this complementary relation- ship of God's word and his creation. I develop representational objects into illusory, simplified and symbolic images. Realism is denied by moving from three-dimensional to two-dimensional figures and from naturalistic to expressionistic colors not often found in nature. As realism is denied, the painting becomes more universal. Although my symbols are from the Persian Culture, it is my hope that a Persian would have no advantage over any other person in understanding my paintings. For, I intentionally remove dots from Persian alphabets to devoid their forms from denotative meanings. My intention is for the paintings to overcome culture-induced differences in visual perception. A deeper understanding of my content is not forced upon the observer, but it can be sought in the meaning of Hafiz's poem and in my lettering, if desired. I use the Sufist tradition and ideas as the basis for my paintings; and Love, Wine, Friendship and Beauty are the central symbols of the Sufi Beliefs. I use wine colored areas in my paintings as a metaphor for blood and purity, and gold as an indication that I revere the Sufist ideas as being of the highest order or quality. I also use metallic colors because I have learned to like them from their use in Persian miniature paintings. It seems impossible to communicate completely in one language, as it also seems impossible to communicate the same thing from one language to another. For instance, the description of love in English is not as extensive in comparison to the three Greek words for love, which are "Agape," "Philia," and "Eros." In Persian culture we have "Ashegh," "Valleh," Sheyda," "Heyran," and "Fareefteh," which are among almost thirteen words meaning love. Visual images can attempt to cross this barrier between different cultural languages in order to achieve full communication and understanding. In some of my works, which are pieces of sculpture, the intent is to convey similar images in three-dimensional illusions using lettering. This requires use of textured materials and similar colors. I use Styrofoam and other materials to create the sculptural qualities in open space (through glass) and on canvas. The media used in my work are oil and acrylic paints, canvas, and Styrofoam. I also formulated my own gold and silver paints using powdered metals and varnish. SAGHEENAMEH - Serving the Wine One form of mysticism in Islam is Sufism. The Sufi Belief is summed up in the following quotation from Abu Hamid Mohammad Al-Ghazzali, a 12th Century Sufi Leader: "The visible world was made to correspond to the world invisible and there is nothing in that world but is a symbol of something in that other world." The tradition is called Sufism because "Sufi" in Arabic means "wool" and wool is worn as the sign of brotherhood. A Sufi believes that the most important element in the universe is the human being who is created by God. God lends a spark of him and attaches a body to it. A Sufi believes that a person's duty is to wear away the body, "to die to self," in order that the spark within him may be permanently reunited with the one that the reality of truth. The Sufi Belief is that "Metaphor is a bridge to reality." The four Sufi symbols are Love, Wine, Beauty and Friendship. 1 Love, the first symbol, is the intoxication caused by the wine of unity and is the intimation of shadow, of the divine. The second symbol, Wine, is like blood in its purity. The Sufist believes this likeness is evident in the shared red color. Sufists also believe that it is good for these two pure substances to be brought together. They believe that wine brings out the true person. The third symbol, Beauty, is a part of all living things. That is why it is wrong to kill any living thing. In killing, one destroys beauty. The fourth and last symbol, Friendship, represents the Sufi belief that all men should be brothers. They should all love one another regardless of their differences. They must be able to accept one another. The Sufist believes that when God Speaks, his words are the essence of the spirit. The Sufist further believes that from that essence of spirit, the world comes to existence; and reflects the words of God. It follows that to see what something really is; one must discover its God-given spirit. For example, to the Sufi a rose is really a sign of man's fascination with and attraction to God, and wine symbolizes the lightheadedness one experiences when he draws close to God. ________________ 1 The eccelecticism of Catholicism and Manichaism in this formula is evident. -Ed. SAGHI SONG Come, saghi, come, your wine ecstatic bring, Augmenting grace, the soul's perfectioning; Fill up my glass, for I am desperate-- Lo, bankrupt of both parts is my estate. Bring, saghi, bring your wine, and Jamshid's bowl Shall therewith bear to view the vast void whole; pour on, that with this bowl to fortify I may, like Jamshid, every secret spy. Bring, saghi, bring your alchemy divine Where Qarun's wealth and Noah's years combine; Pour on, and to the pipe's note I shall say How Jamshid fared, and Ka'us, in their day. Sing of this old world's ways, and with your strings Make proclamation to those ancient kings. Still spreads the same far desert to be crossed Where Salm and Tur their mighty armies lost; Still stands the selfsame crumbling hostelry Afrasyab took his palace for to be. Where now the captains that his armies led, And where the sword-swift champion at their head? High was his palace; ruin is its doom; Lost now to memory his very tomb. Bring, saghi, bring your virgin chastely veiled, Your tavern-dweller drunkenly regaled; Fill up, for I am avid of èill fame, And seek in wine and bowl my utmost shame. Bring, saghi, bring such brain-enflaming juice As lions drink, and let wide havoc loose; Pour on, and lion-like I'll break the snare Of this old world, and rise to rule the air. Bring wine, O saghi, that the houris spice With angel fragrance out of Paradise; Pour on, and putting incense to the fire The mind's eternal pleasure I'll acquire. Bring, saghi, bring our throne-bestowing wine; My heart bears witness it is pure and fine; Pour on, that, shriven in the tide of it, I may arise triumphant from the pit. Why must I yet the body's captive be, When spiritual gardens call to me? Give me to drink, till I am full of wine, Then mark what wisdom and what power is mine; Into my keeping let your goblet pass, And I will view the world within that Glass; Intoxicate, of saintliness I'll sing, And in my beggar's rags I'll play the king, When Haffez lifts his voice in drunken cheer, Venus applauds his anthem from her sphere. posted by Sam at 2:50 PM

