Nazim HikmetAnne Vegter

Jack Hirschman

Amir OrAj Bam

Roque DaltonRati Saxena

Ahmad Shamloo

POETRYPLANET

Spring 2013 - #01

A World Poetry Movement Edition

C. P. Cavafy

EDITOPoetry Planet #01Spring 2013E-edition of World Poetry Movementwww.wpm2011.orgEditor: Dinos Siotis, Athens, GreeceDesigned by Nektarios Lambropoulos - info@haramada.com

Satellite composition of the whole Earth's surface. - NASALooking at this map of the world,

we see a combination of earth, water, ice,desert and space. Some of us try to findthe place we live, others just haveglimpses of countries they ’ve visited.Here, at World Poetry Movement, wecan see something beyond that: peoplefrom all over the world writing and read-ing poetry in hundrends of languages.With words and images. Some practice

poetry. With voices and movements.With spirit in place. This map isn’t an-other geography tool but a guide for thereader and poetry lover. Every place asksfor a poet’s name. Poetry Flash will giveyou some names in every issue. Readingis always a voyage to different places andtime zones. Let us travel together. Poetically. And in every other way. Be-cause we want to be ahead of the news.

ROQUE DALTONRATI SAXENA

JACK HIRSCHMANAHMAD SHAMLOOAMIR OR

AJ BAM

ANNE VEGTER

NAZIM HIKMETC. P. CAVAFY

Ifirst met Roque Dalton in Havanain July of 1968. He claimed he wasa descendant of an outlaw, and heturned me into a writer and a poet.

I was in Havana working on a docu-mentary film about Fidel with my then-husband, Saul Landau, and our twochildren, Greg, age 13 and Valerie, age10. It was our second trip there as a fam-ily. I researched Cuban photo and filmarchives and filled in as the sound person.Making a film about Fidel involved atremendous amount of waiting and there-fore free time.

Living in a hotel with maid and laun-dry service, as well as restaurant meals,liberated my life from domestic duties. Imet remarkable people including EstellaBravo who worked at Casa de Las Ameri-cas, the hub of Cuban and internationalleftist life with publications, exhibits, andconferences. Estella recruited me as a vol-unteer to help her catalogue Americanfolk and protest music at "Casa."

I was walking down the hall of Casa deLas Americas, when a man popped out ofone of the rooms, following me andquickly catching up. He introduced him-self and said his name was Roque Dalton,a Salvadoran poet. He’d been in a meet-ing of male poets and they noticed me goby. So, he was sent to see who I was.Until then, I thought of poets as a very se-rious bunch. Now, I saw that clearly theyindulged in the favorite Cuban pastime ofthe era- girl watching.

I commented that in my country, theUnited States, the Dalton Gang memberswere legendary folk heroes, like JesseJames.

"Yes," he said." I am related to them."We walked back to my hotel for

lunch, He was very witty, and we laughedwith every step under hot sun and palmstrees, passing the Caribbean splashingagainst the malecon, dodging cars, andentering the limply air-conditioned Ha-bana Libre Hotel.

It was the year when the entire islandwas gearing up for a campaign to producea record-breaking ten million tons ofsugar cane harvest. The previous year hadbeen the year of the "Heroic Guerrilla."referring to recently killed Che Guevara,whose picture hung every where. Sacrificeabounded. Schools, work centers, andwhole families dedicated themselves tovolunteer sugar cane cutting. The "Diezmiliones van" campaign ultimately reapedonly six million tons. However, it set newnorms in socialist participation and volun-teerism and promoted the Guevara con-cept of the "New human being," one whoworked enthusiastically for the commongood.

Roque joined my family for lunch andimmediately we were all laughing. He toldus that he and his wife, and three boyshad only recently moved from this hoteland were now installed in a Havana apart-ment, mentioning that his sons missed theuse of the pool. As we moved down thecafeteria line, we continued talking abouthis connections to the Dalton gang. I wasenthralled and suggested we write a televi-sion play of the story together usingBrechtian theater ideas.

"Television?" he scoffed, "As a poetand polemicist, I worship at the altar ofthe novel."

EL SALVADOR

The Assassination of a Poet

Memories of Roque Daltonby Nina Serrano

quick moving with lively action. But, theCuban TV acting at that time was exagger-ated, and the editing style was very slow.

Immediately after, I rushed into thefilming of Fidel and his entourage on ajeep caravan across the island. Roque toohad pressing deadlines to meet fromCuban publishers. He was to write an an-swer to the Regis Debray’s book on Cubaat Fidel’s personal request. He was alsoproof reading the printer’s copy for hisnew poetry anthology.

When I left for California, wearranged to stay in touch through lettersand invented a code for collect calls. Mychildren loved a TV animation programcalled "Rocky and Bullwinkle." He wouldphone and say his call was from "The Fly-ing Squirrel," which was the cartoon char-acter "Rocky’s " persona.

A year later in 1969, our family re-turned to Cuba to screen the Fidel filmand begin researching for a fiction filmabout the Salvador Allende election inChile. If Allende won, it would be a non-violent democratic revolution. This fos-

tered even more discussions betweenRoque and me, about armed struggle andif it was the only path to revolution.

The "Fidel" documentary was lauded.We watched the first human being landon the moon. Our Cuba stay was short,only two weeks. Roque was frequentlytied up with mysterious meetings. I wor-ried about him, because it was rumoredthat he was involved with a Salvadoranguerrilla grouping. When I asked himabout it, he said he could not discuss it,which I respected. We began a continu-ous dialogue about violence and terror-ism. I was afraid of them. He felt it wasunfortunate, but that sometimes for thesake of a greater good, they were neces-sary.

Some people described his group tome as "adventurist" and "Maoist." Thosewere frequent charges in Havana in thosedays, against any non-Communist Partyleftist group. The Mao influence was pop-ular that year world-wide. Even the BlackPanthers at a San Francisco rally hadwaved Mao’s little "Red Book."

I visited Roque’s apartment and washappy to finally meet his wife, Aida. Onone of his visits to our hotel, he saw acopy of a San Francisco alternative news-paper, "The San Francisco Good Times"with its flamboyant graphics and high spir-its. The only words in it he could readilyunderstand were the headlines: Los SieteDe La Raza."

"Who are they?" he asked."They are a group of Salvadoran immi-

grant youth, who are accused of killing aSan Francisco policeman. Their defensehas become a rallying point for organizing

"But television reaches the masses," Icountered. "And Cubans with only twodull channels to watch deserve better. Itwill set a model for intellectuals to bringtheir skills and talents to the people."

He agreed and after lunch, we wentacross the street to ICR, the Cubanbroadcasting system and arranged withAbraham Masiques, that we would comeback in ten days with a completed scriptfor "The Daltons Ride South."

If it passed muster with the political as-sessor, it would be videoed in their stu-dio.

Every morning, Roque arrived with hissons, Roque, Juan Jose, and Jorge, carry-ing their bathing suits. The kids would godown to the pool and then come up toplay Monopoly, while we worked. We satat a big table that we periodically clearedthroughout the day for room service fam-ily meals and snacks.

Roque sat at my Olivetti typewriter,since the script had to be in Spanish,while I handed him precious sheets ofcarbon paper. Cuba had severe shortagesof everything. We often resorted to thedictionary and pantomime to work outlinguistic problems between us, as wewere neither totally fluent in the other’slanguage.

On the appointed day, we arrived witha completed script at the TV station.There were a few annoying rewrites de-manded by the assessor, but we were toothrilled to protest. A production teamhastily formed; slides produced, musiccomposed, shots plotted, costumes as-sembled, and rehearsals scheduled.

