Ahmad Shamloo CP Cavafy

POETRY
PLANET
Spring 2013 - #01
Nazim Hikmet
Ahmad Shamloo
C. P. Cavafy
Anne Vegter
Roque Dalton
Amir Or
Rati Saxena
Aj Bam
Jack Hirschman
A World Poetry Movement Edition
ANNE VEGTER
JACK HIRSCHMAN
AJ BAM
ROQUE DALTON
Satellite composition of the whole Earth's surface. - NASA
Poetry Planet #01
Spring 2013
E-edition of World Poetry Movement
www.wpm2011.org
Editor: Dinos Siotis, Athens, Greece
Designed by Nektarios Lambropoulos - info@haramada.com
C. P. CAVAFY
NAZIM HIKMET
AMIR OR AHMAD SHAMLOO
RATI SAXENA
EDITO
Looking at this map of the world,
we see a combination of earth, water, ice,
desert and space. Some of us try to find
the place we live, others just have
glimpses of countries they ’ve visited.
Here, at World Poetry Movement, we
can see something beyond that: people
from all over the world writing and reading poetry in hundrends of languages.
With words and images. Some practice
poetry. With voices and movements.
With spirit in place. This map isn’t another geography tool but a guide for the
reader and poetry lover. Every place asks
for a poet’s name. Poetry Flash will give
you some names in every issue. Reading
is always a voyage to different places and
time zones. Let us travel together.
Poetically. And in every other way. Because we want to be ahead of the news.
EL SALVADOR
The Assassination of a Poet
Memories of Roque Dalton
by Nina Serrano
I
first met Roque Dalton in Havana
in July of 1968. He claimed he was
a descendant of an outlaw, and he
turned me into a writer and a poet.
I was in Havana working on a documentary film about Fidel with my thenhusband, Saul Landau, and our two
children, Greg, age 13 and Valerie, age
10. It was our second trip there as a family. I researched Cuban photo and film
archives and filled in as the sound person.
Making a film about Fidel involved a
tremendous amount of waiting and therefore free time.
Living in a hotel with maid and laundry service, as well as restaurant meals,
liberated my life from domestic duties. I
met remarkable people including Estella
Bravo who worked at Casa de Las Americas, the hub of Cuban and international
leftist life with publications, exhibits, and
conferences. Estella recruited me as a volunteer to help her catalogue American
folk and protest music at "Casa."
I was walking down the hall of Casa de
Las Americas, when a man popped out of
one of the rooms, following me and
quickly catching up. He introduced himself and said his name was Roque Dalton,
a Salvadoran poet. He’d been in a meeting of male poets and they noticed me go
by. So, he was sent to see who I was.
Until then, I thought of poets as a very serious bunch. Now, I saw that clearly they
indulged in the favorite Cuban pastime of
the era- girl watching.
I commented that in my country, the
United States, the Dalton Gang members
were legendary folk heroes, like Jesse
James.
"Yes," he said." I am related to them."
We walked back to my hotel for
lunch, He was very witty, and we laughed
with every step under hot sun and palms
trees, passing the Caribbean splashing
against the malecon, dodging cars, and
entering the limply air-conditioned Habana Libre Hotel.
It was the year when the entire island
was gearing up for a campaign to produce
a record-breaking ten million tons of
sugar cane harvest. The previous year had
been the year of the "Heroic Guerrilla."
referring to recently killed Che Guevara,
whose picture hung every where. Sacrifice
abounded. Schools, work centers, and
whole families dedicated themselves to
volunteer sugar cane cutting. The "Diez
miliones van" campaign ultimately reaped
only six million tons. However, it set new
norms in socialist participation and volunteerism and promoted the Guevara concept of the "New human being," one who
worked enthusiastically for the common
good.
Roque joined my family for lunch and
immediately we were all laughing. He told
us that he and his wife, and three boys
had only recently moved from this hotel
and were now installed in a Havana apartment, mentioning that his sons missed the
use of the pool. As we moved down the
cafeteria line, we continued talking about
his connections to the Dalton gang. I was
enthralled and suggested we write a television play of the story together using
Brechtian theater ideas.
"Television?" he scoffed, "As a poet
and polemicist, I worship at the altar of
the novel."
EL SALVADOR
"But television reaches the masses," I
countered. "And Cubans with only two
dull channels to watch deserve better. It
will set a model for intellectuals to bring
their skills and talents to the people."
He agreed and after lunch, we went
across the street to ICR, the Cuban
broadcasting system and arranged with
Abraham Masiques, that we would come
back in ten days with a completed script
for "The Daltons Ride South."
If it passed muster with the political assessor, it would be videoed in their studio.
Every morning, Roque arrived with his
sons, Roque, Juan Jose, and Jorge, carrying their bathing suits. The kids would go
down to the pool and then come up to
play Monopoly, while we worked. We sat
at a big table that we periodically cleared
throughout the day for room service family meals and snacks.
Roque sat at my Olivetti typewriter,
since the script had to be in Spanish,
while I handed him precious sheets of
carbon paper. Cuba had severe shortages
of everything. We often resorted to the
dictionary and pantomime to work out
linguistic problems between us, as we
were neither totally fluent in the other’s
language.
On the appointed day, we arrived with
a completed script at the TV station.
There were a few annoying rewrites demanded by the assessor, but we were too
thrilled to protest. A production team
hastily formed; slides produced, music
composed, shots plotted, costumes assembled, and rehearsals scheduled.
One night after a rehearsal, Roque and
I were walking back to the hotel around
the lively La Rampa night-life, when
plain-clothes police surrounded the
crowd. He grabbed my arm: "Follow me,
I am expert in escaping police." He deftly
led us back to safety, although several
people were arrested that night. We
thought the raid was part of the campaign
against homosexuals.
Roque said he had escaped from Salvadoran jails five times, once through the
divine intervention of an earthquake.
When the prison wall collapsed, he
walked out on to a waiting municipal bus
and then out its side door onto another
bus.
He told me he’d written a prose piece
about being threatened by the CIA saying
that they would kill him, and then spread
the word that he was a CIA agent. He
would die disgraced, as a traitor. As I listened deeply, I vowed to myself that if
such a terrible event were to happen, I
would help tell the world that Roque was
honest and good.
We mounted our television drama in
four days. The rehearsal time was so
short that when the camera went into a
close-up of a talking decapitated head, the
actress froze. She’d forgotten her lines because of the quick turn-around time to
learn them. She stared out on the screen
in real terror- which was quite effective really- but Roque and I were dying because
our precious words were lost.
The program was very well received,
though at the reception party, we sat in a
corner on the floor with tears of disapointment. We had anticipated the production like a Hollywood cowboy movie,
quick moving with lively action. But, the
Cuban TV acting at that time was exaggerated, and the editing style was very slow.
Immediately after, I rushed into the
filming of Fidel and his entourage on a
jeep caravan across the island. Roque too
had pressing deadlines to meet from
Cuban publishers. He was to write an answer to the Regis Debray’s book on Cuba
at Fidel’s personal request. He was also
proof reading the printer’s copy for his
new poetry anthology.
When I left for California, we
arranged to stay in touch through letters
and invented a code for collect calls. My
children loved a TV animation program
called "Rocky and Bullwinkle." He would
phone and say his call was from "The Flying Squirrel," which was the cartoon character "Rocky’s " persona.
A year later in 1969, our family returned to Cuba to screen the Fidel film
and begin researching for a fiction film
about the Salvador Allende election in
Chile. If Allende won, it would be a nonviolent democratic revolution. This fos-
tered even more discussions between
Roque and me, about armed struggle and
if it was the only path to revolution.
The "Fidel" documentary was lauded.
We watched the first human being land
on the moon. Our Cuba stay was short,
only two weeks. Roque was frequently
tied up with mysterious meetings. I worried about him, because it was rumored
that he was involved with a Salvadoran
guerrilla grouping. When I asked him
about it, he said he could not discuss it,
which I respected. We began a continuous dialogue about violence and terrorism. I was afraid of them. He felt it was
unfortunate, but that sometimes for the
sake of a greater good, they were necessary.
Some people described his group to
me as "adventurist" and "Maoist." Those
were frequent charges in Havana in those
days, against any non-Communist Party
leftist group. The Mao influence was popular that year world-wide. Even the Black
Panthers at a San Francisco rally had
waved Mao’s little "Red Book."
