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NO EXIT
recent
Iranian poems
1. Ahmad Shamlou (1925-2000)
NO EXIT
They smell
your mouth
to find out if you might have spoken
words of love to anyone.
They sniff at your heart.
Such a strange time it is, my dearest...
And they punish
love
at intersections
by flogging.
We must hide our love in dark wardrobes.
In this twisted impasse, in the bitter chill
they keep their fires alive
by burning our songs and poems.
Do not risk your life by thinking!
Such a strange time it is, my dearest...
They knock on
your door at midnight,
to smash your lamp.
We must hide our lights in dark wardrobes.
Look! butchers haunt the thoroughfares
with their bloodstained knives and cleavers.
Such a strange time it is, my dearest...
They cut off
the smiles from lips,
they cut out the songs from throats.
We must hide our feelings in dark wardrobes.
They barbecue nightingale-tongues
on fires of jasmines and lilacs.
Such a strange time it is, my dearest...
Drunk with his
victory,
gluttonous evil has gate-crashed
our funeral feast.
We must hide the word in dark wardrobes.
This is how people treat love
from
ON THE PAVEMENT
Who was I ?
Who ?
The silenced owl
gone into hiding,
trapped
in the nest
of his own
unshifting sorrow.
translated by Anthony Weir
2. Shahnaz A'lami (1921-2003)
left Iran after the
Anglo-American overthrow of Iran's first elected leader, Dr Mossadeq,
in 1953
and the subsequent BP/CIA-backed coup d'état of the last, some
would say upstart, Shah.
EXILE or THE MAGIC SUITCASE
I took a suitcase
with me
- light, so very light:
two or three
sets of baby clothes,
a white georgette-silk gown,
a blurred photograph
of my mother,
wearing an old-style headdress,
and a complete
set of things
for the Persian New Year celebrations.
Let me remind
you:
these were what I had -
or rather, what people thought I had -
in the suitcase
with which I
left the Land
of the Generous Sun.
My suitcase was
-
or rather, people thought it was -
very, very light.
But how wrong they were!
You must have
seen the
magic shows
where conjurors
draw from their sleeves
all sorts of things:
birds, rabbits, silk scarves of all colours,
even a crystal pitcher,
sometimes a lump of stone...
fire, water,
earth,
flowers, thorns and many other things...
Thus was my magic - empty - suitcase.
Now it seems
almost a lifetime
since from inside that same suitcase
I have been taking out the things I want:
wonderful cool
springs of Isfahan
and its exhilarating groves,
the richly-coloured autumn in Shiraz
and the fragrance of its orange trees,
the ancient ruins of Persepolis,
the Palace of Princess Shirin,
the poor village of Cham
where they weave carpets
until they're blind;
the tattered
dress of Fatima,
a little local girl,
and a bunch of other children like her,
all in the same suitcase.
I take them
out,
I sit and talk with them -
they join me in my life.
But the moment anyone appears,
they all rush back to the suitcase,
the very suitcase
people think
must be so very light
and almost empty.
When I make
my will
I will ask for my suitcase
to be buried with me.
No doubt they will say:
'She was mad
and her Will is madness.
What sort of Will is that ?
Who needs a suitcase
in the world to come ?'
Let them say
whatever they like.
After all,
who knows the secret
of the Conjuror of Love?
Is it not true
that love is
* God's astrolabe of mysteries ?
* a quotation from Rumi
translated by Anthony Weir
3. Mina Asadi (1943- )
now lives in Sweden.
TO ME A RING IS BONDAGE
I don't think of prayer-mats,
but I do think of a hundred paths
passing through a hundred gardens
planted with silk-tassel trees,
Garrya.
I know the direction
of Mecca:
it has its place in Contentment,
and I say daily prayers
on the Silk Roads,
to the music of passerines.
I do not know
what Affection means,
nor the difference
between one foreign land and another.
Happiness is what I call my solitude,
my home is called Desert
and Love is whatever makes me sad.
To me any currency-note
means Wealth;
I designate Blind anyone who picks a flower,
and in my eyes the net
that separates fish from water
is an Instrument of Murder.
I look at the
sea with envy
and feel
how insignificant I am.
(Maybe the sea
feels the same
when it joins the great ocean.)
I do not know
what Night is,
but Day I understand well.
To me a flowering bush is a Village,
and a short walk in the Memorial Gardens
is Freedom,
and any vapid, meaningless smile is Joy.
Anyone who has
a key
is a Gaoler to me,
and I view
any thought
ungerminated in my mind,
as a Wall;
To me a ring is Bondage.
I don't think
of prayer-mats,
but I do think of a hundred paths
crossing a hundred gardens
full of silk-tassel trees.
translated by Anthony Weir
4. Hossain Tavafi (1980 - )
lives in Tabriz and writes in the Gilaki dialect.
YOU ARE THERE
You are there...
And I'm behind the nameless
bushes of wild berries
What can I give a name to
this high noon of perplexity ?
You are there
by the window
gazing into space
and I'm wearing my raincoat
for travelling
This climate
is strange to me
and high noon caresses
Now it is evening
windows closed
and you suggest that
we prepare for the celebration
But it is not
the time
Listen to the rain!
You are there
far behind those eyes
turned away from me
saturated
This weather
is strange to me
and you are there
looking at the sunset
in perplexity
while I am hidden
behind the unnameable
bushes of wild berries.
See me!
translated by Hossain Tavafi and Anthony Weir
after the
Farsi of
Kamal-ud-Din Khajou Kermani
The blood you
see
in the setting sun
is the dusky wine
we sit and sip
before we see the bloody sign
that tells us we must
run and run.
and
Another Sufi Poem
There is only
one number,
for all numbers become One,
and it, in the space beyond time, expands
to Zero.
Anthony
Weir
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