One night after a rehearsal, Roque and

I were walking back to the hotel aroundthe lively La Rampa night-life, whenplain-clothes police surrounded thecrowd. He grabbed my arm: "Follow me,I am expert in escaping police." He deftlyled us back to safety, although severalpeople were arrested that night. Wethought the raid was part of the campaignagainst homosexuals.

Roque said he had escaped from Sal-vadoran jails five times, once through thedivine intervention of an earthquake.When the prison wall collapsed, hewalked out on to a waiting municipal busand then out its side door onto anotherbus.

He told me he’d written a prose pieceabout being threatened by the CIA sayingthat they would kill him, and then spreadthe word that he was a CIA agent. Hewould die disgraced, as a traitor. As I lis-tened deeply, I vowed to myself that ifsuch a terrible event were to happen, Iwould help tell the world that Roque washonest and good.

We mounted our television drama infour days. The rehearsal time was soshort that when the camera went into aclose-up of a talking decapitated head, theactress froze. She’d forgotten her lines be-cause of the quick turn-around time tolearn them. She stared out on the screenin real terror- which was quite effective re-ally- but Roque and I were dying becauseour precious words were lost.

The program was very well received,though at the reception party, we sat in acorner on the floor with tears of disa-pointment. We had anticipated the pro-duction like a Hollywood cowboy movie,

EL SALVADOR

"Roberto Vargas has a crazy idea aboutorganizing a fundraising poetry reading."

Scribbling poems on café napkins andbacks of envelopes, I was by now, ob-sessed with words. But, I had never par-ticipated in a poetry reading, though I hadheard many Cuban poets like Pablo Ar-mando Fernandezand NicolasGuillen read in Ha-vana. I’d evenheard the greatWelsh poet DylanThomas, when Iwas a teenager inNew York City. InSan Francisco, inthe 60′s, I’d lis-tened to LawrenceFerlinghetti,Michael McClure,and Alan Ginzburgread, as well as theSoviet poet,Yevtechenko.

Roberto invitedme to participate inthe poetry reading,and I read mypoem to Roque. Writing poems andreading in community poetry readings be-came a vital part of my life. I met theother poets and joined Editorial PochoChe, a Latino poetry publishing collec-tive, that used stapled mimeographed orXerox, or any means necessary, to pub-lish broadsides and booklets. I reportedregularly on the "Los Siete" trials for theSan Francisco Good times.

When I returned to Havana in 1974

with my daughter Valerie, now 16, wemet Roque Jr. by chance, the first night atthe hotel. He told me that his father wasin Viet Nam and was expected back inMay. That May, Roque jr. came to ournew house by the Havana Zoo to delivera letter for me from Roque Sr. and per-

haps in hopes offinding Valerie.

Roque’s hand-written letter saidthat he was a warcorrespondent inVietnam and toldof the perils of war-fare in a very hu-morous way. Heincluded his funnylittle cartoon draw-ing. It remindedme of one I had re-ceived from afriend, in my teens,who had beenforced into thenavy during theKorean/US war. Afew days after I re-ceived the letter

from Korea, my friend’s parents phonedto tell me he had been killed.

Roque’s letter reassured me he wouldsee me soon in Havana.

What I did not know then was thatRoque was not in Viet Nam as a war cor-respondent, but rather was in El Salvadoras a guerrilla fighter, as a murdered guer-rilla fighter. I looked forward to seeinghim, but he was already dead when I readthe letter, written months earlier.

the Latino barrio, in the way the BlackPanthers have done in nearby Oaklandand the Young Lords in New York City.

"When you go home," he said, "youwork with them."

I promised I would, and I did. That ishow I became a poet.

Returning to San Francisco, I contin-ued to worry about Roque. Our conversa-tions replayed in my head. Emboldenedby having written the video play, I wrote apoem about my concern for his safetyand his life, The editors of the "GoodTimes" splashed it on the front page, andit was published as "To R. Before leavingto Fight in Unknown Terrain." Thus I be-came a poet.

To R. Before Going to Fight in Un-known Terrain 1969

Mass media I adore you.With a whisper in the microphoneI touch the mass belly against minelike on a rush hour bus but with no sweat and no embarrass-

ment."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

smileon his Indian face."Don’t die!" the whisper beneath the

call to battle.My love of man in conflictwith my love for this man.

Women die too.They let go their tight grip on breath

and sigh,and sigh to dieThey 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 herebut few consumer goods to float in

them.Here the blood is stirred by the sacri-

fice of smilesto armed struggleA 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 thighssoothes the channelThe baby fights and tears.

I stand by a puddle in Havanaa woman full of bloodnot yet spilled.Can I spill blood by my own volition?Now, it flows from me by a call of the

moon.The moonA woman mopping her balconyspills water from her bucketOn my hair, my breastsand into the puddle.The question is answered.

When I contacted the Los Siete de LaRaza Defense Committee in San Fran-cisco, they dismissed me as an "artist type."They sent me to work with Roberto Var-gas, a Nicaraguan born poet living in theMission District, San Francisco’s barrio.

EL SALVADOR

चीख

मरेेगलेसेनिकलीचीखनही पाती हैजगह, जमीन पर,अमब्र परतोदबुक जाती हैमरेी छातियोंमें, मरेेउदर और जघंाओंमेंमरेेगरभ्ाशय में

वेडर जातेहैंमरेी चीख सेनाखनूोंसेउधड़े दतेेहैं खालऔर निकाल मरेेगरभ्ाशय कोगाड़ दतेेहैं

अब मरेा गरभ्शयइस जमीन परखड़ा होगाबन जायगेा दरखत्उगायगेाकरोड़ो चीखोंको

नकली सभय्ता केकिलेकीचलूेहिलानेकेलियेएक चीख मकुमम्िल है

Wail

My waildoes not finda placeon earthnor in the skybut tries to seek shelterin my chest,in my abdomen and thighs,in my womb.

They are afraidof my wailand tryto tear out my skinwith nailswhile wishing to removemy womb.

So I bury now my wombin the earthand stand theretill I turn into a treewhich grows with thousands criesto removeall the nails of artificial civilization.

For thatone wail is enough.

We left Havana in the fall of 1975.Soon after, in San Francisco, I read of hisdeath in the international edition of theCuban newspaper, "Gramna". Thoughdeeply grieved, I took the article as a sig-nal to honor Roque’s name, so that theinfamous CIA threat of smearing himwould not happen.

I told my friends, Daniel del Solar,and Alejandro Murguia, who had beenco-editing the new bi-lingual literary maga-zine "Tin Tan" published by EditorialPocho Che in San Francisco. We createda flyer and poster, which included theGramna obituary. Countless communitypeople helped to post it on every cornerof the Mission district. Of special helpwere the Sandinistas who by then hadtheir newspaper, La Gaceta Sandinista,headquarters on 22nd and ValenciaStreets. We dedicated community events

to Roque’s memory and created a smallinsert about him for our magazine A fewyears later, Alejandro Murguia and otherSan Francisco poets, like Jack Hirschmanformed the Roque Dalton CulturalBrigade.

Today, over thirty years after his death,we still do not know the whole story of hisdeath.. I join with his family, friends, andsupporters in asking for the daylighting ofthe terrible and treacherous truth abouthorrible events leading to his murder bysome of his fellow comrades in arms. Ihope that day comes in my life time.Roque was a great friend, co-worker, fa-ther, and renown writer and poet. I stillmiss him.