I visited Roque’s apartment and was
happy to finally meet his wife, Aida. On
one of his visits to our hotel, he saw a
copy of a San Francisco alternative newspaper, "The San Francisco Good Times"
with its flamboyant graphics and high spirits. The only words in it he could readily
understand were the headlines: Los Siete
De La Raza."
"Who are they?" he asked.
"They are a group of Salvadoran immigrant youth, who are accused of killing a
San Francisco policeman. Their defense
has become a rallying point for organizing
EL SALVADOR
the Latino barrio, in the way the Black
Panthers have done in nearby Oakland
and the Young Lords in New York City.
"When you go home," he said, "you
work with them."
I promised I would, and I did. That is
how I became a poet.
Returning to San Francisco, I continued to worry about Roque. Our conversations replayed in my head. Emboldened
by having written the video play, I wrote a
poem about my concern for his safety
and his life, The editors of the "Good
Times" splashed it on the front page, and
it was published as "To R. Before leaving
to Fight in Unknown Terrain." Thus I became a poet.
To R. Before Going to Fight in Unknown Terrain 1969
Mass media I adore you.
With a whisper in the microphone
I touch the mass belly against mine
like on a rush hour bus
but with no sweat and no embarrassment.
"Don’t die," I whispered, in person.
Only the air and revolutionary slogans
hung between us.
"When I die I’ll wear a big smile."
And with his finger drew a clown’s
smile
on his Indian face.
"Don’t die!" the whisper beneath the
call to battle.
My love of man in conflict
with my love for this man.
Women die too.
They let go their tight grip on breath
and sigh,
and sigh to die
They say that Tanya died before Che.
I saw her die in a Hollywood movie.
Her blood floated in the river.
I stand in the street in Havana.
There are puddles here
but few consumer goods to float in
them.
Here the blood is stirred by the sacrifice of smiles
to armed struggle
A phrase and an act.
They leave one day and they are dead.
"Death to the known order. Birth to
the unknown."
Blood. Blood. Blood.
The warmth of it between the thighs
soothes the channel
The baby fights and tears.
I stand by a puddle in Havana
a woman full of blood
not yet spilled.
Can I spill blood by my own volition?
Now, it flows from me by a call of the
moon.
The moon
A woman mopping her balcony
spills water from her bucket
On my hair, my breasts
and into the puddle.
The question is answered.
When I contacted the Los Siete de La
Raza Defense Committee in San Francisco, they dismissed me as an "artist type."
They sent me to work with Roberto Vargas, a Nicaraguan born poet living in the
Mission District, San Francisco’s barrio.
"Roberto Vargas has a crazy idea about
organizing a fundraising poetry reading."
Scribbling poems on café napkins and
backs of envelopes, I was by now, obsessed with words. But, I had never participated in a poetry reading, though I had
heard many Cuban poets like Pablo Armando Fernandez
and Nicolas
Guillen read in Havana. I’d even
heard the great
Welsh poet Dylan
Thomas, when I
was a teenager in
New York City. In
San Francisco, in
the 60′s, I’d listened to Lawrence
Ferlinghetti,
Michael McClure,
and Alan Ginzburg
read, as well as the
Soviet poet,
Yevtechenko.
Roberto invited
me to participate in
the poetry reading,
and I read my
poem to Roque. Writing poems and
reading in community poetry readings became a vital part of my life. I met the
other poets and joined Editorial Pocho
Che, a Latino poetry publishing collective, that used stapled mimeographed or
Xerox, or any means necessary, to publish broadsides and booklets. I reported
regularly on the "Los Siete" trials for the
San Francisco Good times.
When I returned to Havana in 1974
with my daughter Valerie, now 16, we
met Roque Jr. by chance, the first night at
the hotel. He told me that his father was
in Viet Nam and was expected back in
May. That May, Roque jr. came to our
new house by the Havana Zoo to deliver
a letter for me from Roque Sr. and perhaps in hopes of
finding Valerie.
Roque’s handwritten letter said
that he was a war
correspondent in
Vietnam and told
of the perils of warfare in a very humorous way. He
included his funny
little cartoon drawing. It reminded
me of one I had received from a
friend, in my teens,
who had been
forced into the
navy during the
Korean/US war. A
few days after I received the letter
from Korea, my friend’s parents phoned
to tell me he had been killed.
Roque’s letter reassured me he would
see me soon in Havana.
What I did not know then was that
Roque was not in Viet Nam as a war correspondent, but rather was in El Salvador
as a guerrilla fighter, as a murdered guerrilla fighter. I looked forward to seeing
him, but he was already dead when I read
the letter, written months earlier.
EL SALVADOR
Rati Saxena
चीख
मेरेगलेसेनिकली
चीख
नही पाती हैजगह, जमीन पर,
अम्बर पर
तो
दुबक जाती है
मेरी छातियोंमें,
मेरेउदर और जंघाओंमें
मेरेगर्भाशय में
We left Havana in the fall of 1975.
Soon after, in San Francisco, I read of his
death in the international edition of the
Cuban newspaper, "Gramna". Though
deeply grieved, I took the article as a signal to honor Roque’s name, so that the
infamous CIA threat of smearing him
would not happen.
I told my friends, Daniel del Solar,
and Alejandro Murguia, who had been
co-editing the new bi-lingual literary magazine "Tin Tan" published by Editorial
Pocho Che in San Francisco. We created
a flyer and poster, which included the
Gramna obituary. Countless community
people helped to post it on every corner
of the Mission district. Of special help
were the Sandinistas who by then had
their newspaper, La Gaceta Sandinista,
headquarters on 22nd and Valencia
Streets. We dedicated community events
INDIA
to Roque’s memory and created a small
insert about him for our magazine A few
years later, Alejandro Murguia and other
San Francisco poets, like Jack Hirschman
formed the Roque Dalton Cultural
Brigade.
Today, over thirty years after his death,
we still do not know the whole story of his
death.. I join with his family, friends, and
supporters in asking for the daylighting of
the terrible and treacherous truth about
horrible events leading to his murder by
some of his fellow comrades in arms. I
hope that day comes in my life time.
Roque was a great friend, co-worker, father, and renown writer and poet. I still
miss him. _
वेडर जातेहैं
मेरी चीख से
नाखूनोंसे
उधेड़ देतेहैं खाल
और निकाल मेरेगर्भाशय को
गाड़ देतेहैं
अब मेरा गर्भशय
इस जमीन पर
खड़ा होगा
बन जायेगा दरख्त
उगायेगा
करोड़ो चीखोंको
नकली सभ्यता केकिलेकी
चूलेहिलानेकेलिये
एक चीख मुकम्मिल है
Wail
My wail
does not find
a place
on earth
nor in the sky
but tries to seek shelter
in my chest,
in my abdomen and thighs,
in my womb.
They are afraid
of my wail
and try
to tear out my skin
with nails
while wishing to remove
my womb.
So I bury now my womb
in the earth
and stand there
till I turn into a tree
which grows with thousands cries
to remove
all the nails of artificial civilization.
For that
one wail is enough.
IRAN
“With a bouquet of fresh spring flowers and a few magazines in my left hand, I
pushed the button for the intercom on
house #555 on Fardis street in Karaj,
Iran. Seconds later, a very gentle kind
voice of a woman asked, ‘Who is it?’ I
briefly introduced myself. The voice
replied, ‘I am Ayda. Welcome. Please
find your way inside.’ When the door
opened and I stepped into the yard, I saw
a yard that had been transformed into a
flower garden and I knew instantly that
this was the garden that Shamloo had watered every day. I found myself upstairs a
few minutes later and Ayda embraced
me. She was as gentle as her voice.
‘Please have a seat. Ahmad is in his office
upstairs. He will join you in a moment.’
Indeed, moments later, along with the
tears of joy flowing down from eyes came
Shamloo down the stairs. He was wellgroomed, well-dressed – a handsome
man. He too embraced me and welcomed me as if he had known me for
years. The room we found ourselves
meeting in was decorated with numerous
framed calligraphies of his poems, done
by different artists, and in the center was a
large bronze statue of the poet Nima
Yushijj.”
Ahmad Shamloo (1925-2000)
by Mahnaz Badihian
Ahmad Shamloo was born on December 12, 1925, in Tehran, in House #134
Safi Ali Shah Street, on an ordinary street
in the capital of Iran, framed on both
sides with an abundance of old poplar
trees. Shamloo had this to say about his
birth: “The winter was slowly starting
when I and destitution were born together.”
