جمعه، مرداد ۳۱، ۱۳۸۲

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

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