Wednesday, November 27, 2002 AutobioTable of Contents Chapter Heading Page 1 The Style 2 The Birth 3 The Tree-Lined Street 4 The Elementary School 5 The Mountains 6 The Capital 7 The Sea (Caspean) 8 High School 9 The Sky (Turkey) 10 Arbeit (Germany) 11 The Ocean (NY) 12 Kansas 13 Missouri 14 Virginia 15 New Jersey 16 NASA 17 Dance 18 California 19 Aging 20 ********************** Chapter 1 Style Whom I am writing for? Is it for my shadow on the wall? Is it for leaving my name behind? Is it that I am bored and have not anything else to do? My answer is: I am indebted to the people who populated my skull. It is an ancestral warship, paying my dues to the ghosts. Fifty years is a long time. I have traveled in time and in space. Coming from Caucasian mountains to the Plateau, then to Ararat, the Alps, the Rockeys, and finally to the Blue Ridges. This was from a feudal, closed village of Taleqan to the Global village of the 21st Century of the New World with the super highways of fiberoptics, wireless satelites and video servers. Do I start chronologically, reminiscing the by-gone days, people and places; or kaleidoscopically collaging them in a stream of consciousness? Do I write about the big people or the little ones? Should I write about myself reflecting the others or observing them like a cameraman traversing in time? The style I chose is not my first choice. At first I opened up my skull and let it ooze out the memories, associated events, and my knowledge of later years. This is very Persian in circular story development versus American linear description. Even Joician stream-of-consciousness was abandoned in favor of Chekhovian sense-evoking description. In a way I follow a video camera in panning the scene with pauses on people. The sequential object description from the vantage point of the camera is also adhered to. The camera position, under the fresh contribution of Spielberg depends on the narrator/ observer. If it is from a child's point of view, the lens is panning at 4 feet, if it is a man, it is 6 feet high. Also I opted for sense evocation by emphasizing the tactile, smell, visual, audio, and olfactory. This is a Persian heritage in rugs, bazaar and architecture where all senses are aroused. In architecture a harmony of color, shapes, motion (water-fountain), smell (flowers), temperature (balcony, porch, sun-facing rooms). The associative process makes the theme development concentric circles and complicates the subject matter. One word, person, emotion, or event connects to another one and yet another one. And my knowledge of later years pad the subject with scientific/ artistic explanation. I reserve this explanation for a later commentary on the book. In a way the associative style has its own merits. It applies science to the every day life and annotates culturally remote words for better understanding. The culture I was reared was a closed, patriarchal and Sophic milieu. The civilization I am addressing is open, self-gratifying and Materialistic. The dichotomy of the past and present, East and West, spirit and matter; and in my case the element of future due to science make the matter more intensive. That is why I opted for simpilicity and sensuality which are universal; and after all they are integral components of the arts. These elements are the basis of world and past grasping and understanding. They are the basis of my attraction to Yucaton ruins in Mexico, a Navajo village in Colorado and Pergamen Musuem in Berlin. I can integrate in a Turkish village and the Village pub in NY. They relate us to the environment, make us flexible and adapt. They make us the same while we have our differences. Particularly, the marginal people who have rainbow color. the mainstream people follow the same life pattern all over the world in India, China, Egypt, Poland, Cananda. They work, have family, enjoy life, participate in their rituals without questions. However the cone-heads of our civilization each one is different. It is not an accident that they find their counterparts in other countries transcending borders. In a paculiar way in their diversity they contribute to internationlism. By being so many different shades, they seek closeness across borders and facilitate the cause of universality. Iranian Hedayat finds Chec Kafka, German Beethoven finds French Bonapart, .. Millions of these cone-heads never achieve fame, therefore not recorded in our civilization. However they were with us since earliest time. In Greece, Epicurus and Socrtis, In Iran Baba Taher Orian and Mowlavy,.. The mainstreamers perpetuate national life and the marginals cross over the national boundaries. This trend is very visible in London, Paris, NY, Tehran. Various nationalities are mixed and yet keep their identity with their grocery-stores, languages, and diversity. The European snobbishness of the bygoen era is gone. No more mass extermination of the Indians, Aboriginies, or the Africans. They even accept their own differences Scotish Kilt and Swiss shorts and colorful Slavic garmets, languages, and so on. No more cultural eradication of Vietnamese, Arabs, and Sikhs. It is beautiful when in NY or LA or SF so many cultural diversity one can see. I loved A~sh, then Supe, and now Pho. This is in 30 years. Imagine in 100 years how rich our civilization going to be. The table of content is to some extent chronological with topical heading. The topic is the highlight of the period when I remenisce the past. It is no longer walking from home to school. It is like looking from the Mars, my vacilation to and fro in several points: home 1- school, home 2 -school, home 3 -work, etc. ***************** Chapter 2 The Birth My father's mother was a well-built, self-centered, rugged woman. She had colonade legs wrapped in warm tight black pants and a jacket for top. Slow and measured she was in her walking and eating. She would chew the food like a cow regorgetating. She had an Egyptian royal stature, shown in their stone relief. Her sharp short tongue was an effective deterrent for others to reckon with her presence. Her ballance in life kept her from too much talk, emotion and sacrifice. I spent most of my summer breaks with her in the mountain. We used to take a bus to the outskirts of the Capital. Then, rent mules, mount up and go for two days. The narrow trail (mal-row) like a long dusty rope patiently neandering the foothills and valleys, reaching the top through seven defiles (gar-de-neh). Then winding down to the plain with the river spreading a leisurely bed of peples and sands. Every few hours the trail reaches a village with tall featherlike poplars and dark round fruit trees. The villagers on foot pass us by, men with khaki pot hats (ko-la na-ma-dy), exchanging niceties (khoda qovat, aafeet bashe, salamat be). Women wearing colorful flamingo skirts, carrying a big containers on their heads, and looking with a shy curiosity. At night we reach Honey Pass (Sar-e Asal), a tavern hidden in the mountains. Camping out under a tree, with the passing creek's murmur, the birds chirp, and there may be one or two other families next to us, yonder. Early night the milky way was like a white river over my head. In the middle of the night hearing wild calls from distant jackals. Before down a cool breeze touching my face. And at day break, the golden sun rays warming up my face. The mules impatiently hoofing on the ground and chewing the feed (o-loo-feh). We get up and go to the fountain, wash our hands, face and mouth. The chill of the morning would give us a shiver. Breakfast was aromatic and colorful. The samavar steaming with boiled water for sugared tea. The sour-dough, flat bread (la-vash), butter with tart taste and strong aroma, feta cheese white and sharp, a glass of boiled milk, a jar of honey, and some thick creme (tuk). Then, we bundle the mattress, comforter and cylindrical pillows (mo-ta-ka) with linens and put them on the back of the mules, sit on top and go. I always preferred footing than riding. My Grandma groaned about wasting the mule by not riding it. Me, I loved following the gipsy, old man with whiskers and wrinkels on his forehead of white top under the hat and tanned bottom above his eye-brows, the owner of the four-legged beasts who had a vocabulary of several repeating phonemes and curses for the mules. He would use these phonemes to speed up or slow down to halt the mules. He would translate my grandma's wishes for the mules. Grandma sits on back of the mule like Nader shah on top of an elephent- majestic and assured. As a matter of fact her elephentine legs were over my head when I came to help her mount or unmount. For me, the best thing was chasing hoppers with their exotic colored wings. You develop a skill in spotting them which have a khaki color camouflage, approaching them so hunterlike, and catching them in your fist. They ooze out a dark sap and struggle with their sharp, strong hindlegs to