The Shamloo family descended from
one of the seven original and most powerful tribes in Iran. The family lived in
many cities and villages during Shamloo’s
childhood. “Due to my father’s job, our
life was like a gypsy life, moving from
town to town,” Shamloo wrote. One of
those towns was Mashhad, in northeastern Iran. In Shamloo’s neighborhood
there lived a very rich Armenian family
with two teenage girls.
“Every day, both of them practiced the
piano. That music had a profound effect
on me, enough that I decided to go on
the rooftop every day so I could relax and
listen to them playing without interruption. For days and days I submerged myself in that tune, not noticing that day by
day an unknown feeling was growing in
me.”
He found out that it was Chopin’s
etudes that were affecting him so deeply.
“I remember one day I fell asleep on
the rooftop and when I finally woke up
and went down to the house, my father
began beating me very hard saying ‘we
looked everywhere for you!’ But I did not
mind that beating; it only intensified my
love for music.
After that summer the first unknown
feelings of puberty, a blend of pleasure
and pain, death and rebirth, and God
knows what else, grew in me. I could not
be a good student anymore and the love
of music stayed in me forever. If it had
not been for the way my life progressed,
and my two unsuccessful marriages, I
IRAN
would definitely have become a musician.
But I know that when I was young I replaced music with poetry.
My poetry, I think, originates from my
suppressed longing for music in the same
way that the dance-like patterns of Persian
rugs have their origin in a national desire
for dance and music which Islam had
suppressed.”2
In 1942, at the age of seventeen, his father took him to the north of Iran, which
at the time was occupied by the Soviet
Army. Shamloo and his father were arrested by the Red Army for political reasons – they were pro-German and
therefore not with the allied forces – and
were sent to the city of Rasht. He was released from jail less than a year later. In
1945, he and his family moved to the
Iranian state of Azerbaijan, but they were
sent back to Tehran again due to the
elder Shamloo’s job. That same year
Shamloo decided to leave school for
good and instead join the avant-garde
movement of poets and writers.
In a poem to his father at this time,
Shamloo writes:
You teach me to be a coward, father?
To register repentance at my enemy’s
will,
To enchain my soul in order to free
my body?
To seat deceit higher than truth,
To turn away from the rising dawn, oh,
To accompany a passing night on its
death-journey?
…
Take your soul to safety, father, and I
tor, children’s writer, and filmmaker.
Shamloo has translated extensively from
German and French to Persian. A translation of the semi-autobiographical novel
Barefoot by Romanian writer Zaharia
Stancu, that explored “peasant realism”
by portraying both the bygone village
world and its contemporary influx of
modernity confirmed Shamloo’s authority
as a translator.
A new collection of his poems, the
Garden of Mirrors, was released in 1960.
In 1961 Shamloo suffered a bitter separation from his second wife, Haeri Toosi.
By this time, he believed that marriage
was nothing but disaster. Below is an excerpt of the poem “Sleeping Woman,”
written during his second marriage:
my body
To the battlefield.3
It is clear even from his earliest poems
that Shamloo fought for the truth.
He married for the first time in 1947,
and in that same year he released his first
collection of poems, “Forgotten Songs.”
From 1948, Shamloo took his poetry seriously and started to contribute to a literary monthly called Sokhan. Two years
later, his first short story was published,
“The Woman Behind the Brass Door.”
His second collection of poems, “Manifesto,” was published in 1951. In this collection, he expressed his vision of a
classless society based on justice, equality,
and brotherhood -- this was the shining
ideal that motivated Shamloo to choose
Socialist ideology. Shamloo is now known
as a humanist and a socially minded intellectual and not identified with any specific
political party.
In 1952, he took a position in the
Hungarian embassy as Cultural Advisor.
That same year his third collection of
poems, Metals and Sense, was banned
and destroyed by the police. In addition,
a translation of Sigmund Motritz’s “Gold
in Dirt” and Mario Kai’s “The Sons of a
Man Whose Heart Was Made of Stone,”
together with all of the data he had gathered for a project on the colloquial culture of urban Iranian life (later published
as Book of the Alley) were also confiscated and destroyed by authorities. Following this event, he escaped and went
into hiding. Two years later he was arrested and imprisoned for 14 months.
His “crime” was that he knew the real
criminal was the government, and he expressed this in his poems and his writings.
Shamloo released his masterpiece collection, Fresh Air, (Havaye Tazeh) in
1957 – a collection of poems that would
influence Persian poetry profoundly and
confirm him as the leading voice of his
era. At this time, he also published a few
studies on classic Iranian poetry, and
married for a second time. All of his four
children are only from his first marriage
with Ashraf Isslamiya (d. 1978) and include, Siavash Shamloo, (1948-2009),
Sirous Shamloo, Saman Shamloo, Saghi
Shamloo.
In addition to writing poetry and undertaking studies of Iranian culture and
literary traditions, it was at this time that
Shamloo established himself as a transla-
Next to me
Attached to me
With longest distance
Her chest gently rises
With bubbles of each breath
In the same year, 1961, he became editor-in-chief of Ketab-e-Hafte or Weekly
Book, a magazine which transformed the
tradition and language of literary journalism in Iran.
After the separation from his second
wife, he moved in with his mother and
two sisters. There he met an Armenian
girl named Ayda who lived in the same
neighborhood. With Ayda he began a
loving relationship that lasted until his
death and was immortalized in some of
his best and most popular poems. Shamloo and Ayda were married in 1964. That
same year, he published two collections
IRAN
of poetry, “Ayda in the Mirror” and “Moment and Eternity.”
His last wife Ayda was the love of his
life and the object of many love poems
that will forever remain an important part
of Iran’s tradition of love poetry. Below is
an excerpt of the poem “Rhapsody of
Meeting,” which he wrote for Ayda after
meeting her:
Who are you?
That like this,
With confidence,
I tell you my name
And in your hands I leave
The key to my house,
And I share the bread of my happiness
With you
I sit next to you
And fall asleep on your lap,
So tranquil
Who are you?
That in the land of my dreams
I pause with you so willingly
From this poem it is clear that in this
new relationship he feels unity and oneness, which are new feelings for him.
In 1965 he published a new collection
of poems, Ayda, Trees, Memories. He
also began his third attempt to compile
the Book of the Alley. Another new collection of poems was published in 1966
Qoqnus in the Rain.
In 1968, he began his serious study of
Hafiz, the classical grand poet of the Persian language. He also translated Garcia
Lorca’s poetry and organized a poetry festival for established and new Iranian
poets.
In 1970, he directed several documentary films for television. He also published several short stories for children
which have now become classics of Iranian childhood literature such as “Rain”
and “Stories of the Gates to Chance.”
The Iranian Academy of Language inducted him as a member in 1971, and he
began teaching Persian literature at the
prestigious Tehran University. At this
time his audio recordings of literature
readings were first produced. Several audiocassettes of Shamloo reciting other
classical and modern poets’ work were
recorded and sold.
In 1973, two new collections, Abraham on Fire and The Great China Wall
were released along with several new
translations of international literature.
Two years later, in 1975, he finally published his significant work on the poetry
of Hafiz, Shamloo’s Hafiz.
Shamloo traveled to the United States
in 1976 and gave poetry readings in many
cities, which included his reading at the
San Francisco Poetry Festival.
The first and second volumes of Book
of the Alley went to print in 1979, and he
was re-elected as leader of the Writer’s
Union. In 1980, with the harsh political
situation in Iran, he began to lead a rather
secluded life that would last for the next
eight years, working with Ayda on another
volume of Book of the Alley (1979–Present). Even after his death, his wife Ayda
continues to work on this project, publishing new volumes of Book of the Alley,
which is a multi-volume, multi-disciplinary work that looks at thousands of years
of Persian folklore and written and oral
traditions.
One example from Book of the Alley:
In the Persian language there is a saying, “If I could walk I would go home.”
This saying comes from a story in one of
Rumi’s poems. The story in the poem is:
A drunken man at night was sleeping
in the alley. The police held him by the
collar and said, “Get up. We must go to
the police station.” The drunken man
laughed and said, “May God grant you
wisdom; if I could walk, I’d go home to
bed!”
