Iranian Poetry Quotes

And I saw it didn't matter who had loved me or who I loved. I was alone. The black oily asphalt, the slick beauty of the Iranian attendant, the thickening clouds--nothing was mine. And I understood finally, after a semester of philosophy, a thousand books of poetry, after death and childbirth and the startled cries of men who called out my name as they entered me, I finally believed I was alone, felt it in my actual, visceral heart, heard it echo like a thin bell.

I searched modern fiction and poetry for clues to how we confronted and evaded reality, how we articulated our experience and turned to language not to revel ourselves but to hide. I was as sure then as I am now that by looking at contemporary Iranian fiction I could gain access to a real understanding of political and social events. (p289)

And I saw it didn’t matter who had loved me or who I loved. I was alone. The black oily asphalt, the slick beauty of the Iranian attendant, the thickening clouds—nothing was mine. And I understood finally, after a semester of philosophy, a thousand books of poetry, after death and childbirth and the startled cries of men who called out my name as they entered me, I finally believed I was alone, felt it in my actual, visceral heart, heard it echo like a thin bell.

The white butterly slowly sinks into the wine of your age.

Suppose That I'm Inevitable Suppose that I'm inevitable Even the veins of my right hand Cross you from the drafts. On my smooth nails The breeze Which is not from the sky Is curving you Either the veins of my right hand Is running short On my pulse. Rolled along my fingers Vanished Not repeated forever For the second. I'm a half Since the first. The veins of my neck cross you all. If the warmth of my ten fingers Seized on your torn pieces of breath All is over With the dead-end alleys all in oblivion. (TRANSLATED FROM ORIGINAL PERSIAN INTO ENGLISH BY ROSA JAMALI)

A few months ago I found a note tucked into a journal. I googled the quote. It was from a poem by Saadi, an Iranian poet who lived in the thirteenth century. It was from his masterpiece, 'Gulistan', or 'The Rose Garden', Wikipedia told me. Gulistan is 'poetry of ideas with mathematical concision', it said, possibly the most influential piece of Persian literature ever written. I read on and came across the the following lines: 'If one member is afflicted with pain, other members uneasy with remain. If you have no sympathy for human pain, the name of human you cannot retain.' That's the essence of The Kindness of Strangers.

शादी का खलिहान लड़की मुस्कुराई और बोली: यह सोना क्या है अंगूठी का रहस्य, इस अंगूठी का रहस्य ट्रंक है मैं अपनी उंगली पर बैठा था, इस अंगूठी का रहस्य शर्मीली और इतनी प्यारी क्या है? युवक बहुत हैरान हुआ और बोला: यह अंगूठी भाग्यशाली है, जीवन की अंगूठी है। सभी ने कहा: बधाई हो और अच्छा हो! लड़की ने कहा: काश! मुझे अभी भी संदेह है कि यह उंगली का कारण है। कई साल बीत गए, और एक और रात जल्दी में एक महिला ने सोने की अंगूठी देखी और उनके खूबसूरत डिजाइन में देखा पति की वफादारी की उम्मीद में खोए दिन, दिन के बाद दिन पूरी तरह से बर्बाद हो गया महिला ने फूट-फूट कर रोई: ओह, यह अंगूठी है अभी भी अस्थिर और अस्थिर यह दासता और बंधन है।

Like A Hanged Pitcher Like a hanged pitcher, No drink is pouring off me It's natural to get numbed gradually. Pig-headed seashells! This boasting sky, Is an anchor which has fallen on my lap This dizzy sky! The moon's been cleared A shadow's coming after me Barefooted on my dreams You used to run! Enjoyed?! Numb! All my veins are connected to this land... Like a hanged pitcher Joyful of this sky One day a huge whale swallowed it as a whole. And it was over! The Gulf was over! You waved hands. Like a hanged pitcher, It's simple! I lost the game And gambled away... (TRANSLATED FROM ORIGINAL PERSIAN TO ENGLISH BY ROSA JAMALI)

திருமண கொட்டகை பெண் சிரித்துக்கொண்டே சொன்னாள்: இதை தூங்கு வளையத்தின் ரகசியம் என்ன, இந்த வளையத்தின் ரகசியம் தண்டு நான் என் விரலில் உட்கார்ந்திருந்தேன், இந்த வளையத்தின் ரகசியம் வெட்கப்படுதல் மற்றும் மிகவும் இனிமையானது என்ன? அந்த இளைஞன் மிகவும் ஆச்சரியப்பட்டு சொன்னான்: இந்த மோதிரம் அதிர்ஷ்டமானது, வாழ்க்கையின் வளையம். எல்லோரும் சொன்னார்கள்: வாழ்த்துக்கள் மற்றும் நன்றாக இருங்கள்! சிறுமி சொன்னாள்: ஆசை! விரலுக்கு இதுவே காரணம் என்று நான் இன்னும் சந்தேகிக்கிறேன். பல ஆண்டுகள் கடந்துவிட்டன, இன்னும் ஒரு இரவு ஒரு பெண் அவசரமாக ஒரு தங்க மோதிரத்தைக் கண்டாள் மற்றும் அவர்களின் அழகான வடிவமைப்பில் காணப்படுகிறது கணவரின் விசுவாசத்தின் நம்பிக்கையில் நம்பிக்கையை இழந்து, நாளுக்கு நாள் முற்றிலும் பாழடைந்தது அந்தப் பெண் அழுதார்: ஓ, இந்த மோதிரம் இன்னும் நிலையற்ற மற்றும் நிலையற்ற இது அடிமைத்தனமும் அடிமைத்தனமும் ஆகும்.

