Last Seen Wearing A Green Ribbon

The mother looked in

The sleeping child breathing slowly

Face framed by sheets in the dark

Softly she said “Wake up Sohrab”

The day’s hope and excitement ahead

The shower ran

Bread was toasted,

The sound of the slowly boiling kettle

The green ribbon tied

Heralding the start of a momentous day

~ ~ ~

As the crowd flowed and moved through,

Everyone a drop in a sea of green

Taking tiny steps ahead

Shoulder to shoulder

The telegraphic words and looks

Transmitting meanings and messages

Through the deafening roar

A nod of reassurance

A tiny smile

~ ~ ~

The crowd grew greater and wider

And in an errant second they were pulled apart,

Separated by the sea,

Tiny and black clad among the trees,

She watched him happily engulfed, foam on the wave,

She lost sight of him

The crowd took him

And she stood there thinking

“This wholesome crowd will protect him”

“He will be safe”

~ ~ ~

She waited

And waited

And didn’t hear the key turning in the lock

And couldn’t hear his familiar footsteps down the hall

And melancholy swiftly turned to despair,

She became a soldier searching

The young man who was last seen wearing a green ribbon

She looked

High and low

Low and low

She asked “Have you seen my boy?”

“He was wearing a green ribbon”

Days

Weeks

A month

~ ~ ~

The news came

Stark and short

And the crowds gathered again

Hailing the end

Carrying gladiola

Wearing black ribbons

~ ~ ~

The mother looked in

The sleeping boy forgetting to breath

The shroud framing his man’s shape

Softly she said “Wake up Sohrab”

Her life’s dread and grief ahead

As the crowd prayed

The smell of camphor and rosewater

Mixed with the sound of sobs and muffled tears

Marked the start of a barren life

The life of the mother without her son.

The Phoenix

Sheraguime Yushij, son of Nima Yushij, recites his father's poem, "The Phoenix," or Qoqnoos. The music is by composer Ahmad Nadimi. Mr. Yushij and Mr. Nadimi both live in the Washington DC Area. I tried to find the English version of this poem, which is Nima's very first free form poem, changing the landscape of Persian poetry forever, but I was unsuccessful tonight. I will look for it again tomorrow. I'm exhausted, so I crawl to bed now, wishing you all a beautiful Tuesday.

The Persian Winter

A fire crackles

A tray of nuts awaits

A book of poetry beckons

Inside, Hafez holds court

Wise and receiving

A bowl of pomegranate seeds winks

A candle burns bright and true

Mother’s quilt kind and soft

The long night outside

..

The Persian woman sits

Focused and hopeful

A prayer on her lips

The book warming her hands

The candle calling her close

The fire whispering her dreams

Mehr embracing her

As she opens the book

The long night outside

..

Wisdom said

Hopes expressed

Fears vanished

Tomorrow a beautiful image

Today a blissful addition

The Persian Winter looms

Warm and kind

Receiving and soothing

The long night outside.

Writing Blues

Initial Love by Aida Foroutan, from Book of Dreams on Iranian.com, October 28, 2008.

Some of my writing has been pouring out of me in the form of poetry, even though I had never written poetry before.  I don't know how this all got started, but all of a sudden, words jump out of my head with almost volcanic force and hop onto the keyboard and the result looks like poetry.  This has been a scary and at the same time exciting thing for me.  This last Sunday, I read a poem I had written to a group of writers, my friends.  There was discussion of my poem after the reading.  As I was carefully listening to the other poets and writers talk about my poem, taking notes on how to make it better, one of them whose opinion I really respect said:  "That was a very devastating poem.  It conveyed devastating thoughts and feelings."  Heeh!  I had conveyed "very devastating thoughts and feelings?!"  I must have, for my kind and sensitive friend, a published author himself, wouldn't have said so if I hadn't!  I thought I had just written about some memories and of some feelings, albeit sad feelings.  I was actually amused until he said:  "How do women do that?  How can they be so kind and generous to men who have hurt them and why do women remember those men with love even after they have left them?"  All of a sudden, I wasn't amused anymore.  I was sad.