In 1988 Shamloo was invited by the
World Literary Congress to give readings
and lectures throughout Europe. A complete collection of his poems was printed
in Germany. In 1990 he toured the
United States again. The Fund for Free
Expression presented him with their annual award. In 1995 a collection of his
poetry, titled “Aurora,” was published in
Spanish.
Following this period, his physical condition began to deteriorate. He underwent several operations, and in 1997 his
right foot was amputated due to complications caused by severe diabetes. In 1999
the Swedish Foundation presented him
with the prestigious Stig Dagerman Award
for his lifelong literary achievement.
He died at 9 p.m. on Sunday July 23,
2000, at the age of 74. He was buried in
Tehran, and since his death his epitaph
and grave site have been rebuilt numerous times, after having been vandalized or
damaged by agents loyal to the Islamic
Republic government.
Shamloo on Poetry
“Poetry is freedom and becoming free.
But who can describe poetry or other
forms of art? Because any definition is
like limiting something so immense in a
small space or as Rumi said, ‘It is like
pouring the ocean into a vase.’”
Shamloo’s love for poetry began in
childhood and endured till the end of his
life. He philosophized over his passion
for poetry and the idea of poetry itself, always trying to connect the dots of his literary adventure:
“I started my journey with the poetry
of Nima Yushij. Before reading Nima, I
hated poetry. After entering the poetry
world I read Mayakovski, Lorca, Élouard,
Neruda and Langston Hughes which affected me deeply. Then at the end Hafiz
replaced them all.”
Lorca and Mayakovski heavily influenced Shamloo along with the poet T.S.
Eliot. T.S. Eliot’s influence is seen when
comparing the lines of a poem by Eliot, titled “The Hollow Men” and a line from
Shamloo:
We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Shamloo references this poem of
Eliot’s in his book “Fresh Air”, where he
writes, “shadow who spoke of hollow
men.”
After WWII, many of the poets in
IRAN
Iran became
fascinated
with the
work of
Yushij, the
father of
Iran’s freeverse or
non-traditional poetic
form. Yushij
believed that
without
drifting from
works of such traditional Iranian poets as
Hafiz, Rumi, Sa’adi or others, the new
poets needed to move parallel to world
literature. Yushij created a new style of
poetry which did not have the style and
form of the ghazal or ghaseedeh, two ancient poetic forms in Iranian literature.
His poetry gave rise to many amazing and
good poets. Other voices within the last
50 years of Iran’s poetry include Forough
Farrokhzad, Sohrab Sepehri, Mehdi
Akhavan-Sales, Fereidoon Moshiri,
Manouchehr Atashi and more. But
Shamloo had a stronger, more effective,
voice.
Shamloo is credited for employing the
style and words of the man in the street.
He developed a simple, free poetic style,
known in Iran as Sepid Poetry, or verse
blanc (literally meaning white), which is a
free verse that departs from the tightly
balanced rhythm and rhymes of classical
Persian poetry such as ghazal.
According to Pouran Farrokhzad, poet
and writer (as well as sister of the famous
poet Forough Farrokhzad), Shamloo is
not only a
master poet
of liberty,
and a poet
of love, he
is also a
poet of
“women”-women
such as
“Galia,”
Shamloo’s
first love at
the age of
nineteen, as well as the three women he
married, his mother, and the women in
his beloved country, such as those he encountered every day in the streets and on
the bus:
Oh the girls of the plains!
The girls of anticipation!
The girls of narrow hopes in the vast
plains
With vast dreams and depressed
moods
…
Oh the girls of the long days
Running tirelessly
And defeated at nights
…
The breast of which one of you
Has blossomed into the spring of its
puberty?
The lips of which one of you,
Tell me, the lips of which one of you
In its dream has hidden the aroma of a
kiss?
He uses beauty and love and humanis-
tic elements to address the young girls
who suffer hardship and loveless lives.
This poem portrays Shamloo’s views and
feelings toward society’s mistreatment and
degradation of women and girls.
His poetry is a tool for illuminating the
depth of his society and the hidden corners of human suffering:
From the porch
I bend toward the dark alley
And I cry on behalf of
All the hopeless people
There is no bigger dream left for me
Than rising to search for a lost cry
With or without the help of a small
lantern
Everywhere on this earth or
Every corner of this sky
A cry that arose from my soul one
night
From an unknown need
Oh, all the gates of this universe!
Help me find your lost cry.
Shamloo, like other known poets of
liberty such as Aref Ghazvini, Dehkhoda,
Pushkin, Byron and Whitman, wrote
about freedom. Unlike them, however,
Shamloo did not merely hope for freedom, but, like Lorca and Mayakovski,
was actually fighting for it.
Oh, if freedom
Could sing a small anthem,
Small as the throat of a bird,
Then there would not be any fallen
walls
Anywhere
Shamloo has left behind a long literary
history. He was one of the most hardworking poets in Iran’s last one hundred
years. He was a serious poet, a translator,
a playwright, a literary researcher, a shortstory writer, and an avid reader of world
literature. He wrote more than twenty volumes of poetry, several novels, and translated many novels and poems from world
literature into Farsi. Some of these include works from Victor Alba, Federico
Garcia Lorca, Andre Gide, and Antoine
de Saint Exupery. One of his famous
books of translation is an anthology of
world poetry, including many poems
from Neruda, Langston Hughes, and
Paul Eluard. In addition to all of that,
Shamloo wrote many books for children,
both in prose and poetry forms. Shamloo
did the same thing Garcia Lorca did with
gypsy songs in Spanish, by collecting all
the verbal sayings and poetry of the street
people or people who live in small towns
in Iran, and putting them in over six volumes of books called Ketab-e Koocheh
(Book of the Alley). He finished the first
few volumes himself, but the rest was
done in collaboration with his third wife
Ayda.
His poetry collection, “Havaye Tazeh”
(Fresh Air) was an important literary
event in Iran and confirmed Shamloo as
a serious poet. The two main poems in
this book are “Roxana” and “Ayda in the
Mirror,” with his main focus on love, the
beloved and the lover. The long poem
“Roxana” is a short love story written in
poetic form.
In the poem “Ayda in the Mirror,”
readers experience an intense love story
IRAN
and see the impacts of this love on the
lover.
A few lines from” Ayda in the Mirror”
follow in Farsi:
‫تنابل‬
‫رعش تفارظ هب‬
‫هب ار اه هسوب نیرت یناوهش‬
‫دنک یم لدبم نانچ یمرش‬
‫دوس نآ زا نیشن راغ رادناج هک‬
‫دیوج یم‬
‫دیآرد ناسنا تروص هب ات‬
‫تیاه هنوگ و‬
‫بروّم رایش ود اب‬
‫و دننک یم تیاده ارت رورغ هک‬
‫ارم تشونرس‬
Below is a transliteration of the Farsi in
order for an English reader to get a sense
of the music in the original form.
Labanat
be zarafate sher
shahavanitarin boseha ra be sharmi
chenon mobadal mekonad
ke jaandare gharneshin az on sood
mejoyad
And this is the entire poem in English:
Your lips, as a delicacy of poem,
Turn the most desirable kisses
To a prudency such that
The cave animal benefits from it to become human
And your cheeks with two oblique
lines
Guide your pride
And my destiny for tolerating the night
Without being armed, waiting for
dawn
And I guarded a proud chastity
From the brothel houses of this world
Never has anyone been raised for self
killing
As much as sitting for life
And your eyes are the mystery of fire
And your love is a triumph of
mankind
Challenging towards destiny
And your bosom
A place to live
A place to die
And the escape from the city
The city which shamelessly accuses
The purity of the sky,
The mountains which begin
With a few first stones
And the human with its first pain
In me there was a captive tyrant
Who never got used to the chains
I have started with your first gaze
And the tornados in your amazing
dance
As glorified as the flute playing
In your splendid dance
A flute is playing
And the song of your veins
Awakens the forever lasting sun
Let me wake up in a way that
The city comprehends my presence
Your hands are peace, and a friend
that helps
To forget animosity
Your forehead
Is a long, glowing mirror
Letting the “seven sisters” look into it
To reach their beauty
Two restless birds are singing on your
chest
Summer will arrive from which direction
To make me thirstier for waters?