আমার বোনকে বোন, তোমার স্বাধীনতার জন্য উঠে দাঁড়াও এতো চুপচাপ কেন তুমি ? উঠে দাঁড়াও কেননা এবার থেকে স্বৈরাচারী পুরুষদের রক্তে নিজেকে ভেজাতে হবে । তোমার অধিকার দাবি করো, বোন, যারা তোমাকে দুর্বল করে রেখেছে তাদের কাছ থেকে, তাদের কাছ থেকে যারা অসংখ্য কৌশল আর ষড়যন্ত্রে বাড়ির এক কোনে তোমাকে বসিয়ে রেখেছে। আর কতোদিন আনন্দ দেবার জিনিস হয়ে থাকবে পুরুষদের কামনার হারেমে ? কতোদিন তোমার গর্বিত মাথা নত করবে তাদের পায়ে তমসাকবলিত চাকরানির মতন ? আর কতোদিন একগাল রুটির জন্য, এক বুড়ো হাজির সাময়িক বউ হয়ে থাকবে, দেখতে থাকবে দ্বিতীয় আর তৃতীয় প্রতিদ্বন্দ্বী বউদের । শোষন আর নিষ্ঠুরতা, বোন আমার, আর কতো কাল ? তোমার ক্রুদ্ধ গোঙানি নিশ্চিত হয়ে উঠুক এক বিক্ষুব্ধ চিৎকার । এই শক্ত বাঁধন তোমাকে ছিঁড়তেই হবে যাতে তোমার জীবন হয়ে ওঠে স্বাধীন । উঠে দাঁড়াও আর অত্যাচারকে মূল থেকে উপড়ে তোলো। তোমার রক্তাক্ত হৃদয়কে আরাম দাও । তোমার স্বাধীনতার জন্য, সংগ্রাম করো আইন বদলাবার জন্য, উঠে দাঁড়াও ।

The Angles Of The Frame 1 Many years have passed since the day, I looked into a mirror, saw a wrinkled face. I've been disclosed to the bulging sands of my bed. 2 Aeons of breath account for the many veins in my atrium. 3 The bull I breast-fed for many years And I've submerged into the frame. 4 I knew the justifications were hard, Hard as against the current of water. No news from the ambiguous points something uncommon. It can't be justified by natural rules, many years we've been tangled on it. 5 This usurped land is a part of all buried treasure islands No finger points in any direction. Lost in the dead-end alleys Tracing images without a compass. 6 Horse pounding pulse sing endlessly in my blood. My kinsmen of horses… Blood-line linked as to rays of a circle like roots of a tree growing deep on the roof. 7 You can't stop the hands of the clock. You can't come back to the broken minutes. The days have been arranged one after another. The knights have left the game one after another. 8 There was a straw mat where you fell asleep. I became numb, quite used to the stillness of the house. 9 Was something supposed to get away from the core to join us? A century has passed and we still live in this house. 10 Dimensions have shifted Not exclusive to the roof The letters approved us as the residents of the house They ran away as the convicts And we got used to the standstill. (Translated from original Persian into English by Rosa Jamali)

I dreamed of that red star when I wasn’t asleep

The familiar song of a night-singing nightingale rises from somewhere in the garden. A nightingale that in this season of cold should not be in the garden, a nightingale that in a thousand verses of Iranian poetry, in the hours of darkness, for the love of a red rose and in sorrow of its separation from it, has forever sung and will forever sing.

I’d noticed that in Britain and America the word Persian is generally used for the ‘nice’ things: Persian carpets, Persian food and restaurants, poetry and art, that kind of thing. But when it comes to talking about politics, and say, the nuclear programme or human rights, anything that the western media considers intimidating or distasteful, then it’s ‘Iran’ and ‘Iranian’.