EL SALVADOR

_

INDIA

Rati Saxena

“With a bouquet of fresh spring flow-ers and a few magazines in my left hand, Ipushed the button for the intercom onhouse #555 on Fardis street in Karaj,Iran. Seconds later, a very gentle kindvoice of a woman asked, ‘Who is it?’ Ibriefly introduced myself. The voicereplied, ‘I am Ayda. Welcome. Pleasefind your way inside.’ When the dooropened and I stepped into the yard, I sawa yard that had been transformed into aflower garden and I knew instantly thatthis was the garden that Shamloo had wa-tered every day. I found myself upstairs afew minutes later and Ayda embracedme. She was as gentle as her voice.‘Please have a seat. Ahmad is in his officeupstairs. He will join you in a moment.’Indeed, moments later, along with thetears of joy flowing down from eyes cameShamloo down the stairs. He was well-groomed, well-dressed – a handsomeman. He too embraced me and wel-comed me as if he had known me foryears. The room we found ourselvesmeeting in was decorated with numerousframed calligraphies of his poems, doneby different artists, and in the center was alarge bronze statue of the poet NimaYushijj.”

Ahmad Shamloo was born on Decem-ber 12, 1925, in Tehran, in House #134Safi Ali Shah Street, on an ordinary streetin the capital of Iran, framed on bothsides with an abundance of old poplartrees. Shamloo had this to say about hisbirth: “The winter was slowly startingwhen I and destitution were born to-gether.”

The Shamloo family descended fromone of the seven original and most power-ful tribes in Iran. The family lived inmany cities and villages during Shamloo’schildhood. “Due to my father’s job, ourlife was like a gypsy life, moving fromtown to town,” Shamloo wrote. One ofthose towns was Mashhad, in northeast-ern Iran. In Shamloo’s neighborhoodthere lived a very rich Armenian familywith two teenage girls.

“Every day, both of them practiced thepiano. That music had a profound effecton me, enough that I decided to go onthe rooftop every day so I could relax andlisten to them playing without interrup-tion. For days and days I submerged my-self in that tune, not noticing that day byday an unknown feeling was growing inme.”

He found out that it was Chopin’setudes that were affecting him so deeply.

“I remember one day I fell asleep onthe rooftop and when I finally woke upand went down to the house, my fatherbegan beating me very hard saying ‘welooked everywhere for you!’ But I did notmind that beating; it only intensified mylove for music.

After that summer the first unknownfeelings of puberty, a blend of pleasureand pain, death and rebirth, and Godknows what else, grew in me. I could notbe a good student anymore and the loveof music stayed in me forever. If it hadnot been for the way my life progressed,and my two unsuccessful marriages, I

IRAN

Ahmad Shamloo (1925-2000)by Mahnaz Badihian

criminal was the government, and he ex-pressed this in his poems and his writings.

Shamloo released his masterpiece col-lection, Fresh Air, (Havaye Tazeh) in1957 – a collection of poems that wouldinfluence Persian poetry profoundly andconfirm him as the leading voice of hisera. At this time, he also published a fewstudies on classic Iranian poetry, andmarried for a second time. All of his fourchildren are only from his first marriagewith Ashraf Isslamiya (d. 1978) and in-clude, Siavash Shamloo, (1948-2009),Sirous Shamloo, Saman Shamloo, SaghiShamloo.

In addition to writing poetry and un-dertaking studies of Iranian culture andliterary traditions, it was at this time thatShamloo established himself as a transla-

tor, children’s writer, and filmmaker.Shamloo has translated extensively fromGerman and French to Persian. A transla-tion of the semi-autobiographical novelBarefoot by Romanian writer ZahariaStancu, that explored “peasant realism”by portraying both the bygone villageworld and its contemporary influx ofmodernity confirmed Shamloo’s authorityas a translator.

A new collection of his poems, theGarden of Mirrors, was released in 1960.In 1961 Shamloo suffered a bitter separa-tion from his second wife, Haeri Toosi.By this time, he believed that marriagewas nothing but disaster. Below is an ex-cerpt of the poem “Sleeping Woman,”written during his second marriage:

Next to meAttached to meWith longest distanceHer chest gently risesWith bubbles of each breath

In the same year, 1961, he became ed-itor-in-chief of Ketab-e-Hafte or WeeklyBook, a magazine which transformed thetradition and language of literary journal-ism in Iran.

After the separation from his secondwife, he moved in with his mother andtwo sisters. There he met an Armeniangirl named Ayda who lived in the sameneighborhood. With Ayda he began aloving relationship that lasted until hisdeath and was immortalized in some ofhis best and most popular poems. Sham-loo and Ayda were married in 1964. Thatsame year, he published two collections

would definitely have become a musician.But I know that when I was young I re-placed music with poetry.

My poetry, I think, originates from mysuppressed longing for music in the sameway that the dance-like patterns of Persianrugs have their origin in a national desirefor dance and music which Islam hadsuppressed.”2

In 1942, at the age of seventeen, his fa-ther took him to the north of Iran, whichat the time was occupied by the SovietArmy. Shamloo and his father were ar-rested by the Red Army for political rea-sons – they were pro-German andtherefore not with the allied forces – andwere sent to the city of Rasht. He was re-leased from jail less than a year later. In1945, he and his family moved to theIranian state of Azerbaijan, but they weresent back to Tehran again due to theelder Shamloo’s job. That same yearShamloo decided to leave school forgood and instead join the avant-gardemovement 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

my bodyTo the battlefield.3

It is clear even from his earliest poemsthat Shamloo fought for the truth.

He married for the first time in 1947,and in that same year he released his firstcollection of poems, “Forgotten Songs.”From 1948, Shamloo took his poetry seri-ously and started to contribute to a liter-ary monthly called Sokhan. Two yearslater, his first short story was published,“The Woman Behind the Brass Door.”His second collection of poems, “Mani-festo,” was published in 1951. In this col-lection, he expressed his vision of aclassless society based on justice, equality,and brotherhood -- this was the shiningideal that motivated Shamloo to chooseSocialist ideology. Shamloo is now knownas a humanist and a socially minded intel-lectual and not identified with any specificpolitical party.

In 1952, he took a position in theHungarian embassy as Cultural Advisor.That same year his third collection ofpoems, Metals and Sense, was bannedand destroyed by the police. In addition,a translation of Sigmund Motritz’s “Goldin Dirt” and Mario Kai’s “The Sons of aMan Whose Heart Was Made of Stone,”together with all of the data he had gath-ered for a project on the colloquial cul-ture of urban Iranian life (later publishedas Book of the Alley) were also confis-cated and destroyed by authorities. Fol-lowing this event, he escaped and wentinto hiding. Two years later he was ar-rested and imprisoned for 14 months.His “crime” was that he knew the real

IRAN

traditions. One example from Book of the Alley:In the Persian language there is a say-

ing, “If I could walk I would go home.”This saying comes from a story in one ofRumi’s poems. The story in the poem is:

A drunken man at night was sleepingin the alley. The police held him by thecollar and said, “Get up. We must go tothe police station.” The drunken manlaughed and said, “May God grant youwisdom; if I could walk, I’d go home tobed!”

In 1988 Shamloo was invited by theWorld Literary Congress to give readingsand lectures throughout Europe. A com-plete collection of his poems was printedin Germany. In 1990 he toured theUnited States again. The Fund for FreeExpression presented him with their an-nual award. In 1995 a collection of hispoetry, titled “Aurora,” was published inSpanish.

Following this period, his physical con-dition began to deteriorate. He under-went several operations, and in 1997 hisright foot was amputated due to complica-tions caused by severe diabetes. In 1999the Swedish Foundation presented himwith the prestigious Stig Dagerman Awardfor his lifelong literary achievement.