open the fist. You carefully unfist one finger at the time from the headside first. Grab the shoulders of the hopper with two fingers of the left hand. You raise it in victory against the Sun. Then the real bounty comes. Spreading the wings against the Sun, gazing at the purple color, even looking directly at the Sun using the wing as a filter. There were other colors in the locust's wings. Me, I loved looking at the wild flowers, brambles, thorns and bushes. They burst into bloom holding to the rocks, and waving in the wind with delight. Butterflies of small or big singly fly gracefully around. Honey bees do the same with roughness. There was one thorny bush, the shepherds use to start fire, called Ge-van. In the farm I'll go to the foothills and collect them by cutting their stems with a mashet (kha-je-reh), picking them, putting them in a bag, bringing them to Grandma; she used them in her tanboor to set fire for cooking and baking. The second day, early evening we reach the farm. Unload the mules, bring the baggage into the porch (Ay-vaan). We go to the fountain, wash up and come to the court-yard, sit in the porch for a hearty dinner of scrambled eggs, cheese, bread, buttermilk (dooq), herbs and nuts. She lights up a lantern (faa-nus). Then, we take our matress (tu-shak) and conforter (la-haaf) and lay the out on the rugs. I crawl into my bed and she in hers. Then, I ask her grany, tell me about genies, paries, aals, duale-pas and others. She will tell me stories of her kins encountering these creatures in the remote parts of the village. these folk-tales of real people and imaginary creatures are in themselves stories similar in the Thousand and One Nights. Since I mentioned the names, let me introduce them in a little details: Jen or genies are a metaphysical image of the village with a lot of counter parts and human relations. They mix with man ocasionally but it is better to stay away from them. Paries (faries) are erotic creatures mostly in pursuit of man seductively. They are beautiful and have seen them and heard them whispering my name. Aals are ver slim tall men, they are after pregnant women or newly born babies. Duale-pas are creatures with their legs twined together and they hop (shlang-andaz). I will tell later of my own and others encounter them. Me, I loved chasing the lone rabbits. Their twiking nozzles and fast hopping tested my speed. Other rodents, snakes and frogs were not that far away. With other cousines, we set a dam against the river. Lift the stones around and set them up. The heavier ones on the river bed, the smaller ones on top. The location was already known due to sandy bottom and depth; however, every spring the river over flows and breaks the dam apart. We repeat the task every year. My cousin with big hairy shoulders sits against the flow and the water played with the hair like wind with green wheat field. We, the younger ones jumped, paddled, and float like beavers. The sun was hot, the river was brilliant and we were like a flees on the knot going up and down. The Southern- flowing river is in the valley where on the West was a tall hill with a flat top, Malekupa. Around the banks are plum (alu), apple, and walnut orchards with spress and yonjeh, the feed for the cattle. Some nights on the way of irrigating (owpay) we come to the dam with my cousins. In the moonlight, the river is like a flowing diamond mass. The sparkle, the murmur, the white/blue color, the chill surrounded by the soft-colored trees. We bring a basket (chal-k) made of weeping willows shoots. Remove a few stones in the middle of the dam, set the basket there. ans wait on river bank. We colloect twiks and set a small fire. Using school paper and dried donkey dong (kha-re-gu), wrap up cigarettes, light them up with a branch glowing at one end, passing it around taking a puff. The bring in the fish the size of sardines and pass stick of weeping willows through them like shish-kebab. Holding them on the glowing chars, then eating them, lying down around the red glowing fire, they will talk about jins and paries. The Moon high above lighting the valley with the shades of mystery and distant birds qooing and the beasts screaming. The river is sourced at the snow-capped mountains to the north of the village. Once a summer a group of us cousins take a full day and go up to foot of the mountain with another village sitting there like the magic city of Shahrzad. The walls are coated with white chalk (gel). not many trees in this village, the windows reflect sunlight like magic. Climbing the valley following a river which is almost dries up in the summer. The village looks like a flying carpet rolled out at the foot of the mountain, white and dazzling. We had some distant relative there. they would give us bread and cheese, herbs and duq, and hugs and well-wishes. We head back and down hill we run like bumble weed in the wind. Somewhere, up the river, there is pluff or a wall of white clay where pigons have nest. The villagers get their gel from this wall. We climb up with danger of the layered wall collapsing to reach the nests. We never did find eggs. However, onetime a layer under our feet colapsed, we fell down like babylonian fort guards under the arrows of Cyrus the great's archers. Elbows and shanks were bruised, lymping we made it home. The wounds were washed with Mercury-Chrome, giving sharp burns. There is a shrine of a Saint under a lone almond tree on the slope of hill (katal). It takes one day to go there and return. We got on the trail early morning and were there at midday. The almond tree on the slope of the hill was the Saint himself in green robe (qa-baa) from afar. It was a dark dot on the khaki slope. Under the tree, the mud and stone shrine with cool inside is an adobe in the barren nowhere. The tree is the solitaire saint in a mystic state looking at the elements, every particle in the body of the saint dispersed in the leaves, barks and nuts. The Sun, snow, rain, wind and dust will carry the particles of the saint to the distant reaches, where red poppies and wild flowers are fed with petrified parts of the tree. It is a constant change in placement and no change in the constant particles. The village is in the valley of hills at foot of the snow-capped mountains. There are several fountains with cool water in the summer and warm water in the winter. Our spring was flowing fron under a big, black bolder. There are several large stones and a small pond under where we squat on the stones to get fresh water. It taste delisious and digest the food like a flour mill. In two-three hours we get hungry. Climb up fruit trees and pick cheries, apples, plums (a-lu), aprocut (shlaa-nok), mullberries, walnuts, hazelnuts, big plums (pay-van-di), black cherries (gil-aask), big approcuts (qay-si), pears (khoj). Or make ahole in the ground and bake potatoes yanked out of the fields, or cucumbers picked from the garden (jaa-leez). Then, there were birds, fish, and rabbits to kebab and eat. Or, go by one of the uncles, aunts, and other relatives get flat bread and cheese rolled like a barrito. Or spend the lunch in a cousin's house and have warm food such as soup and yugourt (du'aash), rice and toppings (po-lo kho-resh), stew (qe-lia), sunny-side up eggs and herbs (sab-zi), yugort, bread, dried mullberry, nuts,and fruits, or flat dried sheets of fruits. The wedding takes seven nights and seven days. Khaa-se-gary, shir-ni-kho-raan, ha-naa-ban-daan, a-ru-si, naar-za-naan, ham-maam, za-faaf. The Public bath in the morning is for the groom and his male relatives. It has big hot pool, where you climb several stairs to get to the oppening then get into the pool with the rest of the male family. Each naked with piece of 2 by 1 foot lenon (lowng) around the thighs. It is steamy and there is