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 kissing
at crossroads
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

5. Reza Aerabi

HAIKAI

King of Kings
Old oak before
autumn sunrise

New moon
Our painful feet -
the scarecrow and I

Meal break
The sound of a fly
in a white room

Springtime wind
Now I can understand
what my grandmother said

translated by Reza Aerabi 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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