Kooch

Bewildered,

I watched the horse

Dressed in travel gear

Impatient to take off

The nomad ready

To begin his journey

He needs nothing

No one to bid farewell

No worries about a home

Which was but a tent

Already waiting on the horse

No fears

No worries

No love left behind

And what there was

He didn’t claim

The horse shifts

Impatient for greener turfs

The nomad jumps on his horse

Waiving goodbye

Greeting the road ahead

Looking forward

And never back

And I think

I could be a nomad, no?

The nomad says I’m free

I could be free, no?

The nomad says I want nothing

I could want nothing, no?

The nomad says I love none

And I bid him Godspeed

For I love much and many

Even the nomad, but

A horse,

A road,

A tent,

Could take me far not

For I am anchored by love.

Kooch is the seasonal travels of a nomadic tribe to areas with better climate.

Photo from Getty Images by AFP.

Me, Hafez, and A Wish

So, I woke up early this morning, missing my Hafez books. Was it the way yesterday had ended? Or did I have a dream I couldn't remember, but which was weighing on my mind? All I know is that I really needed some solace and comfort, the kind only prayers and my Khajeh can give me. As you may know by now, I have not been living in my house these days while I take care of my friends' house and cat. I didn't have access to any of my Hafez books, so I went back to the site that I had first shared with you last December, to do a fa'al*-e-Hafez. The picture above shows what I got.

Can any of you help with an interpretation? I'm a little stumped myself today. Any help will be appreciated!

Have a good Monday and a good week you guys!

fa'al means bibliomancy in Farsi.

The Sun Rises

Nadja, an Iranian dancer in Sweden, performs a dance tribute to Forough Farrokhzad on a song by Jahan based on the poem "The Sun Rises," Aftab Mishavad.

This is one of Forough's most beautiful love poems.  I put a full English translation of that poem by Sholeh Wolpe here last January.  

Seeing this video has had me reading that poem to myself all day.  Here are the first few verses.  You can go here to read the whole beautiful poem in English.  Have a good Tuesday everybody!

Look how sorrow in my eyes

melts to water drop by drop,

how my rebellious shadow falls

captive to the sun.

Look. Sparks ignite me,

flames engulf me,

carry me high,

trap me in the sky.

Look how my universe

now streams with shooting stars.

A Message On The Road

"We are the children of Iran," by Shapour from Iranian.com, August 12, 2008.

One day

I will come, and bring a message.

I will pour light into veins.

And will cry out: O’ whose baskets are full of sleep!

I brought you apples, the red apple of the sun

I will present to the beggar a jasmine flower.

I will give the pretty leper woman a gift of earrings.

I will tell the blind man: The garden is so spectacular!

I will be a peddler, peddle through alleys and cry out:

Dew, dew, dew.

A passerby will say: honestly, tonight is a dark night,

I will give her the Milky Way.

There is a legless girl on the bridge,

I will put a constellation of stars around her neck.

I will take away all the curses on the lips.

I will tear down all the walls.

Sohrab Sepehri

Translated by Mahvash Shahegh

Leave a poem for us if you like. Have a great Wednesday everybody!

Variety By "Bacheh Bad"

Ferdowsi's Bijan o Manijeh on stage in Tehran. Photo by Shahrooz Nabati for Iranian.com. Take a look at those costumes! I so miss Iranian theater. It's one thing we don't see enough of in these parts of the world.

I have been a "bacheh bad," neglecting my beloved blogs for many days now. I thought if I wrote that I was enundated with responsibilities and a little under the weather, I would encourage all to say nice things to me and I didn't want that. Bogzarim keh you guys are always very kind and nice to me, no matter what I say! My blues followed me from last week into this week and I was really mad that I couldn't shake them off. The cloud seems to be lifting now, and here I am!