a sky-light (dar-jee) in the center of ceiling. After khees-khordan, kee-se-ke-shi, lee-fo-saa-bun, qosl in the pool, you come out to the paa-shu-ye to dry up with towel and dip your feet one at the time in the little cold pond, dress up and come outside. After bath, the cheeks are like pomogranate and shiney. In a procession we go to the groom's father's house. There is a band of gypsies playing sorna and drum accompanying us. The passion play (ta-zi-ye) had a troope travelling from village to village. They make 2 or 3 stops here every summer. All male cast with authentic attire and armors. Day time the sorna player and drummer stand on the tallest roof-top and play their tune so the villagers know the troope is here. The day performance is in the court-yard of the masjid. The masjid has three main parts. A large room with a manbar and some rugs where aaqaa sings religous songs and lectures on the saint's unhappy lives. The room has a curtain in the center where women sit behind the curtain and wail, while the men sit close to the roster and shake their head in sympathy with the saints. Then, hot-tea and sugar-cubes are served. Aaqaa drinks qandaab (sweetened boiled water). The court-yard has a mullberry tree in the center and through Ayvaan connects to the hall. On the second side of the yard there is shelf with big samavars boiling and tea-pots sending aroma in all direction. An old man sitting in the Ayvaan, puffing into his home made tobaco pipe, made of cherry wood. Another one lights up a cigarette, and the third one inhales qalyaan. Their faces is bronse color with namad hats the shape of a pot on their head. The children running up and down being restless. The teen-agers sit by the curtains and try to reach the girls on the other side. The play takes place in the yard. People sit in the Ayvaan and on the roof and on the to of the mud wide-walls. There is some fencing between the villains and the saint. The saint reciting long poems listing his forefathers and their good deeds. He has a scrole (tu-maar) in his sleeve and palm. We boo at the villain and sometimes through peples at him. The mother of the saint sits in a corner, sings sadly about the cruelty of the time, the loss of a dear one, and the widow-hood. The villain with hood (khud) and dagger runs around in victory. One time there was a friction between them. In one scene the saint was under a table topped with linon and a whole in the center where the head of the saint was out. In previous act the saint was slained and the head was set on the table to talk about an imminant vengence (taqaas). The villain stick his sword in the nose of the saint. While boasting about his power. It itched the nose so bad that the saint wispered some curses at him. He exacebated and kept tickling the nose. It became so unbearable the saint risen with table on his shoulders chasing the villain, circling the tree. The villain fled through the door and us children ran after him and then dogs barking and following us. The villain with his sword wavering in the air at the head of the line. The play at night was on rooftop of half a dozen houses. The roof was rugged and the lanterns (faa-nus) gave a mild light to the scene. Again there was singing and recitation, fights and crying. It was the description of the villagers life with the basic ingredients of injustice, death, vengence, and wailing. We have a ball because now there was no curtain. Families sit on the rug and we could run around tease the girls and watch and listen all at the same time. At the end of the play, a group of us get together and go to raid an orchard with grafty fruits of better taste, bigger size or otherness. The orchards are walled by a thorny bush (parchin). The bush is like Christmas tree planted in a row all around the lot with a locked wooden gate. We make a small hole under the bush crawl in, climb up the tree, pick the fruits, put them in our shirts. Then leave to a peaceful place and eat the fruits. The nights could be peach-black (zolemaan). We knew the way so well that we enter the target orchard and climb the tree. Sometimes, the owner, an old man with no teeth, hears the noise and stands in his porch airing out the worst profanities. He was scared to come to the orchard. One cuss I remember was "Aahaay, javaan bomardaan! Shlanokaan haraametaan! Sibaan yeki yeki be kosse nanetaan.." All the fruits you are stealing, one by one, in the cunt of your mothers.. There was a little run (ju), collecting drips from the rocks into a clear run, with exotic little wild plants on both sides. Part of the run had a red clay bed, soft like yogurt. I take an apple, pass a twick through the stem and around its equitorial a row of throns (parchin, like tooth-picks). I stick two Y-twicks on the two sides of the run, and let the water turn the apple by falling on the tooth-picks. This was called aa-be-dang. The apple wheel turning was fascinating. The weapon we had was sling shot (kesh-to-fang), a tool to catepult a stone at a bird. It was a Y-part from a tree, with two strips of rubber from bicycle tybes tied to tops. The other ends of the rubbers were attached to a peice of leather taken from anbaan, the sheep-skin, used for extracting butter from sour-milk. Here, we made everything. There were three items from the outside: matches, tea, and keroscene. The shoes (gi-veh) were made of old pants beaten into the sole, the top was woven together. Grandma had a flock of sheep in the mountain. The shepherd would send her wool, cheese in a sheep-skin, and gormeh (minced lamb meet, sauted in fat. This was enough to last all winter. The wool will be washed, cleaned (had some wild seeds stuck) and stranded. Then she will put a strand around her wrist and with a foot long spindle (chel) she will make thin canvas strings. The string is turned to a big clump, to be used in knitting socks, gloves, sweaters, and vests. She used natural dies to color the wool. The walnuts shells have a permenant dark brown die, rhubarb has purple color, poppies have dark die, suger-beets gave red and others. The die was also used to color the wool for rugs. They beat the wool under water into namad. She had a loom in the portch were she also wove bed-spread (chaa-dor shab). I had two aunts, one married, the other one staying with grandma. The marriage of the older aunt with blue eyes will be described later. The younger aunt had several friends. At dawn, we go to the fields (Maz-ra) to pick roses for grandma to make rose-water (gol-aab) used in pastry and halva. Haaji-daadaash with his wife, two daughters and two sons lived by the spring. Safuraa was a the younger girl, with dark and bush eyebrows and big hazel eyes. In the fields at dawn the dew so heavy that Safuraa would piggy back me for my shoea not to get wet. We pick wild roses, put them in baskets (chal-k). I don't remember the process of making rose-water, but I remember the bottles sitting on the shelf (raf). The room was cube with round edges, 3 doors, 2 windows and a skylight with ni glasses. It had a small shelf, where salt was stored with fresh eggs kept in there. There were cavities into the wall (raf), where my father as a fireball (shay-tun) cross from one to the next wall using the cavities. He also jumped between tow roofs over the alley, where noone has done that yet. He teased girls a lot, they trusted him. However, his brother was not trusted among the girls. The house had three quarters, a yard, a room with a porch, three closets (pastu) one leading into another, into a big room (khaa-neh), and the barn. It was built by the grandpa and my father and helpers. They used clay-straw mixture molded into thick tiles and dried under the Sun. The walls were 4-5 feet (va-jab) thick. The ceiling had poplar beams and twiqs with clay-straw to