Literature

 

 

 


Sa'adi's Viewpoints to be Published in Britain

CHN

Tehran, 6 February 2006 (CHN) -- One World Publication, a private publication in Oxford University, is going to publish a book entitled "Sa'di: The Poet of Loving and Living" on first of March 2007 in English language. It has also published several books on religion, Sufism, philosophy, and psychology.


Photos: Syma Sayyah

This 160-page book is written by Homayoun Katouzian, Iranian researcher. Sa'di's viewpoints on love which depict both human and divine love, as well as the impact of his many years traveling had on his thoughts have been inscribed in this book. Katouzian shed a unique insight on the man he calls "the poet of loving and living".

Using a philosophical and cultural approach toward Sa'di's life and literary works, Katouzian has revealed some aspects of love and life hidden in the works of this great poet who lived during the 13th century AD.

In this book, Sa'di has been described as one of the greatest Iranian poets and writers who was highly skilled in classical prose and poetry and had a unique attitude on both human and spiritual love.

Shaykh Muslihuddin Sa'di was born in Persia, the city of Shiraz, in 1184 AD. Sa'di's life may be divided into three distinct periods: Until 1226 he was busy with his studies; from 1226 to 1256, he spent his life as a traveler in different countries of the world; and the last part from 1256-1291 he spent as a Sufi contemplating and admonishing people. That is why he is remembered in Persian literature as a great moralist whose moral advices have been followed by those who heard them. Several pieces of his writings entered the daily life as valuable proverbs, giving precious lessons about life.

Sa'di was reverted in his time as a man of great wisdom and passion. The body of his work was written in the thirteenth century. Filled with extract of the poet's melodious and insightful writing, and critical analysis thereof, this revealing biography examines why he was so idolized until the 1950's, and why since then he has fallen into relative obscurity.

Homayoun Katouzian is a social scientists, historian, literacy critic and poet. He is the Iran Heritage Research fellow at St. Antony's College, and a member of the Faculty of Oriental Studies, University of Oxford, as well as an honorary fellow in the Department of Politics at the University of Exeter.


Namehay-e Aasheghaney-e Nima Yushij


The American Poetry Review

Forough Farokhzad

Notes and Translation from the Farsi by Meetra A. Sofia

The controversial and revered poet Forough Farokhzad (1935-1967) is Iran's greatest contemporary poet, one of the most influential writers of the Middle East, and one of the world's best loved women poets of the twentieth century.

farokhzad During her short lifetime Forough became a legend. Having sold over a million copies of her work, Forough holds a significant place in world history because she was the first woman in twenty-five hundred years to have a major body of work published in Iran and to emerge above all of Persia's contemporary poets as the greatest poet--a woman who in the land of heroes became a heroine.

Forough was not only a polemical figure during her lifetime, but since her death her poetry has come to be a powerful anthem for freedom. During the Iranian Revolution, for example, students would publicly recite her poem "My Heart Aches for the Garden" in protest to the tyrannical Khomeini regime. In fact, her work was considered such a threat to the dictatorial policies that when her publisher refused to stop printing her poems, he was put into jail and his factory was burned down to the ground.

With rare emotional depth, Forough's work is sincere, sensual, earthy, evocative, and an intriguing combination of love story, stormy passions, loss, betrayal, freedom, and most importantly, renewal. A poet of the 1960s, her poetry reverberates with issues of love and freedom and speaks to us as much today as when she first wrote them.

*

The Middle East has always posed a perplexing riddle to us here in the West. It is a land that woos our imagination with its sweet, enchanting culture, as well as bringing to life our shadow self in the guise of tyrannical leaders who perform atrocious crimes that terrorize humanity.

Until we actually experienced this terrorism in our own backyard in New York, even though it has cost the people of the Middle East millions of lives from its inception decades ago, this oppression was knowledge we preferred not to dwell on and liked to keep properly muffled in the closet.

But during the past several years we have all been catapulted into the lap of this paradox and have peered together through the same magnifying glass. We have watched in close-up, zoom, and slow motion and witnessed what happens when the Middle East, provoked by Western governments to display its machismo, publicly acts out its shadow self. Our consciousness becomes swollen with a deluge of appalling images, while the media broadcasts the nightmare.

On the home front in the Middle East, however, terrorism has been a part of everyday life for many decades, especially for women. The large number of those remaining who were not able to join in the mass exodus out of these countries have had to take up the illusory act of being silent and dumb, while dutifully abiding by a set of laws plastered with human rights violations and forged into being by a group of fundamentalist Islamic men only for the benefit of a group of fundamentalist Islamic men. This canon of laws alone has been enough to amply fill reels of horror footage as rape, plunder, and looting of the female body and psyche takes place in the cradle of civilization as routinely as afternoon tea. But add to the Islamic Republic's "quirks" a religious heritage that amplifies the subordination of women and constructs its Heaven primarily for the benefit of its male citizens, and we're left with a myopic image of a woman who is forced to transform herself into a voiceless, thick-skinned pachyderm in order to survive.

What happens then to a country that is unwilling to affirm the integral equality of its female population and treats a woman as a man's property? Is this a cultural enigma that affects women only or does it also affect men? Could this be what creates the dark side of the Middle East?