My kids are so sweet! My younger son keeps telling me that he is concerned to see me working away into late hours of the night and waking up early to do some more work. It's gotten to the point where now when I hear him coming, I get up and go greet him so that he won't worry about me too much. Of course he sees right through me! He said tonight he wants to take me out to dinner soon. My older son and I chatted for a few minutes today about his leaving the house soon. He said he won't be that far and that he'll come visit and camp out here every chance he gets! I agreed but added that it just won't be the same not having him around the house all the time. And there we were, in the state of dread-excitement that the two of us seem to be hanging in these days.

My calendar seems to have become full again for August and September, with something to do every weekend. I get exhausted just looking at all the commitments I have made for myself again, even though I had promised myself I would save some weekends for chilling out. I am really excited about a fundraising event I will be organizing with a friend in August. I'm also excited about the Namjoo concert which will be happening in September. In September we will also have a family reunion around a family wedding in Southern California. Now that's something to look forward to and to be happy about! I'll get to see my brothers and their families, yippee!

My friend says a man she thought about seriously has been acting strange and remote, possibly wanting to end the relationship. My heart breaks for her pain, but I'm relieved they are figuring this out now, as opposed to later. I told her she should look for a guy who would think and act honored and delighted to have her in his life, because she is such a special woman. I hope she doesn't think I just said that to please her and to soothe her pains. I think everybody deserves to feel loved, respected, cherished, and honored in a relationship. Anything less than that isn't good enough, especially for my very special friend.

I will go to my third Persian Poetry class tomorrow night with Dr. Zari Taheri. She is teaching us about Nezami's Eskandar Nameh. Don't you think it bizarre that Nezami and other Iranian poets and authors have such a positive view of Eskandar (Alexander), the man who was responsible for so much destruction in Iranian history?! She is explaining that part of that positive light surrounding Eskandar in Persian literature is that Persians didn't like to say they were conquerred or defeated by an ordinary man, so they built him up to be a hero! I will write something about what I learn in that class when it's over next week.

Have a good Wednesday everybody. I promise to start posting regularly. I have missed this too much!

To Blossoms To Rain Give My Regards

Yarn used in a Darabi-bafi workshop in Yazd. See more pictures from the workshop and its old Ostad (master) at work here. More beautiful than words can convey.

گون

به كجا چنین شتابان؟ گون از نسیم پرسید

دل من گرفته زین جا هوس سفر نداری زغبار این بیابان؟

همه آرزویم اما چه كنم كه بسته پایم

به كجا چنین شتابان؟ به هر آن کجا كه باشد به جز این سرا سرایم!

سفرت بخیر اما تو و دوستی خدا را

چو از این كویر وحشت به سلامتی گذشتی

به شكوفه ها، به باران برسان سلام ما را

"محمد رضا شفیعی کدکنی"

Godspeed

I am depressed

from the unyielding grimness of this wasteland,

imprisoned but desire to fly.

"To which destination do you hasten?"

a brier asked of the breeze."

To where do I speed?

"To a land that embraces me."

"Take wing in peace but remember, my friend,

when you fly beyond this grim land

in the name of God and destiny

greet the rain and the blossoms for me."

Mohammad Reza Shafi Kadkani

Translation by Sheema Kalbasi*

*I am so honored to hear directly from Sheema Kalbasi today! She has so kindly sent me her poignant translation of the poem! What did I tell you about how lucky I am?!

For The Morrow Let Us Not Worry

A nursery in Mahallat, Iran, June 15, 2008, more photos here.

O friend, for the morrow let us not worry

This moment we have now, let us not hurry

When our time comes, we shall not tarry

With seven thousand-year-olds, our burden carry.

Rubaiyat of Omar Khayam, translated by Shahriar Shahriari.

P.S. I have an important week ahead. Please send me good vibes.