For you to arrive in the frame of a mirror
For a long time I waited for it
I have cried the oceans, the creeks
You were the angel
Arriving in the flesh of a human being
Immune from any deceit
Your presence is heavenly
That defines the escape from hell
An ocean that drowns me in it
To be washed off from all the lies and
sins
And dawn flies from the palm of your
hands
Shamloo used any resources he could
to connect with people. For the young
population, he translated the works of
many international poets and writers, and
for the older generation he translated Gilgamesh and The Songs of Solomon. For
everyone else, he had his Book of the
Alley.
As with all poems by Shamloo, even
his love poems, there is some kind of social message. The same goes for “Paria”
(The Fairies) which is the story of people
wanting to get rid of tyrants and devils and
collectively they succeed. Shamloo’s
knowledge of the folkloric literature of
Iran and his significant work “Book of the
Alley” developed in him an expertise and
awareness of the colloquial language.
When he was asked why he uses collo-
quial language in some of his work he
said, “The people are the ‘father’ of language, not scholars. They have more
rights on language...” In 1957, when he
published “The Fairies,” he said it had
been made with street language. This very
long poem became one of the most popular Persian poems of the century. Below
is a small excerpt of the poem.
Fairies
‫ایرپ‬
Once upon a time,
Under the gray dome of the sky
Three naked fairies sat
Fairies “boo-hoo” crying
Heavy like spring rains
Their hair as long as a bow
And as dark as night
Longer than a bow
Darker than night
Facing them, upon the dusk
A city with enslaved boys
Behind them, dark and cold was
The castle of old tales
From the dusk one could hear
The chirping of the chains
From behind, one could hear
The nightly moans
Oh Fairies, aren’t you hungry?
Aren’t you thirsty?
Aren’t you tired?
Have you become broken winged
birds?
What is this boo-hoo
What is this crying like the rain?”
IRAN
The fairies said nothing
The fairies were boo-hoo crying
Crying like a spring rain
Oh dear fairies why are you crying?
In this far plain
In this tight dusk
Don’t you think it may rain?
Don’t you think it may snow?
Don’t you think the wolf may come
eat you?
Don’t you think the devil will come
and swallow you?
Aren’t you scared?
Won’t you come to our city?
You can hear the sound
of our city’s chirping chains
Oh you Fairies!
Look at my tall body
Look at my white horse
with silver hoops
His tail and mane honey colored who
Can run as fast as the wind
Our city is decorated with light tonight
Our city is celebrating tonight
the devil’s house will be ruined tonight
All the villages are our guest tonight
People are our guests tonight
Dancing, singing towards our city
tonight
His language connected with people
everywhere. As Shamloo explained, “We
may not be able to pour oceans in a tea
cup but we can fill this cup with drops of
water that represent the depths of the
ocean.” Ahmad Shamloo did exactly that
with his poetry and other creative expressions.
Shamloo, known to have read both the
Koran and the Bible as poetry, was a
thinker with no limitation in learning and
knowing new things. He was thirsty for
world literature and without question his
work was not only affected by the ideas of
Yushij and Iran’s ancient poets such as
Rumi and Hafiz but also by powerful international literary voices.
He knew the map of Iran’s literature
very well and with what he knew about literature he could suggest many needed
projects and works that Iranian poets and
writers needed to do for their country’s
literature. He is famous for saying, “Poetry is an effective national weapon.” And
he gave more power to the spoken word
in the last 30 years during which time severe censorship prevented people from
freely writing or speaking their mind, let
alone easily publishing it.
One specific trait in Shamloo’s poetry
is the language of “rebellion” or “revolution.” He rebels against old ideas and social injustice. He wishes for a world with
healthy human relationships and freedom. He worships human beings and
condemns a world that has tolerance for
oppression. In the example below, he
questions religious.
I am the biggest rebellion of creation
Satan knows
God does not
The following excerpt demonstrates
Shamloo’s understanding of poetry as an
integral part of class solidarity:
Poetry is the people’s weapon;
For the poet is one branch
From the forest of the people,
Not the jasmines of someone’s
Greenhouse
Mojabi, the poet and scholar, was once
asked, “Many poets of the seventies wishing to create a new poetry style believe
that Shamloo’s style is not the language of
today, what do you think?”
Mojabi replied,
“Shamloo’s language is his own language. It is normal that poets coming after
him would search for their own language
and circuit of thoughts. Every generation
has their own experience and it is normal,
but we should remember that denying the
experiences of previous generations does
not help us to solidify our position as a
poet. Poet is the name others give to us.
You don’t give that name to yourself.”
To show an example of the musicality
in Shamloo’s poetry, first listen to the
words in Farsi transliteration in the poem
“Look” (Negah Kon):
zendegi daam neest
eshgh daam neest
hata marg daam neest
chera ke yarane gomshodeh azaadand
azaad va paak
English translation:
Life is not a trap
Love is not a trap
Even death is not a trap
Because our lost comrades are free
Free and pure
Shamloo wrote more eulogies than any
other poet. One of his famous eulogies
was for Iran’s famous poet, Forough Farrokhzad, who died at age 35 in a car accident. This poem is both happy and sad.
The Eulogy
For Forough Farrokhzad
In the quest for you
I cry at the knees of the mountain
In the vicinity of the sea and the turf
In the quest for you
I cried with the blow of the wind.
At the crossroad of four seasons
Over a broken frame of a window
Which frames the cloudy sky?
In its old frame
In the hope for your image
For how long wills this notebook
Turn its pages?
Acceptance of the reality of wind
And love, which is the sister of death
Eternity has shared its secret with you
And you turned into the shape of a
treasure
A treasure that made this land
And the earth from now on a pleasant
one
Your name is a moment of dawn
Shining over the vast front of the skies,
Be hallowed your name!
And we are still reviewing the nights
and days,
And the “yet”
In 1979, at the time of the Iranian Revolution, he left the country for only a few
IRAN
years and then said “as a poet and as a
writer, you need to be in your motherland
to be able to write,” and he decided he
needed to go back to Iran. In response to
the question, “Are you able to write poetry in the U.S.?” Shamloo replied,
“Hardly at all. In these ten or twelve
months I’ve written one poem and I’m
not very happy with it.”
The new Islamic regime was not favorable to him, considering him an anti-Islamist, a nationalist poet and thinker, a
traitor and a Westernized writer.
Due to the extent of his popularity, the
ruling clerics did not dare arrest him but
at the same time they did not allow publication of his works for many years.
Today more than thirty books and
countless articles have been written about
Ahmad Shamloo and this is just the beginning of the long road.
In an Instance
I touch your body with short strokes
And I comprehend the world
I think of you
And I can touch the moments
Weightless, endless, naked
I blow, I rain, I shine
I am the sky
I am the earth
I am scented wheat
Turning into a cluster of seeds
While dancing in my green
Joyously
I traverse you
Like a thunder at night
I shine
Then I fall apart
The Day of Rising
I was all the corpses
The corpses of all the singing birds
Which are silent now
The corpse of the prettiest animals
In the water
On the earth
The corpse of humans
Good
Or bad
I was there in the past time
With no song
There was no misery within me
No smile
No sorrow
Kindly
Untimely
You saw me in your dream
And I arose with you
One of the great poets of our time,
Ahmad Shamloo published more than
seventy books: Sixteen volumes of poetry,
five anthologies of poetry, five volumes
including novels, short stories & screenplays, nine volumes of children’s literature, nine translations of poetry into
Persian, 21 novels translated into Persian,
five collections of essays, lectures and interviews, and thirteen volumes (to date) of
Book of the Alley, University Press, 1997.
_
ISRAEL
Amir Or
Translated by Vivian Eden
The Barbarians (Round Two)
It was not in vain that we awaited the barbarians,
it was not in vain that we gathered in the city square.
It was not in vain that our great ones put on their official robes
and rehearsed their speeches for the event.
It was not in vain that we smashed our temples
and erected new ones to their gods;
as proper we burnt our books
that have nothing in them for people like that.
As the prophesy foretold the barbarians came,
and took the keys to the city from the king’s hand.
But when they came they wore the garments of the land,
and their customs were the customs of the state;
and when they commanded us in our own tongue
we no longer knew when
the barbarians had come to us.
d
MAYAS
U YAYAJ K’AY
J OTSIL X MA NA
X PAM OK’OOT CHE
Jach chiichanen kaa kim in na
kaa kim in yum.
Ay ay in yumen!