He died at 9 p.m. on Sunday July 23,2000, at the age of 74. He was buried inTehran, and since his death his epitaphand grave site have been rebuilt numer-ous times, after having been vandalized ordamaged by agents loyal to the IslamicRepublic government.

Shamloo on Poetry

“Poetry is freedom and becoming free.But who can describe poetry or otherforms of art? Because any definition islike limiting something so immense in asmall space or as Rumi said, ‘It is likepouring the ocean into a vase.’”

Shamloo’s love for poetry began inchildhood and endured till the end of hislife. He philosophized over his passionfor poetry and the idea of poetry itself, al-ways trying to connect the dots of his liter-ary adventure:

“I started my journey with the poetryof Nima Yushij. Before reading Nima, Ihated poetry. After entering the poetryworld I read Mayakovski, Lorca, Élouard,Neruda and Langston Hughes which af-fected me deeply. Then at the end Hafizreplaced them all.”

Lorca and Mayakovski heavily influ-enced Shamloo along with the poet T.S.Eliot. T.S. Eliot’s influence is seen whencomparing the lines of a poem by Eliot, ti-tled “The Hollow Men” and a line fromShamloo:

We are the hollow menWe are the stuffed menLeaning together

Shamloo references this poem ofEliot’s in his book “Fresh Air”, where hewrites, “shadow who spoke of hollowmen.”

After WWII, many of the poets in

of poetry, “Ayda in the Mirror” and “Mo-ment and Eternity.”

His last wife Ayda was the love of hislife and the object of many love poemsthat will forever remain an important partof Iran’s tradition of love poetry. Below isan excerpt of the poem “Rhapsody ofMeeting,” which he wrote for Ayda aftermeeting her:

Who are you?That like this,With confidence, I tell you my nameAnd in your hands I leave The key to my house,And I share the bread of my happinessWith you I sit next to youAnd fall asleep on your lap,So tranquil Who are you?That in the land of my dreamsI pause with you so willingly

From this poem it is clear that in thisnew relationship he feels unity and one-ness, which are new feelings for him.

In 1965 he published a new collectionof poems, Ayda, Trees, Memories. Healso began his third attempt to compilethe Book of the Alley. Another new col-lection of poems was published in 1966Qoqnus in the Rain.

In 1968, he began his serious study ofHafiz, the classical grand poet of the Per-sian language. He also translated GarciaLorca’s poetry and organized a poetry fes-tival for established and new Iranianpoets.

In 1970, he directed several documen-tary films for television. He also pub-lished several short stories for childrenwhich have now become classics of Iran-ian childhood literature such as “Rain”and “Stories of the Gates to Chance.”

The Iranian Academy of Language in-ducted him as a member in 1971, and hebegan teaching Persian literature at theprestigious Tehran University. At thistime his audio recordings of literaturereadings were first produced. Several au-diocassettes of Shamloo reciting otherclassical and modern poets’ work wererecorded and sold.

In 1973, two new collections, Abra-ham on Fire and The Great China Wallwere released along with several newtranslations of international literature.Two years later, in 1975, he finally pub-lished his significant work on the poetryof Hafiz, Shamloo’s Hafiz.

Shamloo traveled to the United Statesin 1976 and gave poetry readings in manycities, which included his reading at theSan Francisco Poetry Festival.

The first and second volumes of Bookof the Alley went to print in 1979, and hewas re-elected as leader of the Writer’sUnion. In 1980, with the harsh politicalsituation in Iran, he began to lead a rathersecluded life that would last for the nexteight years, working with Ayda on anothervolume of Book of the Alley (1979–Pre-sent). Even after his death, his wife Aydacontinues to work on this project, pub-lishing new volumes of Book of the Alley,which is a multi-volume, multi-discipli-nary work that looks at thousands of yearsof Persian folklore and written and oral

IRAN

tic elements to address the young girlswho suffer hardship and loveless lives.This poem portrays Shamloo’s views andfeelings toward society’s mistreatment anddegradation of women and girls.

His poetry is a tool for illuminating thedepth of his society and the hidden cor-ners of human suffering:

From the porchI bend toward the dark alley And I cry on behalf ofAll the hopeless people

There is no bigger dream left for meThan rising to search for a lost cry With or without the help of a small

lanternEverywhere on this earth or Every corner of this skyA cry that arose from my soul one

nightFrom an unknown needOh, all the gates of this universe!Help me find your lost cry.

Shamloo, like other known poets ofliberty such as Aref Ghazvini, Dehkhoda,Pushkin, Byron and Whitman, wroteabout freedom. Unlike them, however,Shamloo did not merely hope for free-dom, but, like Lorca and Mayakovski,was actually fighting for it.

Oh, if freedomCould sing a small anthem,Small as the throat of a bird,Then there would not be any fallen

wallsAnywhere

Shamloo has left behind a long literaryhistory. He was one of the most hard-working poets in Iran’s last one hundredyears. He was a serious poet, a translator,a playwright, a literary researcher, a short-story writer, and an avid reader of worldliterature. He wrote more than twenty vol-umes of poetry, several novels, and trans-lated many novels and poems from worldliterature into Farsi. Some of these in-clude works from Victor Alba, FedericoGarcia Lorca, Andre Gide, and Antoinede Saint Exupery. One of his famousbooks of translation is an anthology ofworld poetry, including many poemsfrom Neruda, Langston Hughes, andPaul Eluard. In addition to all of that,Shamloo wrote many books for children,both in prose and poetry forms. Shamloodid the same thing Garcia Lorca did withgypsy songs in Spanish, by collecting allthe verbal sayings and poetry of the streetpeople or people who live in small townsin Iran, and putting them in over six vol-umes of books called Ketab-e Koocheh(Book of the Alley). He finished the firstfew volumes himself, but the rest wasdone in collaboration with his third wifeAyda.

His poetry collection, “Havaye Tazeh”(Fresh Air) was an important literaryevent in Iran and confirmed Shamloo asa serious poet. The two main poems inthis book are “Roxana” and “Ayda in theMirror,” with his main focus on love, thebeloved and the lover. The long poem“Roxana” is a short love story written inpoetic form.

In the poem “Ayda in the Mirror,”readers experience an intense love story

Iran becamefascinatedwith thework ofYushij, thefather ofIran’s free-verse ornon-tradi-tional poeticform. Yushijbelieved thatwithoutdrifting fromworks of such traditional Iranian poets asHafiz, Rumi, Sa’adi or others, the newpoets needed to move parallel to worldliterature. Yushij created a new style ofpoetry which did not have the style andform of the ghazal or ghaseedeh, two an-cient poetic forms in Iranian literature.His poetry gave rise to many amazing andgood poets. Other voices within the last50 years of Iran’s poetry include ForoughFarrokhzad, Sohrab Sepehri, MehdiAkhavan-Sales, Fereidoon Moshiri,Manouchehr Atashi and more. ButShamloo had a stronger, more effective,voice.

Shamloo is credited for employing thestyle and words of the man in the street.He developed a simple, free poetic style,known in Iran as Sepid Poetry, or verseblanc (literally meaning white), which is afree verse that departs from the tightlybalanced rhythm and rhymes of classicalPersian poetry such as ghazal.