Life and Taxes

A young man sings a beautiful love song in his bedroom in Tehran. I don't know his name, but it could be Ramin Bibak from what I gathered. The song, Mikham Chikar, is originally by Shadmehr Aghili. Something about the way this guy sings tugs at my heart. Enjoy!

So, I have a few days off from work to attend my new list of priorities. I spent most of yesterday doing some of the medical things I have been putting off for a long time. More will follow next week. I am also doing my taxes at the last minute this weekend, and taking care of the less pleasant but also necessary aspects of life.

Bayramali and I went to a poetry reading last night in Berkeley's Persian Center. Shole Wolpe, who has recently published a book, Sin, translating some of Forough Farrokhzad's poems, was in town. She has done a remarkable job of the task, delivering Forough with passion and accuracy. Shole Wolpe is a poet herself, so that may have had something to do with how beautifully her translations of Forough read. It was sweet to listen to her and to hear Forough in another language.

It's a beautiful warm day around here. I think I will spend some of it in the sun. I will also be spending time with my sisters. I'll come back to work on some writing later this evening. Have a great Saturday you all.

Enjoy!

One of Shahireh Sharif's Nowrooz pictures in loving memory of her father. See all seven here.

Khayam, if you are intoxicated with wine, enjoy!

If you are seated with a lover of thine, enjoy!

In the end, the Void the whole world employ

Imagine thou art not, while waiting in line, enjoy!

خیام اگر ز باده مستی خوش باش

با ماهرخی اگر نشستی خوش باش

چون عاقبت کار جهان نیستی است

انگار که نیستی چو هستی خوش باش

The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, translated by Shahriar Shahriari.

Slowing Down, Maybe

Interviewing Loris Tjeknavorian, Sunday March 9, 2008 in Berkeley. Photo by Jahanshah Javid.

My body has decided to put the emergency breaks on me! I woke up in the middle of night with a colitis attack and will now have to slow down my breakneck speed. I'm O.K., but will have to keep a slower pace for a while. This would be somewhat hard to accomplish, because of several writing pieces I have in different stages of development, Nowrooz just around the corner, my dear guests arriving soon, and getting ready for hosting my friends for a dinner party soon. We'll see.

I will write excerpts from Simin Behbahani's beautiful speech here. The woman is so wise and so brave, and of course a priceless poet. Let me know if you want to see more, and I will write more of her moving speech here.

"I am but a poet, one among the many; undoubtedly, a small fish, in the ocean that is the world. By profession, I have been a teacher; and I well know there are teachers and philosophers in this world much, much worthier than I in their wisdom and knowledge to offer any advice.

But my heart tells me, you, too, must say something. Let them laugh at you, let them call you mad, or even try to kill you. Nothing is left wanting your life to wory about it so much. So, I declare: the world is a wreck; the Middle East the greatest wreck; and religion the excuse for creating this wreck."

From Simin Behbahani's acceptance speech at Stanford's Bita Award Ceremony, March 11, 2008.

If I feel better tomorrow, I will go to see Mehrjui's Santuri in Berkeley and will tell you about it (Thursday, March 13th at 5, 7, & 9 p.m. at Oaks Theater, 1875 Solano Ave, Berkeley). Have a good Thursday you all.

زلف بر باد مده

Let not the wind into your tresses or I will go into the wind

Let not seduction be your way or I will lose mine

Drink not with any old contender or I will drown in pain

Savor not your wine or I will turn red in sobriety

Lock not your hair or I will be locked in remorse

Twist not your hair or I will get twisted

Become not the rival's friend or I will become mad with rivalry

Feel not for others or I will cease to feel

Open your face and I won't need a flower

Stand tall and I won't need the air of heights

Paint not the town red or I will shed blood for tears

Cherish not the other's company or I will perish

Steal not the limelight or all light will leave me

Ogle not or I will melt beneath your gaze

Be kind to this poor suitor and come to my aid

For me not to appeal to the Messenger

Hafez will never turn away from you

For he became free the day he was entrapped by you.

