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

You that have not loved                                                          ~ Rumi

You that have not loved

O faithful

Of madness,

What know you?

You that have not danced

In the flames,

Of the moth,

What know you?

The cup of my being

Overflows with sorrow's wine

You laughing

Pass on by

Of the measure,

What know you?

Succession of the insane

Are mesmerized by His gaze

Oblivious of the magic

Of that tale

What know you?

Drunk on the wine of love

I have forgotten many repentance

O Believer, cut not my way,

Of the tavern what know you?

Fall in love and drink up

Leave all else behind

Worshiper of no idol

Of that house of idols

What know you?

You kiss the black rock

And I, that of dark-some eyes

All is of one intent

Of distinctions

What know you?

Give yourself up to servitude

Expire at your idol’s feet

You that have not lived

Of the Living

What know you?

Waste not away the night

With utterances on your lips

And a heart bereft of His way

Of that drunken madness

What know you?

© 2013 Translated by Kourosh Bahar

Weary Earth and Man                                                 ~ Ahmad Shamloo


It was then that the Earth came to speech

And Man tired lonely thinking sat on a rock

Regretting all he had done

And the Earth came to speech and spoke to him thus:

I gave you bread

And fed grass to your sheep and your cattle

And delicate leaves of herb to mix in your bread

Man said: I know.

Then the Earth said:

In all manner of sounds I have called unto you

With the breeze and the wind

And the bubbling of springs out of rock

And the downpour of waterfalls

And the rolling of avalanche from the mountaintop

And when I found you heedless,

With the drum of thunder

And the flicker of cloudburst

Man said: I know, I know.

But how could I decipher the secret in your message?

Then the Earth said unto him, Mankind thus:

It was not easy

But many were the messengers

Yet you knew

That I adoringly love you

Yet not as a lover fulfilled -

A willing concubine bought with gold

And I loved you so much

That as you spread your hand toward me

My body and being raised a thousand sweet melodies in reply

As a new bride on her conjugal bed

The cries rising from her anguished body

Turning into discovery and bliss…

And every clawing into a wound deep and wide with pleasure

Oh such a bride 
That every single time

She lay prostrated in your bed

Thus spoke the Earth

And in what desert did you not dig a well

Where I failed to reward you with thirst-quenching water?

And where did your terrible hands

Not piercingly caress in return for my abundant harvest

That you laid plowshare into me and I did not manifold repay you?

Man again said: but how could I decipher the secret in your message?

Did you know how adoringly I love you?

Earth said unto him in reply

Did you but know?

And unto you I sent message

One after another in myriad voices:

Take your eyes off heaven

That revelation comes from the earth

And unto you I sent message

again and again:

That your station is not in servitude

That in this vast expanse you are king!

And to take you as king

Is not a bestowal of heaven

But a gift of Earth…

Ah, that I in a ruinous state of love-sickness

In a boundless universe did enjoy a sweet reign

Thriving and ever green with your magical powers

And even above that

You the master of my being

In your naive servitude to heaven

Did put hand to breast

And prostrate forehead to the dust

And make of me a worthless thing!

Man vexed, weary and ashamed

From the depths of pain groaned

While the Earth spoke on:

I was completely yours

And submissive as the four walls

Of a small house

And my love did give you the strength

To rise above everyone

But alas!

Perhaps all along my error was

That I laid beneath your feet

That you drew strength from my blood

And in pain I bit my lip

Like a mother who bears the pangs of suckling

To nourish her newborn in her bosom

With the sweet nectar of her essence

And I taught you

To search for ores of iron and zinc

To tear asunder my loving breast

And all of this to give you a plaything 
For that uncaring touch 
That I had witnessed in your hands

Yet you turned from me,

And copper and iron you made more fierce

Than the stone that washed Abel in blood 
And made the earth laden
With the victims of your ill deeds

Ah, the Earth has been left alone

The Earth has been let loose in her solitude

“But Fate willed it so; did not heaven demand a sacrifice?”

Man said muttering under his breath

No! Not to make of me a burial ground

-Replied the Earth

And you bereft of that deep sense of shame

How can you then speak of Fate –

The excuse of those who make no effort?

The trickster has taught you

That justice towers above Love

Alas if there was but Love

No oppression would manifest

Such that a lame justice need arise

With your eyes shut it placed a sword in your hand

From the very iron I gave to you to make plowshare from

And behold the burial ground that heaven has made of justice

Alas the ruin that it has made of me

…

The night and the rain were in discourse

When the wind arrived,

Stirring mischief far and wide

 

                                                                                                                                         © 2013 Translated by Kourosh Bahar

[translation in progress]