According to Pouran Farrokhzad, poetand writer (as well as sister of the famouspoet Forough Farrokhzad), Shamloo is

not only amaster poetof liberty,and a poetof love, heis also apoet of“women”--womensuch as“Galia,”Shamloo’sfirst love atthe age of

nineteen, as well as the three women hemarried, his mother, and the women inhis beloved country, such as those he en-countered every day in the streets and onthe bus:

Oh the girls of the plains!The girls of anticipation!The girls of narrow hopes in the vast

plainsWith vast dreams and depressed

moods…Oh the girls of the long daysRunning tirelesslyAnd defeated at nights…The breast of which one of youHas blossomed into the spring of its

puberty?The lips of which one of you,Tell me, the lips of which one of youIn its dream has hidden the aroma of a

kiss?

He uses beauty and love and humanis-

IRAN

Two restless birds are singing on yourchest

Summer will arrive from which direc-tion

To make me thirstier for waters?

For you to arrive in the frame of a mir-ror

For a long time I waited for itI have cried the oceans, the creeksYou were the angelArriving in the flesh of a human beingImmune from any deceitYour presence is heavenlyThat defines the escape from hellAn ocean that drowns me in itTo be washed off from all the lies and

sinsAnd dawn flies from the palm of your

hands

Shamloo used any resources he couldto connect with people. For the youngpopulation, he translated the works ofmany international poets and writers, andfor the older generation he translated Gil-gamesh and The Songs of Solomon. Foreveryone else, he had his Book of theAlley.

As with all poems by Shamloo, evenhis love poems, there is some kind of so-cial message. The same goes for “Paria”(The Fairies) which is the story of peoplewanting to get rid of tyrants and devils andcollectively they succeed. Shamloo’sknowledge of the folkloric literature ofIran and his significant work “Book of theAlley” developed in him an expertise andawareness of the colloquial language.When he was asked why he uses collo-

quial language in some of his work hesaid, “The people are the ‘father’ of lan-guage, not scholars. They have morerights on language...” In 1957, when hepublished “The Fairies,” he said it hadbeen made with street language. This verylong poem became one of the most popu-lar Persian poems of the century. Belowis a small excerpt of the poem.

Fairiesایرپ

Once upon a time,Under the gray dome of the skyThree naked fairies satFairies “boo-hoo” cryingHeavy like spring rainsTheir hair as long as a bowAnd as dark as nightLonger than a bowDarker than nightFacing them, upon the duskA city with enslaved boysBehind them, dark and cold wasThe castle of old talesFrom the dusk one could hearThe chirping of the chainsFrom behind, one could hearThe nightly moans

Oh Fairies, aren’t you hungry?Aren’t you thirsty?Aren’t you tired?

Have you become broken wingedbirds?

What is this boo-hooWhat is this crying like the rain?”

and see the impacts of this love on thelover.

A few lines from” Ayda in the Mirror”follow in Farsi:

تنابلهب رعشتفارظیناوهش نیرت هسوب اه ار هب

یمرش نانچ لدبم یم دنکهک رادناج راغ نیشن زا دوسنآ

یم دیوجات تروصهب ناسنا دیآردو هنوگ تیاهاب ود رایش بروّمهک رورغ ارت تیاده دننکیم وتشونرس ارم

Below is a transliteration of the Farsi inorder for an English reader to get a senseof the music in the original form.

Labanatbe zarafate shershahavanitarin boseha ra be sharmi

chenon mobadal mekonadke 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 kissesTo a prudency such thatThe cave animal benefits from it to be-

come humanAnd your cheeks with two oblique

linesGuide your prideAnd my destiny for tolerating the nightWithout being armed, waiting for

dawn And I guarded a proud chastityFrom the brothel houses of this world Never has anyone been raised for self

killingAs much as sitting for lifeAnd your eyes are the mystery of fireAnd your love is a triumph of

mankind Challenging towards destinyAnd your bosomA place to liveA place to dieAnd the escape from the cityThe city which shamelessly accusesThe purity of the sky,The mountains which beginWith a few first stonesAnd the human with its first painIn me there was a captive tyrantWho never got used to the chainsI have started with your first gazeAnd the tornados in your amazing

dance

As glorified as the flute playingIn your splendid danceA flute is playingAnd the song of your veinsAwakens the forever lasting sunLet me wake up in a way thatThe city comprehends my presence

Your hands are peace, and a friendthat helps

To forget animosityYour foreheadIs a long, glowing mirrorLetting the “seven sisters” look into itTo reach their beauty

IRAN

From the forest of the people,Not the jasmines of someone’s Greenhouse

Mojabi, the poet and scholar, was onceasked, “Many poets of the seventies wish-ing to create a new poetry style believethat Shamloo’s style is not the language oftoday, what do you think?”

Mojabi replied,

“Shamloo’s language is his own lan-guage. It is normal that poets coming afterhim would search for their own languageand circuit of thoughts. Every generationhas their own experience and it is normal,but we should remember that denying theexperiences of previous generations doesnot help us to solidify our position as apoet. Poet is the name others give to us.You don’t give that name to yourself.”

To show an example of the musicalityin Shamloo’s poetry, first listen to thewords in Farsi transliteration in the poem“Look” (Negah Kon):

zendegi daam neesteshgh daam neesthata marg daam neestchera ke yarane gomshodeh azaadandazaad va paak

English translation:

Life is not a trapLove is not a trapEven death is not a trapBecause our lost comrades are freeFree and pure

Shamloo wrote more eulogies than anyother poet. One of his famous eulogieswas for Iran’s famous poet, Forough Far-rokhzad, who died at age 35 in a car acci-dent. This poem is both happy and sad.

The EulogyFor Forough Farrokhzad

In the quest for youI cry at the knees of the mountainIn the vicinity of the sea and the turf

In the quest for youI cried with the blow of the wind.At the crossroad of four seasonsOver a broken frame of a windowWhich frames the cloudy sky?In its old frameIn the hope for your image

For how long wills this notebookTurn its pages?Acceptance of the reality of wind And love, which is the sister of deathEternity has shared its secret with youAnd you turned into the shape of a

treasureA treasure that made this land And the earth from now on a pleasant

oneYour name is a moment of dawnShining 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 Rev-olution, he left the country for only a few

The fairies said nothingThe fairies were boo-hoo crying Crying like a spring rain

Oh dear fairies why are you crying?In this far plainIn 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 soundof our city’s chirping chainsOh you Fairies!Look at my tall bodyLook at my white horsewith silver hoopsHis tail and mane honey colored whoCan run as fast as the windOur city is decorated with light tonightOur city is celebrating tonightthe devil’s house will be ruined tonightAll the villages are our guest tonightPeople are our guests tonightDancing, singing towards our city

tonight

His language connected with peopleeverywhere. As Shamloo explained, “Wemay not be able to pour oceans in a teacup but we can fill this cup with drops ofwater that represent the depths of theocean.” Ahmad Shamloo did exactly thatwith his poetry and other creative expres-sions.

Shamloo, known to have read both the

Koran and the Bible as poetry, was athinker with no limitation in learning andknowing new things. He was thirsty forworld literature and without question hiswork was not only affected by the ideas ofYushij and Iran’s ancient poets such asRumi and Hafiz but also by powerful in-ternational literary voices.

He knew the map of Iran’s literaturevery well and with what he knew about lit-erature he could suggest many neededprojects and works that Iranian poets andwriters needed to do for their country’sliterature. He is famous for saying, “Po-etry is an effective national weapon.” Andhe gave more power to the spoken wordin the last 30 years during which time se-vere censorship prevented people fromfreely writing or speaking their mind, letalone easily publishing it.

One specific trait in Shamloo’s poetryis the language of “rebellion” or “revolu-tion.” He rebels against old ideas and so-cial injustice. He wishes for a world withhealthy human relationships and free-dom. He worships human beings andcondemns a world that has tolerance foroppression. In the example below, hequestions religious.