make a thick, flat roof. The used stone-roller (bum-qal-tun) after each snow/rain and shovelled the snow in the morning. Grandma and the girls (I had two aunts) go to the querry wall by the River get white-chalkish clay, mix it with hourse menure and water, to paint the walls. A water-repellant and sun-reflector coating. Both rooms had skylights (dar-jee) in the ceiling. Our room had two windws with no glass and three doors, one to the porch, one to the closet, and one to the alley with a western panorama of the valley, hills and the sky. The two-some square doors had arch (taaq) on top. the entrance door into the yard had a wooden-lock (klun). The walls around the yard had a flat top of 4 feet wide, made of poplar branches and clay-straw. The barn had a door to the alley with a whole under the threshold for chickens to go in and out. At dusk grandma would call her chickens feed the some wheat grains and push them into the barn. The a big round stone (qol-veh-sang)is shoved into the hole to keep the fox out. Our toillet was in the alley by an old mullberry tree, with the largest, greenest, freshest leaves in the village. The fruits were big mullberries (ro-tab) compared to another tree around the bend with soapy fruits (reshk). The tree was cut on top and had healthy off-shoots, was used for hanging a bag (gu-ny) for door. The toillet had a deep whole in the center with two black stones (khaa-raa) where we put our feet to squat. We used a picher (aaf-taa-be) to wash. However, you had to go to the spring, fill up the picher, bring in, then squat. At night we took a lantern (faa-nus). In the spring, the farmers (ray-yat) empty out the whole and use it in the herb garden. The herb garden had the followings: tarakhoon, tarah, garlic, shanbelileh, zafran, dill (shi-bid), parsly, mint (na-naa), ray-haan, tarteezak, onion, radishes (to-rob), sharqam, spinach (spin-aaj), beets (cho-qon-dar), ruhbarb (ree-vaas). Every day graney goes to the plain (sahraa) to weed (wee-jeen), water (eau), and pick (chin) the vegetables (sab-zee). She cleaned, washed and cut them; used some in the soup-stew (du'-aash), dried some for winter (zam-is-taan). In the mid-summer, we get a long stick (al-am-be), a bed-spread (chaa-dor-shab), a basket (cha-lk), and the mashet (kha-je-rah); and go to the orchard by the river. On the way, graney told me the following story (naql): There was a mother-bear with two cubs, named Abu and Babu, went to the thicket (bee-sheh) to eat konos, a dellicious brown fruit, the size of kiwi. Inside it has half a dozen seeds and tastes like Bavarian creme puff. The went andt went until they got to konos tree. The picked up the fallen ones on the ground. Then, mother bear climbed up the tree, shook a limb at the time, came down, and saw the cubs already ate all the konos. She climbed up again, shook another limb, came down. Saw all the konos on the ground were gone. She went yonder, dug a hole, put the cubs in the hole, put the dirt on their head, and said to herself, now I can eat some. Climbed up the tree, shook yet another branch, came down, ate them. She repeated until it was getting dark. Then she came to the filled hole, ruffled the dirt with her paws, and unearthed the cubs. They were motionless. She toss them up and down, hugged them, shook them. No, they didn't move. The mother bear put the cubs on her shoulder, moaning and wailing back to her cave, refraining: "Abu o Babu, babam ku? Bapote konos zahram bu." The spring and fall flood chewed into the land, with some of the plum trees roots hanging in the air. They were awesome reflection of the branches in the dried up river. There are three types of plums, alu, gojeh (large and juicy), payvandy. If they are sour, called sag-alu (dog-plum). Payvandy is a hybrid, larger and meaty. She puts the spread under a tree, asks me to climb up, shake it, then use the stick to reach the far braches. She gathers the fruits and puts them in the baskets. Then from under the the tree, she would point to branch with a plum on it saying, "ba-be-jaan, yekim anja dara." I'll come down from one limb to the trunk to climb up the branch using the stick trying to cut the stem. The branch under my feet broke and I landed flat on my back on the grass, motionless with arrested breath. She came to my head, rubbing my little hands, calling my name. I was unconscious, she start moaning (shi-van), "babe-jaan paayos beeshim. Babe-jaanam mord, az dast raft, in gojeaan zaram bu.." In a few minutes I gained consciousnes, and opened my eyes, her big head was close to my face, with the big tree above us like a peacock tail and the sky blue and reachable. She took a piece of nabaat from her char-qad covering her hair against dust. Put the crystal candy in my mouth. The helped me to get up, we took our tools, she put the basket on top of her head. I used to play with the stick, riding it, probing into the plants, sticking in the creek, or hitting braches of other trees. She used the alu for drying and making thin layers (lavaashat). We had them over the wall (chi-ne) to dry under the Sun. Every day I had to climb up the gate to get to the chineh and turn them around so the bottom side get brown too. The juice, fermented and warm, was very different from fresh alu. Eventually, they dry up, she will bag them for winter, used in the aash or stew. We had a payvandi orchard in the thicket (bee-sheh), there were water all over since it was at the bottom of the hill with water fountains. The wooden gate (aazengalah)was at the end of a paa-vaaz and the lot had a thick thorny bushes around. In the Southern side, right at the boundary there was a spring with water clear as the tears. Every now and then, Gradma asked me take a little shovel and follow her to the orchard. I follow her to the spring. She tells me that, "again this Quch-Ali," an old man with no teeth and foul mouth," has violated the property line; push the thorn bushes back two feet (vajab)." Years later, I realized that they push the bushes into the Grandma's property in the morning when they come to spring to washup; had nothing to do with violating property line. One night several cousines, after a taaziah on the rooftop, we went to Qooch-Ali's Orchard. Jumped over the parchin bushes, climbed up the black-cherry, appercot, and apple trees, picked some, put into our shirts, over the belt. We were like pandas holding to the tree trunks, when the owner heard us. His nerves were extra keen after a night event like wedding, taaziah, or abyaree (hand irrigation). Standing in his balakhaneh (balcony), yelling and cusing. One famous line was "all those fruits, one by one into your mother's cunt." We fell heavy like skonks, ran as rabbits and jumped over the thorny fence like kangroos. At a distance we still could hear his refrains about mothers, sisters and fruits. The stars up above were chrisp and the milky way was like a white river in the blue sky. The Moon was a golden tray hanging in there. the soft moonlight shone on the harvest. We head for the sahrah. The wheat and jow were cut, thrushed, and the straw were piled up high. It was chilly, and we unloaded the fruits on the ground, headed straight for the straw and dug in - only our heads were out. Each season had remnant of the past and the rlics of the next season. I noticed also resemblance between all of them. In winter it snowed, little pieces of cotton falling down. In spring it was the pollen and petals. In the summer it was fruits and nuts; and in the fall, it was all the leaves on the trees top the sound of the blowing winds. In the 50's there was bus sevice to Abyak, past Karaj; then to Assal where there were coal mines all around; then to Samqabad/ Abrahimabad with grape-vines. After that travelers hired mules to get to their distination. Then there was a