Kaa t p’at en tu k’ab t yiknal in laak’
Miix maak yan t en way yok’ol k’ab.
Ay ay in yumilen!
Ku man kappel k’in ku kimil ten in
laak’
tin t’uluch k p’at ken tin t’uluch jum.
Ay ay!
Ts’u man lail k’in tin jun p’at ken
kaa tu jan ch’ajen u bisen t nin
u p’el ts’ul tu k’ab.
Ay ay in yumilen!
J loobil jach yaab yayab loob
tin mansiik way yok’ol kab.
Miix wa bik’in bin jawk in wok’ol.
Aj Bam
Two poems from the Songs of Dzitbalche
Translated from Yucatec Maya by John Curl
Miix in wonel yan, jach chen tin jum
chen bey in man, way tin lum
j k’in yetel ak’ab; chen ok’ol ok’ol
xuupsik in wich lail xuupsik ool.
Yam loob jach chich.
Ay in yum!
Ch’aten otsilil ts’a u tibitil
leil yaj muuk’yaa.
Ts’aten u ts’ok kimilil
wa ts’aten toj olal,
in Kiichkelem Yumil!
Otsil otsil,
baai tu jun yook’ lum
wa yan ka u k’aat tu t’uluch jum
k’aat men k’aat tu jol naj najil
tulakal maak ilik jeleil i u ts’iik yaku-
nail.
Inan yotoch inam u nok’, inan k’aak’.
Ay in yum! Chaten otsilil!
Ts’aten tojolal utial kaapaatak
in muuk’ yajtik.
THE MOURNING SONG
OF THE POOR MOTHERLESS
ORPHAN
DANCE TO DRUMBEATS
I was very small when my mother
died,
when my father died.
Ay ay, my father!
Left in the hands and company of
friends,
I have no family here on earth.
Ay ay, my lord!
Two days ago my friends died,
and left me insecure, vulnerable,
alone.
Ay ay!
That day I was left alone
and put myself in a stranger’s hand.
Ay ay, my lord!
Evil, much evil passes here on earth.
Perhaps I will never stop crying.
Without family, alone, very lonely I
walk
here in my land, crying day and night;
only cries consume my eyes and soul.
Under evil so hard.
Ay, my father!
Take pity on me, put an end
to this suffering.
Give me death,
or give my soul transcendence,
MAYAS
my Beautiful Lord!
Poor, poor,
thus alone on earth, pleading
insecure lonely, imploring door to
door
asking every person I see to give me
love.
I who have no home, no clothes, no
fire.
Ay my father! Have pity on my!
Give my soul transcendence
to endure.
J WAYAJ YAAB
T K’AAL K’IN EEK’
U k’inil t ok’ol u k’inil
k’asiil baal. Chak’aab kisin
jek’aab miitnal,
innan utsil, chen yaan lobil
aj wat yete1ok’ol.
Ts’ook u maan jun p’el tulis jaab,
lail jabil j k’aban jelae.
Ku taibil xan jun k’al
k’in x ma k’aba
u yail k’in u k’inil loob
j eek’ k’ino’ob.
Inan x kiichpan sasilil t yiich
Junaab K’u
utial u palil way yok’ol kab,
tumen ti lei k’in k’inooba
tum p’isil u k’eban yok’ol kab
tulakal winik:
xiib yetel x chuup
chichan yetel nojoch
otsil yetel ayik’al, miats yetel j num
Aj Jaukan, Akulel
Batab, Nakon, chako’ob
Chumtjano’ob, Tupilo’ob.
Tu lakal winik jellae ku p’isil u k’eban
tiail lail k’in; tumen bin k’uuchok
u k’inil lai
ti el k’ina u ts’ook yok’ol kab.
Tumem tu bisik u xokxokil
tulakal u k k’eban winko’ob
u way t lume.
Tumen ti u ts’ik jun p’eel
x nuk joma
betan yetel u k’aat j k’amas tu lakal
u yalil yich lei
max ku yok’ tikoo loob
ku mental ti o’ob
way t lum.
Lai kan j tulnaak lail x nuk joma
ku ts’o.
THE APPARITIONS
OF THE TWENTY DARK DAYS
The days of crying, the days
of evil. The demon is free,
the infernos open,
there is no goodness, only evil,
laments and cries.
An entire year has passed,
the year named here.
Come is a month of
days without name,
painful days, days of evil,
black days.
The beautiful light of the eyes of
Hunabku, the Only Nest
for his earthly sons,
has not yet come,
because during these days
are measured
the transgressions on earth
of all people:
men and women, children and adults,
poor and rich, wise and fools;
Ah Haucanes, Ah Kuleles,
Batabs, Nacoms, Chacs,
Chanthanes, Tupiles.
All people’s transgressions are measured
in these days; because the time
will come when
these days will end the world.
For this there will be a careful count
of all the transgressions of people
here on earth.
Into a great glass
made from the clay of tree termites,
He puts all the tears
from those who cry over the evils
done on earth.
When the great glass is filled to the
brim
it will end.
About Aj Bam:
The Mayas secretly retained much of
their traditional culture after the Spanish
invasion; ancient rituals continued to be
performed in private gatherings where the
old culture was kept alive. Aj Bam’s
book, known as Songs of Dzitbalché, contains his transcriptions of these old songs
and poems that he must have heard in
those secret gatherings, recited aloud,
probably accompanied by a drum. The
title page of his book reads “The Book of
the Dances of the Ancients that it was the
custom to perform here in the towns
when the whites had not yet arrived. This
book was made by the honorable Mr.
Bam, great-grandson of the great Aj Kulel
of the town of Dzitbalché in the year
1440.” His name Bam is probably a
shortened form of Balam, meaning
“jaguar.” The only copy of the book that
has survived was probably transcribed in
the 1740s. The reference to the year 1440
probably means that his ancestor held
that high political position in that year,
but it also could mean that Aj Bam wrote
the book in that year in hieroglyphs, and
it was later translated into alphabetic
Mayan.
About John Curl
John Curl is the author of Ancient
American Poets (2007), containing his
translations and biographies of Maya,
Aztec, and Inca poets. He has published
seven books of poetry, including
Scorched Birth (2004), Columbus in the
Bay of Pigs (1991), Decade (1987), and
Tidal News (1982). He represented the
USA at the World Poetry Festival 2010 in
Caracas, Venezuela. His most recent
book is a history of radical American social movements, For All The People: Uncovering the Hidden History of
Cooperation, Cooperative Movements,
and Communalism in America (2009).
His memoir of the radical counterculture
of the 1960s is Memories of Drop City
(2008). His play The Trial of Christopher
Columbus was produced by the Writers
Theater in Berkeley (2009). He is vice
president of PEN Oakland and a member of the Revolutionary Poets Brigade. _
NETHERLANDS
T
his morning a literary critic
wrote on Facebook, “... the
chaotically extensive and aimless machination of the imagination,
which I shall call the open space, makes
me suspect more and more that it is I
who connects areas otherwise far apart...”
In his explanation of this open space the
critic cites the philosopher Deleuze, “…
that what flows between things is desire…”
I never read Deleuze’s exposition and unhindered by any contextual knowledge
would be more than happy to inscribe
those words on one of my walls at home.
It is as if the philosopher is describing a
world that I try to create with my words:
“That what flows between things is desire.”
Sic. But what does that mean, exactly?
What desire are we talking about? The
kind of primordial desire for fusion (the
end of loneliness), for lust (the end of
chastity), for beauty (the end of the obscene), or are we talking here about the
good old death wish (the end of immortality)? Desire is the operative word. A
place, a moment, an object, a thought; the
imagination has the power to enlarge and
to enrich. Desire is the wish for enrichment. It is an ever-present wish: the imagination is a relentless beast. It is what I
ask of the words that flow into me like a
stream of plankton into a puddle.
A Poetic Art
Photo: Roger Cremers
by Anne Vegter
Representations
Ask how it happened that the summer
lost its way in the man, couldn’t find its way
out and the man disappeared like rising
dough, he lit up red and sparked, fell off.
Ask how it happened that the poet
said the ambition of the mother is the
abolition of desire, but her child tuned
the back of the father like a speckled instrument.
Ask how it happened that the child fell
down the stairs holding the book, lay at
the bottom like a what's done is done,
whoever unrolled him cracked, cracked:
the book didn’t say that.