I am the biggest rebellion of creationSatan knowsGod does not

The following excerpt demonstratesShamloo’s understanding of poetry as anintegral part of class solidarity:

Poetry is the people’s weapon;For the poet is one branch

IRAN

years and then said “as a poet and as awriter, you need to be in your motherlandto be able to write,” and he decided heneeded to go back to Iran. In response tothe question, “Are you able to write po-etry in the U.S.?” Shamloo replied,“Hardly at all. In these ten or twelvemonths I’ve written one poem and I’mnot very happy with it.”

The new Islamic regime was not favor-able to him, considering him an anti-Is-lamist, a nationalist poet and thinker, atraitor and a Westernized writer.

Due to the extent of his popularity, theruling clerics did not dare arrest him butat the same time they did not allow publi-cation of his works for many years.

Today more than thirty books andcountless articles have been written aboutAhmad Shamloo and this is just the be-ginning of the long road.

In an Instance

I touch your body with short strokesAnd I comprehend the worldI think of youAnd I can touch the moments Weightless, endless, naked

I blow, I rain, I shineI am the skyI am the earthI am scented wheatTurning into a cluster of seedsWhile dancing in my greenJoyouslyI traverse youLike a thunder at night

I shineThen I fall apart

The Day of Rising

I was all the corpsesThe corpses of all the singing birdsWhich are silent now The corpse of the prettiest animalsIn the waterOn the earthThe corpse of humansGoodOr badI was there in the past timeWith no songThere was no misery within meNo smileNo sorrowKindlyUntimelyYou saw me in your dreamAnd I arose with you

One of the great poets of our time,Ahmad Shamloo published more thanseventy books: Sixteen volumes of poetry,five anthologies of poetry, five volumesincluding novels, short stories & screen-plays, nine volumes of children’s litera-ture, nine translations of poetry intoPersian, 21 novels translated into Persian,five collections of essays, lectures and in-terviews, and thirteen volumes (to date) ofBook of the Alley, University Press, 1997.

IRAN

_

ISRAEL

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 robesand rehearsed their speeches for the event.It was not in vain that we smashed our templesand erected new ones to their gods;as proper we burnt our booksthat 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 tonguewe no longer knew whenthe barbarians had come to us.

Amir OrTranslated by Vivian Eden

d

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.

Miix in wonel yan, jach chen tin jum chen bey in man, way tin lumj 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 kimililwa ts’aten toj olal, in Kiichkelem Yumil!

Otsil otsil, baai tu jun yook’ lumwa 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 SONGOF THE POOR MOTHERLESS

ORPHANDANCE TO DRUMBEATS

I was very small when my motherdied,

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 aloneand 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 Iwalk

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 endto this suffering.Give me death, or give my soul transcendence,

MAYAS

Translated from Yucatec Maya by John Curl

Aj BamTwo poems from the Songs of Dzitbalche

the transgressions on earthof 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 meas-

ured in these days; because the timewill come whenthese days will end the world.

For this there will be a careful count of all the transgressions of peoplehere on earth.Into a great glassmade from the clay of tree termites,He puts all the tearsfrom those who cry over the evilsdone on earth.When the great glass is filled to the

brimit will end.

About Aj Bam:

The Mayas secretly retained much oftheir traditional culture after the Spanishinvasion; ancient rituals continued to beperformed in private gatherings where theold culture was kept alive. Aj Bam’sbook, known as Songs of Dzitbalché, con-tains his transcriptions of these old songsand poems that he must have heard inthose secret gatherings, recited aloud,probably accompanied by a drum. Thetitle page of his book reads “The Book ofthe Dances of the Ancients that it was thecustom to perform here in the towns

when the whites had not yet arrived. Thisbook was made by the honorable Mr.Bam, great-grandson of the great Aj Kulelof the town of Dzitbalché in the year1440.” His name Bam is probably ashortened form of Balam, meaning“jaguar.” The only copy of the book thathas survived was probably transcribed inthe 1740s. The reference to the year 1440probably means that his ancestor heldthat high political position in that year,but it also could mean that Aj Bam wrotethe book in that year in hieroglyphs, andit was later translated into alphabeticMayan.

About John Curl

John Curl is the author of AncientAmerican Poets (2007), containing histranslations and biographies of Maya,Aztec, and Inca poets. He has publishedseven books of poetry, includingScorched Birth (2004), Columbus in theBay of Pigs (1991), Decade (1987), andTidal News (1982). He represented theUSA at the World Poetry Festival 2010 inCaracas, Venezuela. His most recentbook is a history of radical American so-cial movements, For All The People: Un-covering the Hidden History ofCooperation, Cooperative Movements,and Communalism in America (2009).His memoir of the radical countercultureof the 1960s is Memories of Drop City(2008). His play The Trial of ChristopherColumbus was produced by the WritersTheater in Berkeley (2009). He is vicepresident of PEN Oakland and a mem-ber of the Revolutionary Poets Brigade.

my Beautiful Lord!

Poor, poor,thus alone on earth, pleading insecure lonely, imploring door to

doorasking 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 transcendenceto 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 nojochotsil yetel ayik’al, miats yetel j num Aj Jaukan, AkulelBatab, 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 xokxokiltulakal 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 APPARITIONSOF THE TWENTY DARK DAYS

The days of crying, the daysof 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 ofHunabku, the Only Nest for his earthly sons, has not yet come,because during these daysare measured

MAYAS

_

This morning a literary criticwrote on Facebook, “... thechaotically extensive and aim-less machination of the imagination,which I shall call the open space, makesme suspect more and more that it is Iwho connects areas otherwise far apart...”In his explanation of this open space thecritic cites the philosopher Deleuze, “…that what flows between things is desire…”I never read Deleuze’s exposition and un-hindered by any contextual knowledgewould be more than happy to inscribethose words on one of my walls at home.It is as if the philosopher is describing aworld that I try to create with my words:“That what flows between things is de-sire.”

Sic. But what does that mean, exactly?What desire are we talking about? Thekind of primordial desire for fusion (theend of loneliness), for lust (the end ofchastity), for beauty (the end of the ob-scene), or are we talking here about thegood old death wish (the end of immor-tality)? Desire is the operative word. Aplace, a moment, an object, a thought; theimagination has the power to enlarge andto enrich. Desire is the wish for enrich-ment. It is an ever-present wish: the imag-ination is a relentless beast. It is what Iask of the words that flow into me like astream of plankton into a puddle.

Representations

Ask how it happened that the summerlost its way in the man, couldn’t find its wayout and the man disappeared like risingdough, he lit up red and sparked, fell off.

Ask how it happened that the poetsaid the ambition of the mother is theabolition of desire, but her child tunedthe back of the father like a speckled in-strument.

Ask how it happened that the child felldown the stairs holding the book, lay atthe bottom like a what's done is done,whoever unrolled him cracked, cracked:the book didn’t say that.

Ask how it happened that desirecurbed width, her aftertaste a memoryand the not so self-evident glimpsing at “apole dance for hungry intestines.”

Ask how it happened the earth existedas 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 beyondthe reach of poetry. A tower of singlewords smirks down at me. I’m one ofthose poets who likes knocking it over.My g/a(i)m/(e) is to create a cryptogramthat kicks into action when seemingly ar-bitrarily chosen words become con-nected. Does the intention behind thepoem become more important as a re-sult? No. Is the choice of words impor-tant? Sometimes. But what it does do isto initiate a flow rich in emotion, words aslanguage and language as music, andsound as another world that nestles in theother’s being. The subject in and of itselfisn’t an imperative. In actual fact, whenpush comes to shove that is what the solu-tion to my cryptograms inevitably boil

NETHERLANDS

A Poetic Artby Anne Vegter

Photo: Roger Cremers

It could be I said, that somethingskims past (a magpie). Come evening Iknew what the correct answer soundedlike, flying from the window: shrill andpure.