truck ride from Samqabad (Sap-village) to the Shahrak. The first machine driven to Koolaj was by Abas who drove a Jeep to the village. Now, there is a black-top road all the way to the village. One time I was with a cousine who was studying architecture in Vienna and visiting parents for the summer. We were walking on the dirt road where the rain and spring water from the hills were cutting the road into a ladder-like way. He noticed that in Auatria, they dig a ditch on the mountain side of the road to lead the water away from the road. Then, he asked why they don't do it here? Later, I found the answer. The roads are contracted to people from the arid South who work there in the summer. The rain comes in spring and fall, when they are not there any more. In the fall, grandma gets several sheep-hides (khik) full of mountain cheese and gourmeh (minced mitton fried and salted). They were used in winter. In the summer she slaughter sheep and divide it with neighbors when they reciprocate later. There was no refrigiration. Qormeh was tasty, and with aroma due to some of the mountaine hers when sauted with onion in an omlette. The white cheese looked granular like blue cheese but with sharp taste and aroma due to Gorz (a mountain herb). We rolled a lavash (buritto bread), inside cheese and tarreh, tarkhoon. The sour dough conditioned us permanently. When later in Kansas where there were no sour dough bread; I lost my liking of the bread, thinking American bread notastes like straw. The notion was corrected in Sausalitto when I had sour dough bread tasting good. There is a public bath half way between the upper and lower village. It is another mud structure with willow trees around it. It has jacusi (khazineh) where after kiseh-keshi with rushur and lif o soap we go inside for a rinse (qosl). In the closet (rakht-kan) we take off our cloth and wear a lenon (long). The oven under the jacusi uses logs to burn. The water had the color of terip (siraby). The bath was steamy and a two-step stair leads to the openning of the hot tub. Inside we stand around the wall, for the bottom-center on top of the oven is hot. There is a cold fountain (pashuye) for rinsing feet. It is open all day, before noon for men and afternoon for women, with children divided in gender. The bath was a focal point in weddings. Folks believed that a pregnant (zahoo) woman should not be there alone; for Aals will harm her. An Aal is a slim, tall man who eats liver (joft a bacheh, plethora) with a white robe on. In the valley of the river there is the fertile cucamber fields. The evening and dawn dews make the cucmbers chrisp and juicy. The owner of one field had a teen ager girl, called zoleykha. One of my cousines was teen ager boy called Razee. He was adventurous and dare-devil. The next village up the river knew him as the younger Satan. He was fast, cunning, and fisty. One night after a wedding we went down the hill to the fields (jaleez). He took a black sheep skin and a bag (guny). Put the skin over his back and crawled into the field like an oar (goraz), picking cucambers, filling the bag. The field-owner's daughter saw the black skin in the field, tried to chase the beast. Razee lost his cool (betab) and jumped at her and pushed her against the wet furrows (karts), touching her thighs and pressing himself against her strong horizontal. It was dark (zolemat) with no moon. We were under the willows (veed) hearing their heavy breathing and moaning and graoning. then, he got up took the bag and walked toward us. I went to their field next day to see who is this girl who made my cousin forget his mission and try to please to the calling of her heart-strings that play soft and low amodst whisper and hush. She still had mud stain on her pretty flaminco/gipsy dress with black pants under. She had attached, thick, black eyebrows over her big black eyes. Her nose was like the tip of dagger pointing up with lush lips like yaqut (zaphire) her face with high chick bones were rosy and tan. A long neck and a V sitting on a Q was her upper body. She was like qazal standing on her hind feet gracefully, delicately and playfully. I could have fallen in love with not just one heart but 100 hearts in the first sight... One afternoon I was comming from the river-dam for swimming (she-naa-kon-ja) I decided to go thru the cherry orchid of one of my uncles. I had my trunk over my head to dry and going quitly up the river bank not perturbing the birds so I could see their colorful feathers. Amidst the young trees with glossy, red stem used for Persian long tobacco pipes I saw a white patterned with small flowers veil spread on the ground under the veil of the cherry trees. there was a wife of one relative who was from Tehran with one my cousin, Khosrow (Cesar) reclined and talking. She was snow white fleshy woman, he was olive bronze with strong muscular features. I heard the rumar that she had an affair with Cesar. Now, I coud see her Venus like flesh white knees and her full lushous bossoms busting out like Persian mellons in the donkey-bags (khorjin). She was spread out like one the sculptures of the Godess under the light passing thru the transparent leaves of the cherry trees as if the floral pattern of her veil was tattooed softly on the plaster of her cottony thighs. My eyes were like two flash lights focusing on the fuzzy parts where the has never shone. I could still smell the woman's odor which was like a beehive with invisible bees emanting to get to my nose. I sat down and looked at the interplay of light, color, and flesh. ******************** Chapter 14 Virginia 12/18/93 It is Sunday; full of sunshine and clearity. The stripped down trees enhance the visibilty. I drove to Gaithersburg to see the Uncle - to walk around the lake in the Montgomery Village. He is large in many respects, with the extremes of emotion. His sister's son, married with a daughter and another one on the way, died in a car accident in the Provencial France. posted by Sam at 1:11 PM Tuesday, November 26, 2002 SUFISM The Sufi, through creative expression, remembers and invokes the Divine order as it resides in a hidden state within all forms. To remember and to invoke, in this sense, are the same; to act on a form so that that which is within may become known. The Sufi thus re-enacts the process of creation whereby the Divine came to know itself. The receptacle in which the creation is re-enacted may be an external form such as an artifact, or it may be the life form of the mystic that is transformed. Here the very soul of the Sufi-to-be reaches towards the Divine center through the mystic Quest. Divine Spirit Divine Spirit Arc Arc of of Descent Ascent Mystic Quest Human soul Human soul According to the followers of the Sufi path, Sufism in its essence is timeless; but its historical manifestation begins with the descent of the Quran. Some sources trace the origin to an incident that occurred to the Prophet Mohammed. One day, while he was teaching the verse, 'God created the seven heavens', a special meaning of this verse was revealed to him. Ibn 'Abbas, the great transmitter of his Traditions, who was present, was later asked what the Prophet has said. Ibn' Abbas answered, 'if I were to tell you, you would stone me to death.' Through this allusion to the inner meaning of things, the meaning that is not comprehensible to all, the inner path to God was opened. The Companions of the Prophet were devout men who performed acts of meditation and constant remembrance of the Divine through its Names and through repetition of the text of the Quran; and after the death of the Prophet this group spread and trained disciples. The name of Sufi was still unknown. At the beginning of the eighth century AD (2nd Islamic century), these ascetics came to be known as Sufis. The