Sohrab Sepehri  ~ Letter to Ahmadreza Ahmadi 

New York, the 3^rd of Ramadan  [11/3/1970]

Dear Ahmadreza, enough of laziness, I know. But believe me I am thinking of you. And thankful for your letters. I have intensely remained in this city, a place with no trees and no birds.  I have yet to hear birds sing - since there is neither bird nor birdsong. In our very own Amirabad there is a ton of chirping in every elm tree. New York and chirping? I have no expectations. I only am. And sometimes in this city I eat goulash. As you loved to eat it and for you it was a substitute for gourmet-sabzi. Goulash [however] is less inspired. One mustn’t grieve. One must eat goulash, and walk, and look at everything along the way. Just like school children who have a larger breadth of life. You know one must go towards…, or begin. I begin sometimes. But it doesn’t always work. I still haven’t begun the chair in my room. It needs time. Noah’s long life would have been nice. But one must be content. And I am. For example ¼ of the cawing of a crow is enough for me. I remember writing to someone: “I hear ¾ of a canary.” You see, I am more content now. It is true, there is more volume to a caw, but it has less substance. My mother use to say that [a crow’s] cawing is good for certain ailments.

I paint during the days. There is still room on the walls of the world for pictures. So we must work faster. One must work. But one must not inhale lamp smoke. There is a rougher and more pure smoke here, a long-lasting smoke that can’t be washed away. When you walk along a street, sometimes a friendly piece of smoke lands on your shoulder, and this is the only delicacy about this city. Otherwise that crane that can be seen outside my window can not sit in earnest on any one’s shoulder. It’s not becoming of a crane. If it were to do this, it would be an embarrassment to its kind. One can not be gentle in this city. And be bashful. And congratulate. One can not eat radishes. Eating radishes among these massive buildings is a frivolous act. It is as if you were tickling a skyscraper. One must learn its customs. It is customary here for trees to have leaves. You can find mint in this city. But you must eat it sincerely. It is not customary to lounge about. A person’s thoughts mustn't stretch out on the ground. It is more suitable here to think from the cement upward; or from the steel outward. I paint. But my painting in relation to the galleries here is oblique. Painting is one of those activities, it skins you alive. And still demands more. But you mustn't give in to it, because it will get on top of you.

I have seen many who are giving a ride to painting. One must be armed before beginning to paint. Sometimes I think poetry is kinder.

But one mustn't be too naive. I have known many who filed a complaint with the police about poetry.  One must be careful. I read poems at night. Haven’t yet written any, but will do.

I paint. Read poetry. And see Oneness. And sometimes cook at home. And wash dishes. And cut my finger. And for a few days I am held back from painting. The food I cook tastes good only if there is a lot of salt, pepper and a spoon of tolerance.

My mother’s cooking was so good. I use to criticize her even: that the color of her spinach stew has turned black-and-blue. One understands too late. How late did I realize that the human being is only for the moment.

Iran has wonderful mothers and tasty dishes and bad intellectuals and pleasant meadows.

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..........and that's it......................................................................

Sohrab

© 2014 Translated by Kourosh Bahar

Nocturnal                                                                 ~ Ahmad Shamloo

If in vain

Is the beauty

Of the night

Wherefore then

Is beautiful the night

And for whom?

The night

And the endless stream of stars

That passes by coldly

And the long haired mourners

On the banks of the river lament

The reminiscence of which memory

With the panting ode of frogs

While every dawn is pierced

With the resonating chorus

Of a dozen bullets?

If in vain

Is the beauty of the night

For whom then

Is beautiful the night

And for what?

© 2014 Translated by Kourosh Bahar

Hamlet                                                                        ~ Ahmad Shamloo


To be

Or not to be?

It is not a question                                                        

But a temptation

Poisoned wine

In the goblet

And the venom-soaked bodkin                                           

In the villain’s hand

Everything is clear

Beforehand

And well calculated

And the curtain

Will fall

In a determined time

As if my father had slept

In the garden of Gethsemane

That my role is the legacy

Of his deceitful trust

And the bed of his deception

My uncle’s glee

[ I perceived this all suddenly

With a quick glance

By mere chance

At the onlookers 

That watch ]

Only if trust                          

Like another Satan

Had not unawares

Lulled into forgetfulness

Yet another Cain

To another Gethsemane

God, O God!

What trickery

But what trickery!

That he who sits beyond

The discolored curtain of gloom watching

Is aware of this tragedy in full

And already knows

My tale of sorrow

Word for word

Beyond that pale curtain of darkness

Eyes have paid

Coins of silver and gold

To witness my agony

And joyfully applaud

The free game of tears

In the dissonance of the voice

And breath of him

Who pretentiously

Takes doubt in the truth

How then can I

Plead their aid

When in the end
They summon
My uncle and I
to bow before them as equals?

Though my suffering

Had sent them word

That Claudius

Is not an uncle

But an import

Most common

And the curtain...

In a moment determined...

Notwithstanding

From that moment

Truth

Like a wandering restless ghost

Was revealed to me

And the rot of the world

Like the smoke of a torch

Upon the stages of falsehood

Burnt my nostrils

It is not a question

But a temptation:

To be

Or, not to be.

© 2014 Translated by Kourosh Bahar