***

SPANISH VERSION(© traducción española: Diego J. Puls,

2012 (para el XXIII Festival Interna-cional de Poesía de Medellín)

UNA POETICA

Por Anne Vegter (Países Bajos)

Esta mañana, un crítico escribió enFacebook: «(...) el funcionamientocaótico, comprehensivo y fortuito de laimaginación, a la que vengo llamando elespacio abierto, me lleva a pensar una yotra vez que puedo unir territorios muyapartados entre sí (...)». En su explicaciónde ese espacio abierto, el crítico remite alfilósofo Deleuze: «(...) Deleuze afirmaque lo que fluye entre los elementos es eldeseo (...)». Como no he leído la dis-ertación de Deleuze, podría pintar alegre-mente ese texto en una pared de mi casasin que me lo impidiera ningúnconocimiento del contexto. Es algo quehago de preferencia con textos que noson de producción propia. En este caso,es como si ese adagio expresara algosobre el mundo que yo también ─porpura casualidad─ intento evocar con mispalabras: «Lo que fluye entre los elemen-tos es el deseo».

Sic. Todavía no he dicho nada.Porque vamos a ver: ¿de qué deseo setrata? ¿De esa cosa atávica llamada deseode fusión (se acabó la soledad), el im-pulso amoroso (se acabó la castidad), labelleza (se acabó la obscenidad) y ─¿porqué no?─ una pizca de impulso mortal(se acabó la infinidad)? Sigo sin decirnada. Deseo es la palabra clave. Un lugar,un momento, un objeto, un pensamiento,todo puede ser más grande, más abun-dante y más rico gracias a la imaginación.El deseo es el ansia de enriquecimiento.Y esa ansia está siempre presente. Eso eslo que pretendo de las palabras quefluyen hacia mí como si nada, como aguarica en plancton que desemboca en un es-tanque.

REPRESENTACIONES

Pregunta cómo pudo pasar que el ver-ano se extraviara en un hombre, nosupiera cómo salir y el hombre se largócomo el pan que fermenta, despidió luzroja y chispas, falló.

Pregunta cómo pudo pasar que elpoeta dijera el objetivo de la madre esabolir la seducción, pero su vástago afin-aba la espalda del padre cual instrumentomanchado.

Pregunta cómo pudo pasar que elvástago rodara por la escalera con el libro,caído yaciera al pie cual asunto zanjado,quien lo desenrolló quebró, quebró: ahíno decía lo que leía.

Pregunta cómo pudo pasar que el

down to. My desire lies in the findingand presenting values that connect un-known worlds in my poems. For exam-ple, what happens when I situate twopeople at a table in the middle of a restau-rant? They have something important totell each other, while the snake of truthand betrayal writhes under the table attheir feet. In another poem a mother callsa father to account: what did you do toour child? A connection between situa-tional stanzas within a single poem mightdevelop, but equally, a connection be-tween scenes from separate poems mightspring up. I want to imitate the world: tojuggle the interconnectedness of wordsand the images they conjure up.

My poems evoke disparate situationsthat become connected through the al-most-simultaneousness of events. It is amatter of breadth over depth. The desireto connect is my mainspring. What is tak-ing place simultaneously in a thousanddifferent places, even when we are notaware of it? What do simultaneous liveslook like? How insane is it to want to con-nect horizontally through time? Pretty in-sane. Impossible. That’s why I try.

My characters are archetypical. Char-acters I can project my own happiness,sadness, loathing or lust onto.

My poetry is slowly turning into a train-ing ground for theatre scripts. Stanzas areturning into vignettes that could evolveinto scenes for the stage. But I restrict my-self to circumlocutory stanzas. No timefor lingering or dwelling. Too much goingon in the world. Everything going on inthe world. Sometimes I will write a mono-logue, giving expression to a solid voice.

Again, the character will be based on anarchetype: one of Noah’s children for ex-ample. This creates a context and per-spective from which to comment freelyon power-tensions between people in thehere and now. I don’t always know wherea monologue will take me when I start.Every word, every part of speech can leadme in a new direction and to new mate-rial. Material becomes apparatus. I use itto operate my thoughts. I thank the futurefor giving me ambition. I also curse thefuture. Because it promises mortality.The mortality inherent in language (justthink of the tenses) should be challenged.Another reason for me to desire a newlanguage is to undo it of its mortality. Tofly with invisible wings of living words,keeping death at bay. Sputtering and flut-tering. Getting out of here. Into the openspaces.

From 12.15 to 13.00 o’clock

Today there was – during lunchbreak’s break – someone who wanted toknow how I work, where I get my ideasfrom. Tch I said, problem with ideas is

that problems begin where they gotstarted, take this conversation here. Fromunderneath the leaves sounded a sup-pressed protest or call it cheerful,

but with hands clasped to the mouth.Splutter-laughing like a class of elevenyear olds trying (not) to imagine whatMiss does on the loo and if it would bepossible to peep.

NETHERLANDS

en realidad no debería estar permitido.También por eso quiero lengua nueva.Para apartar un poco a esa muerte conalas invisibles de palabras vivas. Re-sistiendo. Revoloteando. Partiendo. Enpos del espacio abierto.

DE LAS 12.15 A LAS 13.00

En el día de la fecha ─en la pausa dela pausa del mediodía─ alguien quisosaber cómo trabajo, de dónde saco lasideas. Bueno le dije, el problema de laidea es

que los problemas empiezan justo allídonde ella nace, para muestra basta estaconversación. Desde abajo de las hojas seoyó una protesta sofocada o llamémoslajovial,

pero tapándose la boca con las manos.Estallando de risa como una clase deniños de once años que prefieren noimaginarse (o sí) lo que hace la maestraen el baño y si habría algo para ver.

Puede le dije, que por casualidad algome pase por delante (una urraca). Por lanoche supe al salir volando por la ventanacómo sonaba la respuesta correcta: estri-dente y afinada.

deseo restara amplitud, su regusto re-cuerdo y lo no evidente contemplara «unbaile del caño para intestino hambriento».

Pregunta cómo pudo pasar que laTierra fuera cual explosión, cual tinturapara el pelo, fractura, cual emulsión. Cualpolímeros. Di: La Tierra como marca. LaTierra como marca.

No hay tema que no se preste para lapoesía. Una torre elevada de palabrassueltas me sonríe con descaro. La derribogustosa. Mi juego consiste en hacer uncriptograma que se crea al vincular entresí palabras elegidas aparentemente alazar. ¿Adquiere importancia de pronto elpensamiento detrás del poema? No. ¿Esimportante el léxico? A veces. Pero loque busco es poner en marcha un flujorico en emociones, palabras como lengua,lengua como música, y sonido como unmundo distinto que se instala en la esen-cia del otro. En el fondo, el tema no estan importante. Esa es en realidad la solu-ción invariable de mi criptograma. Aspiroa encontrar y enseñar valores rela-cionadores en unos mundos desconoci-dos. Tantearlos. Ejemplo: ¿qué ocurre sien un poema siento a una mesa a dospersonas en medio de un restaurante?Tienen algo importante que decirse.Mientras, bajo la mesa serpentea la cule-bra de la verdad y la traición. En otropoema, una madre llama a capítulo a unpadre: ¿qué has hecho con nuestracriatura? Puede generarse un vínculoentre las escenas, insinúo relaciones entredistintos poemas o, cuando el poema sepresta, entre estrofas situacionales dentrode un poema. Busco imitar al mundo.