derivation of this word is not known for certain. It may come from the word meaning 'wool', referring to the rough woolen garments they wore; it may come from the word meaning 'purity'. Some say the word stems from 'line', referring to the people who prayed in a line directly behind the Prophet. Still others among the Sufis themselves say the word is too sublime to be derived from anything. In another Tradition of the Prophet, his Ascent or Night Journey is described in part in the following manner: 'On my spiritual ascent I was taken to Paradise. I was placed before the door of a house. Gabriel was at the door. I asked to be let in. Gabriel said, "I am only a servant of God. You must pray to God if you want the door to be opened," and so I did. God said, "I open the door only to those who are most beloved. You and your followers are most dear," and the door was opened. Inside I saw a casket made of white pearls. I asked Gabriel to open the box. He told me only God could do so. I asked of God, and the box was opened. God said, "That which the box contains will be held for you and your progeny." The box contained two things: spiritual poverty and a cloak. When I descended, I brought the cloak with me and I put it on 'Ali's shoulders, and after 'Ali his children will wear it.' Special emphasis in Sufism is given to the forty Sacred Traditions, in which the Divine speaks in the first person singular through the Prophet, although they are not part of the Quran. The numerous commentaries made upon the Quran by the individual Sufis, and the Tradition concerning the Prophet, are also essential Sufi sources of doctrine. The books of the saying of the Shiite Imams are important, especially those of 'Ali, the first Imam of Shiism, which brings Shiite Islam very close to Sufism. Another important source is the great wealth of Sufi poetry, above all the Mathnawi of Jalal al-Din Rumi, which has been described as virtually a Persian commentary upon the Quran. Sufism also assimilated concepts through texts that preceded it in time. The criterion for assimilation was that the foreign element preserved and supported the central doctrine of the Unity of Being. The Enneads of Plotinus, for instance, was the most complete metaphysical text to reach Islam from the Greeks; and Plotinus was known to Muslims as the 'Shaykh' or spiritual master. Teachings of the Pythagoreans, especially Niomachus, were also assimilated. The writings of Empedocles on cosmology and the sciences of nature received much attention. The Hermetic writings of the first to fourth centuries AD, preserving the inner dimension of the traditions of Egypt and Greece, were translated into Arabic; one treatise that appears over and over again is the Pomanders attributed to Hermes Trismegistus, the founder of Hermeticism. Hermes is traditionally related to Enoch, and appears in the Quran as the Prophet Idris. Zorastrianism, the religion of ancient Iran, also influenced Sufism. The twin concepts 'There is law in Nature. There is conflict in Nature' helped to develop the great Sufi cosmological themes. The Master of illumination, Shihab al-Din Yahya Suhrraawardi, extended certain Zoroastrian ideas in his angelology of lights. Sufism spiritualized myths and legends from pre-Islamic times, from Persian, Arabic and other sources, by expounding their inner significance. Stories about the Buddha were assimilated: Avicennna based his story 'Salman and Abssal' on them. Returning to Quranic sources, the major Old Testament prophets and the sayings of David and Solomon were very important to Islam in general and to Sufism. The Virgin Mary, and the miracle of the Virgin birth of Christ, the Word of God, as contained in the Quran, are important Sufi symbols of aspects of the Truth: for the birth of the Word to the Virgin Mary is as the birth of the Word to the unlettered Prophet. The miracle of Islam is the Quran, as the miracle of Christianity is the Christ. Expressions of the Mystic Quest Laleh Bakhtiar, Sufi, posted by Sam at 3:38 PM Samad Behrangy The Black Fish 2 "We are trapped in the pelican's bag," she shouted. "But it isn't hopeless yet." The tiny fishes started crying and screaming. One of them said, "We have no way out and its all your fault. You are the one that deceived us and led us off the right path. Now he's going to swallow us and we'll all be done for." All of a sudden, the sound of ghoulish laughter thundered through the water. The pelican was laughing and saying, "What tiny fishes I have caught. I feel truly sorry for you. Ha.. ha...I really don't want to swallow you." The tiny fishes fell down begging. "Your Excellency, Mr. Pelican, we have heard so much about you. If you would be so kind as to open your blessed mouth just a little bit so we can get out, we would be thankful to your noble being forever." The pelican said, "I don't want to swallow you right away. But I have enough fish saved. Look underneath you." A few fish, large and small, lay dead at the bottom of the bag. The little fish said, "Your Excellency, Mr. Pelican, we have done nothing. We are innocent. It is this black fish who has deceived us." The little black fish cried, "You cowards, do you really believe that this conniving bird will let you go that you beg him like that?" "You don't know what you are talking about," they cried. "You will see in a while how this Excellency forgives us and swallows you." Then the pelican said, "Yes, I will forgive you, but under one condition." "Surely, just tell us," they answered. Then the pelican said, "Choke this nosy black fish. Then you will be freed." The little black fish swam into a corner and said, "Don't accept it. This crafty bird wants us to fight each other. I have a plan..." But the tiny fish were so concerned about getting out of the pelican's bag they would not listen. They rushed toward the black fish and she retreated farther into the side of the bag. "You cowards," she said softly, "you are trapped anyway. You have no way to escape and you are not big enough to overwhelm me." But they shouted back, "We must choke you. We want our freedom." "Are you out of your minds?" the little fish cried. "Even if you choke me you won't be freed. Don't be fooled by him." "Listen, I will prove it to you. I will go down among the dead fishes and pretend that I am dead also. Then we will see whether he frees you or not." Then, drawing the dagger the lizard had given her, she said, "Accept what I've proposed or I'll kill you with this and tear the bag and escape myself." "That's enough of your nonsense," one of the tiny fish wailed. "I can't stand it any longer .. boo .. hoo .. boo .. hoo," he cried uncontrollably. "Good grief, that's all we need," shouted the little fish over his crying. "Why did you bring this cry baby along?" Then she held out her dagger and they had no choice but to accept her plan. They pretended to fight a while. Then the black fish pretended to be dead. Then the other fish went up and said to the pelican, "Your Excellency, Mr. Pelican, we have choked her. The little black fish is dead." The pelican laughed and said, "You did a good job. Now to reward you for your work, I will swallow you all alive, and let you take a good tour of my belly." The tiny fish had no time to do anything. Like an electric current, they passed through the pelican's throat. But the black fish pulled her dagger and with one blow tore the wall of the bag and escaped through the hole. The pelican screamed from pain and plunged his head into the water. But he could not follow the black fish. She swam and swam without stopping. Now the mountains and valley had vanished and the river was passing through a plain. From left and right smaller rivers were joining and the waters were becoming even more deep. The little fish was enjoying