"Hafez"

I'm listening to Mohsen Namjoo. My heart is listening.

A Sunday In Solitude

Snow in Sanandaj, Kurdistan, January 2008.

صدای ترس

در گرمیِ يک چای تازه،

و محبّتی دوستانه،

و لحظه های خالی از کلمه،

حسّی لبريز از احتياج به انفجار،

قلبم را از پنجره

پرتاب می کند

تا دورترين عطر گل سرخ،

در بعد از ظهر باغی تنها

تا دختر کوچکی

که ابرها را می شمارد

در آسمانی آبی،

و صورتش را می فشارد

روی علفهای داغ،

دور از نگاه بزرگترها

حسّی لبريز از احتياج به انفجار

می خواهد

دور از صدای ترس

روی علفهای داغ

بخوابد

در بعد از ظهر باغی تنها

فريده فرجام

آمستردام – ژوئن ۲۰۰۱

This poem and this poet have something do do with the story I will tell soon. I will be back tomorrow to write a longer post. Be good y'all.

The Sun Rises (Aftab Mishavad)

Narenjestan-e Ghavam, Shiraz, Photo by Parviz Forghani

There is a strange symmetry between how the sun and the clouds have been fighting each other all day and how my body and that awful virus have been going at it. Our rainy and cold day gave way briefly to that beautiful patch of sunshine which did manage to come out a little while ago, only to get obliterated quickly by raining clouds. I'm happy, but my body has given in to the fatigue and ickiness of the virus, making me feel weak and achy. I had to stay home another day to rest. When we live by ourselves, there is no other person to hear us coughing and feel us sweating all night, and telling us in the morning that we must stay home and take it easy. We have to do it for ourselves. That process is not always easy, because usually the sick person is stubborn and won't heed our call easily and we have to get mean to return them to bed to rest! I have had to be mean to myself to shut down my usually very elaborate and active life. I sit here and think and go lie down and think some more, and try to sleep, and can't. I hate being sick. I want the sun to come out and I want to feel good again, fast.

Speaking of the sun, let me try again to post that Forough poem today. It is appropriate, I believe.

The Sun Rises (Aftab Mishavad)

Look how sorrow in my eyes

melts to water drop by drop,

how my rebellious shadow falls

captive to the sun.

Look. Sparks ignite me,

flames engulf me,

carry me high,

trap me in the sky.

Look how my universe

now streams with shooting stars.

You came from far, far away,

from the realm of perfume and light,

seated me on a canoe of ivory, of glass and clouds.

Take me now, my hope, my solace,

to the place of desires,

carry me to the city of rapture and rhymes.

You draw me up a flickering path,

seat me higher than all the stars,

but look these stars scorch me,

burn me, and I, like a feverish red fish,

nip at them in the pool of night.

How distant did our world once lie

from these chambers of the sky,

but now your voice reaches me,

the sound of angels' snow wings.

Look how I've soared to galaxies,

to shorelessness, eternity.

Now that we have come so high,

wash me in the waves of wine,

fold me in each silky kiss,

crave me through the lingering nights.

Don't release me, do not

part me from these stars.

Look how night along our path

melts like wax in drops, in drops,

my dark eyes drink sleep's wine

from your cup of lullabies.

Upon the cradles of my poetry

you waft your breath and look,

the sunrise floods us with light.

From Sin, Selected Poems of Forough Farrokhzad, Translated by Sholeh Wolpe, The University of Arkansas Press, Fayetteville, 2007.

Gift

Mina Momeni, Photography Collection at Elahe Gallery, Tehran, December 2007.