Tantear valores. En un poema intentoevocar situaciones muy diferentes que serelacionen entre sí a través de la casi si-multaneidad de la acción. El móvil es eldeseo de un vínculo. Prefiero pensar a loancho en vez de en profundidad. ¿Quésucede en miles de lugares al mismotiempo aunque no seamos conscientes dela diferencia? ¿Qué aspecto presentan lasvidas simultáneas? ¿Cuán descabellado esquerer establecer relaciones horizontalesen el tiempo? Bastante. No se puede. Poreso lo intento. Para mis personajes elijoarquetipos. Figuras en las que puedaproyectar parte de mi alegría personal, mitristeza, repulsión o libido.

Mi poesía va siendo cada vez más uncampo de pruebas para textos teatrales.Las estrofas se vuelven situaciones que enel escenario podrían convertirse endrama. Pero no voy más allá de las estro-fas ampulosas. No tengo tiempo para de-tenerme demasiado en una situación. Enel mundo hay tantas cosas para nombrar.Hay todo. A veces escribo un monólogo.Para que suene una voz sólida. Para miactor elijo otro arquetipo ─por ejemplo,una hija de Noé─ y así creo una perspec-tiva que me permite referirme sin más nimás a las relaciones de poder entre per-sonas de la actualidad. Confieso que nosé adónde esto conduce. Cada palabra,cada clase de palabra, puede ser útil a lahora de plasmar material nuevo, porejemplo lengua de nuevo cuño. El mate-rial se convierte en una herramienta conla que opero mis pensamientos. Por esoquisiera agradecer al futuro por regalarmelas ambiciones. También quisiera malde-cirlo. Por prometer la mortalidad, lo que

NETHERLANDS

d_

Nazim Hikmet is the poet re-sponsible for the most signifi-cant revolution in Turkishpoetry. This revolution was a ground-breaking act, known technically as ‘freeverse’. The origin of this revolution canbe identified in the development of Turk-ish poetry in the late 19th century, theFrench ‘free verse’ movement and Russ-ian modernism; all of which were synthe-sised into the foundation of Turkishlanguage by Nazim Hikmet. This revolu-tion led to the enrichment of the languageof poetry with words never used before;which in turn introduced a brand newharmony and sound elements. NazimHikmet’s poetry can also be consideredinnovative with regard to its contents; hewas concerned with subjects, themes and,so to speak, all aspects of human life notpreviously considered.

At the beginning of his grand journey,the foundations of Nazim Hikmet’s worldview as a young poet were shaped by theconcepts of civilization, contemporarinessand liberty, which began with the adminis-trative reforms of 1839-1876 in Ottomanhistory, and reached a peak with the poetTevfik Fikret. The feelings of patriotismand humanism Nazim Hikmet experi-enced within his family circle during hisearly childhood years also shaped hisworld view. To the above mentioned mayalso be added the sensitivity transmittedthrough the rooted tradition of Turkishlyrical poetry. Overall, these qualitieswould have been sufficient to make him agrand poet, but perhaps would not havetaken him to a universal level. He pos-sessed a number of characteristics which,when merged with the above traits, re-

sulted in a world class poet being be-stowed upon 20th century Turkish po-etry. One of these characteristics was, at avery early stage, his ability to learn and ab-sorb scientific and socialist world con-cepts. Another equally importantcharacteristic was Nazim Hikmet’s high-level exposure to the creative atmosphereof 1920s Russian modernism; to everybranch of the arts, from poetry to cinema,art, music and theatre. This hitherto be-fore unparalleled, great synthesis was thereason for his protests against dogmaseverywhere and in every era; from the‘We are tearing down the idols!’ cam-paign in his own country, to being the ini-tiator for the defence of individualism andfreedom of artistic creativity against everykind of idolatry and banality in post 1950sRussia. In the early years of his creativelife, his political views gave rise to negativereactions from political administrations,although he nevertheless became verypopular among artistic circles. He was thepoet who won the interest and admirationof the era’s writers and poets from everygeneration. In this period he was arrestedand imprisoned on a number of occa-sions. However, during the reactionarypolitical atmosphere in Turkey which wascreated by the tense conditions grippingthe world in the 1930s, Nazim Hikmetstarted to be seen as a threat by adminis-trative circles. As a result of being subjectto a conspiracy attempt for libel and de-ception he was arrested and sentenced topenal servitude; in those days it was evenforbidden to mention his name. After hewas freed by the Pardon Law in 1950, hebecame subject to another conspiracywhich threatened his life, and he conse-

TURKEY

Nazim Hikmet, A World Poet*by Ataol Behramoglu

quently had to leave the country. Therewere many disgraceful campaigns againsthim during his exile abroad. However,after the

re-publishing of his poems in Turkeyin the 1960s, he met with the readers ofhis country again, as a

great poet and human being. Now, heis perceived as a national hero. Neverthe-less, hostility against

Nazim Hikmet has not yet totally dis-appeared in political administrative cir-cles. Perhaps we can

summarize as follows: more time isneeded to be able to objectively evaluateNazim Hikmet as both poet and socialistactivist. The first translations of his poetryinto foreign languages probably startedduring the years he was in prison. Thesefirst translations immediately establishedNazim Hikmet’s universal significanceworldwide; during the 1950s and in lateryears, all of his work, especially his poemsand plays, were translated into many lan-guages, reaching countless readers.Today, as a universal figure of great worthNazim Hikmet remains without doubt anobject of attention and admiration. Thesignificance of competent translation isevident in this worthy poet’s being recog-nised and loved in all languages, not onlyin his own country but throughout theworld. Notably, the unique difficulties oftranslating poetry into other languages arean obstacle for fully understanding andappreciating his poetry. I do not recall acomparative study on this topic. How-ever, we know from his own statementsand from the memories of those whohave witnessed these statements that therewere times he was not happy with the

translation of his poetry. Like all truepoets, Nazim Hikmet’s poetry is tightlyrelated to the structural elements of itsoriginal language. To grasp the ‘deepmeaning’ of this poetry, which seems easyto understand at first, it is certain that onehas to know the Turkish language verywell.

*First published in Turkish Book Re-view, no. 3

TURKEY USA

LIFE SUICIDED, LIFE SENTENCED

Jack Hirschman

I expect you recently readthat more American soldiers---men and women both---killed themselves in Afghanistan last yearthan were killed in physicalcombat in the war there.

Though Mohammad al-Ajami will never kill himself for writing wordsin Qatar that’ve landed hima life sentence in prison for publicly attackingthe regime in a poem,

we, his comrade poets,aren’t taking any chances.We know the murderersof 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 nauseatinginjustice as soon as possible. Ayibobo!

_

World Poetry Movement edition

As you set out for Ithakahope 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 wayas long as you keep your thoughts

raised high,as long as a rare excitementstirs your spirit and your body.Laistrygonians and Cyclops,wild Poseidon—you won’t encounter

themunless 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 morn-

ing when,with what pleasure, what joy,you come into harbors seen for the

first time;may you stop at Phoenician trading sta-

tionsto 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 citiesto 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 jour-ney.

Without her you would not have setout.

She has nothing left to give you now.

And if you find her poor, Ithaka won’thave fooled you.

Wise as you will have become, so fullof experience,

you will have understood by then whatthese Ithakas mean.

Translated by Edmund Keeley/PhilipSherrard

GREECE

Ithaca

C. P. Cavafy