this abundance of water when she suddenly came to realize that the river had no bottom (or at least she couldn't see one). She swayed this way and that way, without hitting anything. There was so much water that she was lost in it. She darted in every direction her heart desired; still she didn't come up against anything. Suddenly, she saw a long animal swimming toward her like a lightning streak. The sword fish with his double-edged blade. The little fish thought she would surely be sliced in half at any second. Only a quick dodge saved her and she soared to the top of the water. After a little while she went down again to look for the bottom. On her way down, she met a school of fish, thousands and thousands of them. She asked one of them, "Friend, I am a stranger. I have come a long way. Where am I?" This fish called to his friends and said, "Look, another one." Then he turned to the little black fish and said, "Friend, you are welcomed to the sea." Another one said, "All the rivers and streams end here. Of course some of them pour into the swamps." "Any time you like, you can join our group," said another. The little black fish was thrilled that she had reached the sea. She spoke with so much excitement that the other fish laughed at her and asked her to speak more slowly. Finally, she said, "Before I join your group, I'd like to look around. And oh, yes, I do want to be with you the next time you pull the fisherman's net into the sea!" "You will soon have your wish," one of the old fish said. "Go and look around first. But be careful if you go to the top of the water. The seagull is becoming quite bold these days. There hasn't been a single day that he hasn't hunted four or five of us." The little fish took leave of the sea fish and started to swim about on her own. After a bit she came to the surface of the water. A warm sun was shining and she felt its burning heat on her back. Softly and happily she paddled on the surface of the water humming a song she had learned in her village. She thought to herself, "All the streams and rivers flow here and make the sea. Separately, they haven't much strength; but together, they are a mighty ocean. In the same way, all the fish that have found the sea started out alone and afraid. But together they, too, are mighty. I want to live as long as I can. But even if I die, I will be happy knowing that my brothers and sisters are together in the sea. Already they are stronger than the fisherman and no matter how many are eaten by the swordfish and the seagull, there will always be many, many others left to carry on the fight. Some day, when all the courageous little fish in all the little streams of the world have joined them, they will be so strong that even their worst enemies will not dare to try to hurt them. Then all fishes will be truly free." She was deep into these thoughts when she suddenly felt herself being swept out of the water. The seagull had come from behind her and had caught her in his beak. She began to struggle wildly to save herself. But it was useless. The seagull had clamped her waist so hard that the life was almost squeezed out of her. After all, how long can a little fish live out of water? She wished that the seagull would swallow her, because at least, in the wetness of his belly she might live a few minutes longer. "Why don't you swallow me alive?" she asked him. I'm one of those fish whose dead body becomes poisonous." The seagull said nothing but thought to himself, "This little clever one, what is she up to? She wants me to start talking so she can escape." The shore was visible in the distance. They got closer and closer to it. The little black fish knew that when they reached the shore she would be done for. So she said, "I know you want to take me to your babies but I'll be dead before you get there and what's more, I'll be just like a bag of poison. You should at least think of your children." "Hmm," the seagull thought. "Precaution is a good thing. I'll eat her myself and hunt another fish for my babies. But, let's see now, could there be some trick to this?" He was thinking about these things when he noticed that the little black fish's body was going limp and motionless. "Is she dead now?" he thought. "If she is, I can't eat her myself anymore. Why have I wasted such a good fish for no reason!" So she called to her captive, "Say, little one, do you still have some life in you so I can eat you myself. Answer me, I..." But in the middle of the sentence, the little fish made a quick jump out of the seagull's moving beak. She was falling through the air and the seagull was diving down after her. The little fish opened her dry little mouth to the wet wind over the water. But no sooner had she hit the water and caught her breath than the seagull plunged into the water and, this time swallowed her so quickly that, for several seconds she had no idea what was happening to her. She only sensed that everywhere was damp and dark and that there was no way out. There was also a sound; it was the sound of crying. When her eyes got used to the dark, she saw a very tiny fish huddled in a corner and crying for his mother. She went up to him and said, "You little one, why do you cry and ask for your mother? Stand up and think of a solution!" "Who are you, anyway?" asked the tiny fish. "Can't you see what trouble I'm in? Wa-a-a-h mamma." The little fish said, "Really, that's quite enough. Do you want to ruin the reputation of all fishes by crying so much?" The tiny fish stopped crying, almost at once. The little black fish smiled at him and said, "We must kill the seagull to free every fish from this danger. You will have to be very brave." "But we are dying," replied the tiny fish sadly. "How can we kill the seagull?" Then the little fish showed him her dagger and told him she would cut open the seagull's stomach from the inside. "Now listen carefully," she said. "You must start running around every which way. That will tickle him and make it difficult for him to laugh and fly at the same time." As instructed, the tiny fish started to tickle the seagull and she began laughing furiously, while, the little fish began cutting through the side of the stomach. "As soon as I've finished," she cried to her friend, "you jump out, okay?" The tiny fish, amazed at how his tickling the seagull had affected the giant bird said, "Okay, but let's make sure he is done for before we leave!" Now the little fish had cut a hole big enough for the tiny fish to escape from. When he ran by her, she grabbed him and pushed him out. But she herself, continued to stab the seagull. A few seconds later, the tiny fish was in the water. He waited and waited but he saw no sign of the little black fish. Then he saw the seagull twisting and screaming and finally he saw his legs jerking and he started to fall toward the shore. The tiny fish saw that the seagull did not more at all as he fell. He was dead, at last! But there was still no sign of the little fish. "And to this day, children," said the old grandfather, "there has been no sign of her." Then he stood up and said to his twelve thousand children and grandchildren, "and now that our story is over, it's time for all little fish to be in bed. Go to sleep now, children." The children said, "But Grandpa, you didn't tell us what happened to the tiny fish!" "Good heavens," replied the grandfather. "That's quite a story in itself. We'll leave that for tomorrow night. Now it's time to sleep. Good night." Eleven thousand, nine hundred and ninety-nine little fish said good night and went to sleep. The grandmother and grandfather went to sleep also. But one little red fish, no matter how hard he tried, just couldn't fall asleep. The whole night long, he lay awake, thinking about the sea. posted by Sam at 3:24 PM