Ask how it happened that desire
curbed width, her aftertaste a memory
and the not so self-evident glimpsing at “a
pole dance for hungry intestines.”
Ask how it happened the earth existed
as an explosion, a colour wash, a breach,
as an emulsion. As polymers. Look:
Earth as hallmark. Earth as hall mark.
No subject, that is, nothing, is beyond
the reach of poetry. A tower of single
words smirks down at me. I’m one of
those poets who likes knocking it over.
My g/a(i)m/(e) is to create a cryptogram
that kicks into action when seemingly arbitrarily chosen words become connected. Does the intention behind the
poem become more important as a result? No. Is the choice of words important? Sometimes. But what it does do is
to initiate a flow rich in emotion, words as
language and language as music, and
sound as another world that nestles in the
other’s being. The subject in and of itself
isn’t an imperative. In actual fact, when
push comes to shove that is what the solution to my cryptograms inevitably boil
NETHERLANDS
down to. My desire lies in the finding
and presenting values that connect unknown worlds in my poems. For example, what happens when I situate two
people at a table in the middle of a restaurant? They have something important to
tell each other, while the snake of truth
and betrayal writhes under the table at
their feet. In another poem a mother calls
a father to account: what did you do to
our child? A connection between situational stanzas within a single poem might
develop, but equally, a connection between scenes from separate poems might
spring up. I want to imitate the world: to
juggle the interconnectedness of words
and the images they conjure up.
My poems evoke disparate situations
that become connected through the almost-simultaneousness of events. It is a
matter of breadth over depth. The desire
to connect is my mainspring. What is taking place simultaneously in a thousand
different places, even when we are not
aware of it? What do simultaneous lives
look like? How insane is it to want to connect horizontally through time? Pretty insane. Impossible. That’s why I try.
My characters are archetypical. Characters I can project my own happiness,
sadness, loathing or lust onto.
My poetry is slowly turning into a training ground for theatre scripts. Stanzas are
turning into vignettes that could evolve
into scenes for the stage. But I restrict myself to circumlocutory stanzas. No time
for lingering or dwelling. Too much going
on in the world. Everything going on in
the world. Sometimes I will write a monologue, giving expression to a solid voice.
Again, the character will be based on an
archetype: one of Noah’s children for example. This creates a context and perspective from which to comment freely
on power-tensions between people in the
here and now. I don’t always know where
a monologue will take me when I start.
Every word, every part of speech can lead
me in a new direction and to new material. Material becomes apparatus. I use it
to operate my thoughts. I thank the future
for giving me ambition. I also curse the
future. Because it promises mortality.
The mortality inherent in language (just
think of the tenses) should be challenged.
Another reason for me to desire a new
language is to undo it of its mortality. To
fly with invisible wings of living words,
keeping death at bay. Sputtering and fluttering. Getting out of here. Into the open
spaces.
From 12.15 to 13.00 o’clock
Today there was – during lunch
break’s break – someone who wanted to
know how I work, where I get my ideas
from. Tch I said, problem with ideas is
that problems begin where they got
started, take this conversation here. From
underneath the leaves sounded a suppressed protest or call it cheerful,
but with hands clasped to the mouth.
Splutter-laughing like a class of eleven
year olds trying (not) to imagine what
Miss does on the loo and if it would be
possible to peep.
It could be I said, that something
skims past (a magpie). Come evening I
knew what the correct answer sounded
like, flying from the window: shrill and
pure.
***
SPANISH VERSION
(© traducción española: Diego J. Puls,
2012 (para el XXIII Festival Internacional de Poesía de Medellín)
UNA POETICA
Por Anne Vegter (Países Bajos)
Esta mañana, un crítico escribió en
Facebook: «(...) el funcionamiento
caótico, comprehensivo y fortuito de la
imaginación, a la que vengo llamando el
espacio abierto, me lleva a pensar una y
otra vez que puedo unir territorios muy
apartados entre sí (...)». En su explicación
de ese espacio abierto, el crítico remite al
filósofo Deleuze: «(...) Deleuze afirma
que lo que fluye entre los elementos es el
deseo (...)». Como no he leído la disertación de Deleuze, podría pintar alegremente ese texto en una pared de mi casa
sin que me lo impidiera ningún
conocimiento del contexto. Es algo que
hago de preferencia con textos que no
son de producción propia. En este caso,
es como si ese adagio expresara algo
sobre el mundo que yo también ─por
pura casualidad─ intento evocar con mis
palabras: «Lo que fluye entre los elementos es el deseo».
Sic. Todavía no he dicho nada.
Porque vamos a ver: ¿de qué deseo se
trata? ¿De esa cosa atávica llamada deseo
de fusión (se acabó la soledad), el impulso amoroso (se acabó la castidad), la
belleza (se acabó la obscenidad) y ─¿por
qué no?─ una pizca de impulso mortal
(se acabó la infinidad)? Sigo sin decir
nada. Deseo es la palabra clave. Un lugar,
un momento, un objeto, un pensamiento,
todo puede ser más grande, más abundante y más rico gracias a la imaginación.
El deseo es el ansia de enriquecimiento.
Y esa ansia está siempre presente. Eso es
lo que pretendo de las palabras que
fluyen hacia mí como si nada, como agua
rica en plancton que desemboca en un estanque.
REPRESENTACIONES
Pregunta cómo pudo pasar que el verano se extraviara en un hombre, no
supiera cómo salir y el hombre se largó
como el pan que fermenta, despidió luz
roja y chispas, falló.
Pregunta cómo pudo pasar que el
poeta dijera el objetivo de la madre es
abolir la seducción, pero su vástago afinaba la espalda del padre cual instrumento
manchado.
Pregunta cómo pudo pasar que el
vástago rodara por la escalera con el libro,
caído yaciera al pie cual asunto zanjado,
quien lo desenrolló quebró, quebró: ahí
no decía lo que leía.
Pregunta cómo pudo pasar que el
NETHERLANDS
deseo restara amplitud, su regusto recuerdo y lo no evidente contemplara «un
baile del caño para intestino hambriento».
Pregunta cómo pudo pasar que la
Tierra fuera cual explosión, cual tintura
para el pelo, fractura, cual emulsión. Cual
polímeros. Di: La Tierra como marca. La
Tierra como marca.
No hay tema que no se preste para la
poesía. Una torre elevada de palabras
sueltas me sonríe con descaro. La derribo
gustosa. Mi juego consiste en hacer un
criptograma que se crea al vincular entre
sí palabras elegidas aparentemente al
azar. ¿Adquiere importancia de pronto el
pensamiento detrás del poema? No. ¿Es
importante el léxico? A veces. Pero lo
que busco es poner en marcha un flujo
rico en emociones, palabras como lengua,
lengua como música, y sonido como un
mundo distinto que se instala en la esencia del otro. En el fondo, el tema no es
tan importante. Esa es en realidad la solución invariable de mi criptograma. Aspiro
a encontrar y enseñar valores relacionadores en unos mundos desconocidos. Tantearlos. Ejemplo: ¿qué ocurre si
en un poema siento a una mesa a dos
personas en medio de un restaurante?
Tienen algo importante que decirse.
Mientras, bajo la mesa serpentea la culebra de la verdad y la traición. En otro
poema, una madre llama a capítulo a un
padre: ¿qué has hecho con nuestra
criatura? Puede generarse un vínculo
entre las escenas, insinúo relaciones entre
distintos poemas o, cuando el poema se
presta, entre estrofas situacionales dentro
de un poema. Busco imitar al mundo.
Tantear valores. En un poema intento
evocar situaciones muy diferentes que se
relacionen entre sí a través de la casi simultaneidad de la acción. El móvil es el
deseo de un vínculo. Prefiero pensar a lo
ancho en vez de en profundidad. ¿Qué
sucede en miles de lugares al mismo
tiempo aunque no seamos conscientes de
la diferencia? ¿Qué aspecto presentan las
vidas simultáneas? ¿Cuán descabellado es
querer establecer relaciones horizontales
en el tiempo? Bastante. No se puede. Por
eso lo intento. Para mis personajes elijo
arquetipos. Figuras en las que pueda
proyectar parte de mi alegría personal, mi
tristeza, repulsión o libido.
Mi poesía va siendo cada vez más un
campo de pruebas para textos teatrales.