This is a complex dilemma the world at large has been dealing with for millennia, and its roots can more often than not be found embedded in the ideologies of patriarchal narcissism.

Since historically, however, it is the artists and not the politicians who record a culture's identity and who through their creative expression agitate, reject, and rebel against the status quo to change government, conceivably there is a poet or bard in Iran who could serve as our guide and help us understand the political dilemma in the Middle East.


All That Is Left Behind . . .

Why should I stand still?
Why?
The birds have gone looking for water
The horizon has been turned upside down
And motion spills out like a fountain

As far as the eye can see
Radiant planets are spinning
Earth reaches its apogee and repeats its orbit
And the blackholes in the atmosphere
Turn into tunnels that are connected to each other
While daytime occupies such space
That in the small mind of a newspaper
Not even an earthworm can fit

Why should I stand still?
The road passes from in between the tiny capillaries of life and continues
The climate: the atmosphere surrounding the uterine ship of the moon
Destroys any rotten cells
And in the chemically charged air after sunrise
All that is left behind is sound
A sound which will become one with the particles of time
Why should I stand still?

What can a swamp be?
What can it be other than a place where degenerate insects lay their eggs
The thoughts of a morgue counting swollen corpses
A coward hides his lack of manhood in the darkness
And a cockroach . . . ah
When a cockroach speaks
Why should I stand still?

The marriage of newspaper and ink is useless
The marriage of newspaper and ink will not save a small mind
I am an offspring of the trees
Breathing stale air is oppressive
(A bird that died told me to learn its flight)

The ultimate end of all forces is unification
To unite with the source of the sun
And to disperse into rays of light
It is only natural
For windmills to dry out and crumble
Why should I stand still?

I will take the unripe sheaves of wheat to my breast
And give them milk
Sound, sound, sound
The pleading sound of clear running water
The sound of light pouring down from the stars
Over the feminine body of the earth
The sound of the union of egg and sperm
The unbound thoughts of consummated love
Sound, sound, sound, all that is left behind is sound

In the land of dwarves
The standard of measurement always orbits around zero
Why should I stand still?
I abide by the laws of the four elements
And the task of writing out the constitution of my heart
Is not the work of the blind local government

What do the long savage howls
Of the reproductive organs of animals have to do with me?
What do the infinitesimal movements of a maggot
In decaying flesh have to do with me?
My life is bound up with the bloodline of flowers
Do you understand the bloodline of flowers?


Victory in the Garden

The crow flew over our heads
And disappeared into the drifting confusion of the clouds

With a shrill cry
Like a short spear
The crow soared through the open horizon
It will spread gossip of us through the city

Everyone knows
Everyone knows
>From that dark bleak window
We have seen the garden
And from that mischievous hard to reach branch
We have picked the apple

Everyone is scared
Everyone is scared
Except for you and me
Who have joined hands before the wedding table

The gossip is not about the embrace of a couple
And the linking of two names
Registered in an old tattered record book

The gossip is about my blissful hair
That has been ignited with the burning opium of your kisses
The closeness of our bodies
And the happiness we feel in the shimmering glow of our nakedness
Like scales of fish in water

The gossip is about the silvery life of a song
That at sunrise sings the song of a streaming fountain

At night from the wild rabbits
In the green nocturnal jungle
And in the terrifying cold-blooded ocean
>From the oyster shells filled with pearls
And on that strange magnificent mountain
>From the young eagles
We asked
What should we do?

Everyone knows
Everyone knows
We have fallen into the cold quiet slumber of the phoenix
We have found truth in the garden
And in the shameless look of a nameless flower

We have found life in an eternal moment
Where two suns orbit around each other

The gossip is not of scary whispers in the dark
The gossip is about fresh air, open windows, and daylight
The gossip is about a woodstove that burns and consumes useless things
About the earth that yields another abundant harvest
And about beginnings, completion, and fulfillment

The gossip is about our hands intertwined in love
Which build a bridge across the night
With messages of light, perfume, and gentle winds

Come to the meadow
Come to the wide open meadow and call me
>From behind the warm breath of the acacias
Call me like a deer calling to its mate

The curtains are bursting open with
Concealed hatred
While the innocent doves
Look down at the ground
>From the top of their white castle


Bathing

I took my clothes off in the delicious air
So that I could bathe my body in the running stream
But the stillness of the night seduced me
Into confessing my heartache to its waters

The water was cool and moved in dazzling waves
In whispered moans, it circled around me, crawling with desire
With soft glass hands
It was pulling my body and soul into itself

Suddenly from around it a wind rose
Showering my hair with a sheet of mud
And with its breath
Pouring the pungent sweet smell of wild pennyroyal
Into my mouth

Fulfilled and rocking with joy
I closed my eyes and pressed my body into its soft young wild grasses
Like a woman beside her lover
I surrendered myself to the stream

Restless, thirsty, fevered, and overflowing with kisses
The water's trembling lips rushed upon my legs
And all at once we were inside of each other . . .
Satisfied and intoxicated
My body and the soul of the stream had become sinners