هدیه

من از نهایت شب حرف میزنم

من از نهایت تاریکی

و از نهایت شب حرف میزنم

اگر به خانه’ من آمدی برای من ای مهربان چراغ بیار

و یک دریچه که از آن

به ازدحام کوچه’ خوشبخت بنگرم

فروغ فرخزاد

Gift

I speak out of the deep of Night

Out of the deep of darkness I speak

And out of the deep of night

Should you come to my house, O Kind Soul,

Bring me a lamp and a window

Through which I may view the crowd

of the happy alley

Forough Farrokhzad, Another Birth, Translated by Ismail Salami

The Snowman

Farshad's snowman in Tehran, January 2, 2007. The note says: "For World Peace In 2008.

Also, look at these gorgeous pictures of snow in Tehran on Fars News Agency.

My morning started opening an email from Farshad in Tehran, holding pictures of this snowman in his backyard. Thanks to Farshad, it was a good start to a day which took me back to work after several days. My sons and I spent a bit of time together this evening. My older son read his new poem to me, which was delightful, but as you may know, as a mother I am not supposed to make a big deal of how good his poetry has become, because it makes him shy and uncomfortable and next time he writes something, he won't share it with me so easily. So, I made only some small supportive noises, though I was filled with pride. That also was a perfect end to this day. I leave you with a Wallace Stevens poem, entitled appropriately, The Snowman. Wallace Stevens was a Pulitzer winner American poet who died over 50 years ago. Listen to this short piece on NPR by Commentator Jay Keyser who says Stevens wrote the best short poem in the English language, and his reasons for this.

The Snowman

One must have a mind of winter

To regard the frost and the boughs

Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time

To behold the junipers shagged with ice,

The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think

Of any misery in the sound of the wind,

In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land

Full of the same wind

That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow,

And, nothing himself, beholds

Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

A Yalda Invitation

It's almost Friday and it is the eve of Yalda. My friend, Jahangir, has sent me the following description of the event which I share with you (source unknown):

"On Yalda festival, Iranians celebrate the arrival of winter, the renewal of the sun and the victory of light over darkness. Considered the longest night of the year, Yalda eve is the night when ancient Iranians celebrated the birth of Mithra, the goddess of light. Every 21st of December Iranians celebrate Yalda which means birth in Syriac. It is believed that when this night ends, days become longer as light (Sun) has defeated darkness."

"Today the Yalda festival is a time when family members gather at the home of the elders until after midnight. Guests are served with dried fruits, nuts, and winter fruits like pomegranates and watermelons, which symbolize the red color of dawn in the sky. They also practice bibliomancy [tafaol, faal] with the poetry of the highly respected mystic Iranian poet Hafez. Persians believe whenever one is faced with difficulties or has a general question, one can ask the poet for an answer. Hafez sings to the questioner in his own enigmatic way and allows individuals to look in the mirror of their soul through his poems."

Let's celebrate Yalda together this year (agar ghabel bedoonid). Please leave me a piece of Hafez poetry of your choice or by tafaol (bibliomancy). Or, leave me the link to a piece of music you would like others to hear. Or tell us a story, an anecdote, or anything your heart desires. Or do all three! Join in the celebration, please.

Here's my poetry contribution:

یارم چو قدح بدست گیرد

بازار بتان شکست گیرد

هرکس که بدید چشم او گفت

کو محتسبی که مست گیرد

در بحر فتاده ام چو ماهی

تا یار مرا بشست گیرد

در پاش فتاده ام بزاری

آیا بود آنکه دست گیرد

خرم دل آنکه همچو حافظ

جامی ز می الست گیرد

And here are musical contributions from Amir, the groom of the Yalda wedding, a present to his bride, and one love song from my sweet and wonderful friend, Hadi, who always reads me and gives his comments verbally! Happy Yalda Everybody. Have a great weekend, filled with warm bonfires of love and understanding in your hearts. Be good y'all, wherever on this planet you are tonight.

Photo by Babak Bordbar, Fars News Agency, Shiraz Music Festival, December 2007 (I have cropped this photo).