Las estrofas se vuelven situaciones que en
el escenario podrían convertirse en
drama. Pero no voy más allá de las estrofas ampulosas. No tengo tiempo para detenerme demasiado en una situación. En
el mundo hay tantas cosas para nombrar.
Hay todo. A veces escribo un monólogo.
Para que suene una voz sólida. Para mi
actor elijo otro arquetipo ─por ejemplo,
una hija de Noé─ y así creo una perspectiva que me permite referirme sin más ni
más a las relaciones de poder entre personas de la actualidad. Confieso que no
sé adónde esto conduce. Cada palabra,
cada clase de palabra, puede ser útil a la
hora de plasmar material nuevo, por
ejemplo lengua de nuevo cuño. El material se convierte en una herramienta con
la que opero mis pensamientos. Por eso
quisiera agradecer al futuro por regalarme
las ambiciones. También quisiera maldecirlo. Por prometer la mortalidad, lo que
en realidad no debería estar permitido.
También por eso quiero lengua nueva.
Para apartar un poco a esa muerte con
alas invisibles de palabras vivas. Resistiendo. Revoloteando. Partiendo. En
pos del espacio abierto.
DE LAS 12.15 A LAS 13.00
En el día de la fecha ─en la pausa de
la pausa del mediodía─ alguien quiso
saber cómo trabajo, de dónde saco las
ideas. Bueno le dije, el problema de la
idea es
que los problemas empiezan justo allí
donde ella nace, para muestra basta esta
conversación. Desde abajo de las hojas se
oyó una protesta sofocada o llamémosla
jovial,
pero tapándose la boca con las manos.
Estallando de risa como una clase de
niños de once años que prefieren no
imaginarse (o sí) lo que hace la maestra
en el baño y si habría algo para ver.
Puede le dije, que por casualidad algo
me pase por delante (una urraca). Por la
noche supe al salir volando por la ventana
cómo sonaba la respuesta correcta: estridente y afinada. _
d
TURKEY
Nazim Hikmet, A World Poet*
by Ataol Behramoglu
N
azim Hikmet is the poet responsible for the most significant revolution in Turkish
poetry. This revolution was a groundbreaking act, known technically as ‘free
verse’. The origin of this revolution can
be identified in the development of Turkish poetry in the late 19th century, the
French ‘free verse’ movement and Russian modernism; all of which were synthesised into the foundation of Turkish
language by Nazim Hikmet. This revolution led to the enrichment of the language
of poetry with words never used before;
which in turn introduced a brand new
harmony and sound elements. Nazim
Hikmet’s poetry can also be considered
innovative with regard to its contents; he
was concerned with subjects, themes and,
so to speak, all aspects of human life not
previously considered.
At the beginning of his grand journey,
the foundations of Nazim Hikmet’s world
view as a young poet were shaped by the
concepts of civilization, contemporariness
and liberty, which began with the administrative reforms of 1839-1876 in Ottoman
history, and reached a peak with the poet
Tevfik Fikret. The feelings of patriotism
and humanism Nazim Hikmet experienced within his family circle during his
early childhood years also shaped his
world view. To the above mentioned may
also be added the sensitivity transmitted
through the rooted tradition of Turkish
lyrical poetry. Overall, these qualities
would have been sufficient to make him a
grand poet, but perhaps would not have
taken him to a universal level. He possessed a number of characteristics which,
when merged with the above traits, re-
sulted in a world class poet being bestowed upon 20th century Turkish poetry. One of these characteristics was, at a
very early stage, his ability to learn and absorb scientific and socialist world concepts. Another equally important
characteristic was Nazim Hikmet’s highlevel exposure to the creative atmosphere
of 1920s Russian modernism; to every
branch of the arts, from poetry to cinema,
art, music and theatre. This hitherto before unparalleled, great synthesis was the
reason for his protests against dogmas
everywhere and in every era; from the
‘We are tearing down the idols!’ campaign in his own country, to being the initiator for the defence of individualism and
freedom of artistic creativity against every
kind of idolatry and banality in post 1950s
Russia. In the early years of his creative
life, his political views gave rise to negative
reactions from political administrations,
although he nevertheless became very
popular among artistic circles. He was the
poet who won the interest and admiration
of the era’s writers and poets from every
generation. In this period he was arrested
and imprisoned on a number of occasions. However, during the reactionary
political atmosphere in Turkey which was
created by the tense conditions gripping
the world in the 1930s, Nazim Hikmet
started to be seen as a threat by administrative circles. As a result of being subject
to a conspiracy attempt for libel and deception he was arrested and sentenced to
penal servitude; in those days it was even
forbidden to mention his name. After he
was freed by the Pardon Law in 1950, he
became subject to another conspiracy
which threatened his life, and he conse-
TURKEY
quently had to leave the country. There
were many disgraceful campaigns against
him during his exile abroad. However,
after the
re-publishing of his poems in Turkey
in the 1960s, he met with the readers of
his country again, as a
great poet and human being. Now, he
is perceived as a national hero. Nevertheless, hostility against
Nazim Hikmet has not yet totally disappeared in political administrative circles. Perhaps we can
summarize as follows: more time is
needed to be able to objectively evaluate
Nazim Hikmet as both poet and socialist
activist. The first translations of his poetry
into foreign languages probably started
during the years he was in prison. These
first translations immediately established
Nazim Hikmet’s universal significance
worldwide; during the 1950s and in later
years, all of his work, especially his poems
and plays, were translated into many languages, reaching countless readers.
Today, as a universal figure of great worth
Nazim Hikmet remains without doubt an
object of attention and admiration. The
significance of competent translation is
evident in this worthy poet’s being recognised and loved in all languages, not only
in his own country but throughout the
world. Notably, the unique difficulties of
translating poetry into other languages are
an obstacle for fully understanding and
appreciating his poetry. I do not recall a
comparative study on this topic. However, we know from his own statements
and from the memories of those who
have witnessed these statements that there
were times he was not happy with the
translation of his poetry. Like all true
poets, Nazim Hikmet’s poetry is tightly
related to the structural elements of its
original language. To grasp the ‘deep
meaning’ of this poetry, which seems easy
to understand at first, it is certain that one
has to know the Turkish language very
well. _
*First published in Turkish Book Review, no. 3
Jack Hirschman
LIFE SUICIDED, LIFE SENTENCED
I expect you recently read
that more American soldiers
---men and women both--killed themselves
in Afghanistan last year
than were killed in physical
combat in the war there.
Though Mohammad
al-Ajami will never kill
himself for writing words
in Qatar that’ve landed him
a life sentence in prison
for publicly attacking
the regime in a poem,
we, his comrade poets,
aren’t taking any chances.
We know the murderers
of every atom of humanity
and the truths of life have
a hundred ways of making
a man or woman want
to end it, jump out of it,
slit the wrist of it, fire a
bullet into it. So we’re
going to liberate
Mohammad al-Ajami
from the nauseating
injustice as soon as possible. Ayibobo!
USA
GREECE
C. P. Cavafy
Ithaca
As you set out for Ithaka
hope the voyage is a long one,
full of adventure, full of discovery.
Laistrygonians and Cyclops,
angry Poseidon—don’t be afraid of
them:
you’ll never find things like that on
your way
as long as you keep your thoughts
raised high,
as long as a rare excitement
stirs your spirit and your body.
Laistrygonians and Cyclops,
wild Poseidon—you won’t encounter
them
unless you bring them along inside
your soul,
unless your soul sets them up in front
of you.
Hope the voyage is a long one.
May there be many a summer morning when,
with what pleasure, what joy,
you come into harbors seen for the
first time;
may you stop at Phoenician trading stations
to buy fine things,
mother of pearl and coral, amber and
ebony,
sensual perfume of every kind—
as many sensual perfumes as you can;
and may you visit many Egyptian cities
to gather stores of knowledge from
their scholars.
Keep Ithaka always in your mind.
Arriving there is what you are destined
for.
But do not hurry the journey at all.
Better if it lasts for years,
so you are old by the time you reach
the island,
wealthy with all you have gained on the
way,
not expecting Ithaka to make you rich.
Ithaka gave you the marvelous journey.
Without her you would not have set
out.
She has nothing left to give you now.
And if you find her poor, Ithaka won’t
have fooled you.
Wise as you will have become, so full
of experience,
you will have understood by then what
these Ithakas mean.
Translated by Edmund Keeley/Philip
Sherrard
World Poetry Movement edition