Hey you, feasting at the table on the shore,with bread on your plate, clothes on your body. Someone from the water beckons you, beating the heavy tide with his exhausted hands... --translated by Kayvan Tahmasebian and Rebecca Ruth Gould

Listen Mr. Namaki, you're a king to me You're a symbol of what we should strive to be In this modern day and age, you're an alchemist So let me join you, sing your song up the hills

And so, with a slow sweep of the arm that remained forever etched in my memory, he took out a match, lit it, and tossed it onto the pile of books. With a quiet huff...ff...ff the flames rippled over the pages, catching first the old books with the brown paper whose smell I loved so much. I vividly remember how Danko's Burning Heart was engulfed in flames that then licked at Luce's skirt who, desperately trying to protect herself from the fire in pages of Romain Rolland's book, held Pierre tightly to her breast. I watched as the fire spread to the intertwined lovers Pierre and Natasha, Heathcliff and Cathrine Earnshaw, Scarlett O'Hara and Rhett Butler, Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy, abelard and Heloise, Tristan and Isolde, Salaman and Absal, Vis and Ramin, Vamegh and Azra, Zohreh and Manuchehr, shirin and Farhad, Leyli and Majnun, Arthur and Gemma, the Rose and the Little Prince, before they had the chance to smell or kiss each other again, or whisper. "I love you" one last time.

Pāpa āmi ēkaṭā paramānandēra pāpa karēchi, ēmana ēka āliṅganē yā chila uṣṇa āra ābēgabharā. Bāhura ghērāṭōpē āmi pāpa karaluma tā chila tapta āra śaktimaẏa āra pratikarmēra phala. Andhakāra āra niḥśabda āṛālē āmi ōra nigūṛha cōkhēra dikē tākāluma. Āmāra bukēra madhyē hr̥daẏa adhairyabhābē spandita hala ōra karaṇīẏa cōkhēra anurōdhē sāṛā diẏē. Ō'i andhakāra āra niḥśabda āṛālē, āmi āluthālu ōra pāśē basaluma. Ōra ṭhōm̐ṭa āmāra ṭhōm̐ṭē kāmēcchā ugarē dilō, āmi āmāra uttējita hr̥daẏēra duḥkha kāṭiẏē uṭhaluma. Āmi ōra kānē bhālōbāsāra kāhini balaluma phisaphisa karē: Āmi tōmākē cā'i, hē āmāra jībana, āmi tōmākē cā'i, hē jībanadāẏī āślēṣa hē āmāra unmāda prēmika, tumi. Cāhidā ōra cōkha thēkē anurāgēra sphūliṅga chaṛiẏē dilō; pēẏālāẏa nācatē lāgalō lāla mada. Narama bichānāẏa, āmāra śarīra ōra bukē mātāla sphūraṇa gaṛē phēlalō. Āmi ēka paramānandēra pāpa karēchi, śiharita stambhita ākārēra naikaṭyē hē īśbara, kē'i bā jānē āmi ki karēchi ō'i andhakāra āra niḥśabda āṛālē. Biẏēra bēṛi mēẏēṭi hāsala āra balala: Ē'i sōnāra āṅaṭira rahasya ki, ē'i āṅaṭira rahasya yā ēmana ēm̐ṭē basē gēchē āmāra āṅulē, ē'i āṅaṭira rahasya yā jhilamila karachē āra ētō dyūtimaẏa? Yubaka bēśa abāka hala āra balala: Ē'i āṅaṭi saubhāgyēra, jībanēra āṅaṭi. Sabā'i balala: Abhinandana āra bhālō thēkō! Mēẏēṭi balala: Hāẏa āmāra ēkhana'ō sandēha āchē āṅa Show more 1135/5000 पाप मैंने एक पाप किया है, एक तटबंध में जो गर्म और भावनात्मक था। मैंने बांह के आसपास के क्षेत्र में पाप किया है यह गर्म और मजबूत था और प्रतिरोध का परिणाम था अंधेरा और सन्नाटा पीछे छिप जाता है मैंने उसकी गुप्त आँख को देखा। हृदय मेरी छाती में अधीर कंपन कर रहा है उसकी आँखों के अनुरोध का जवाब। वह अंधेरी और खामोश छुपी, मैं अलुथलू के पास बैठ गया। उसके होंठों ने मुझे वासना से अभिभूत कर दिया, मैं अपने दिल की उदासी से अभिभूत हूं। मैंने उसके कान में प्यार की कहानी सुनाई और फुसफुसाया: मैं तुम्हें चाहता हूँ, हे मेरे जीवन, मैं आपको चाहता हूं, हे जीवन-रक्षा प्रसार हे मेरे पागल प्रेमी, तुम माँग उसकी आँखों से स्नेह की चिंगारी फैलाती है; कप में लाल शराब नाचने लगी शीतल बिस्तर, मेरा शरीर उन्होंने अपने सीने में एक उनींदापन विकसित किया। मैंने एक पाप के साथ पाप किया है, चकित आकार के झटके से रोमांचित हे भगवान, जो जानता है कि मैंने क्या किया है वह अंधेरा और मूक छेद

Although it would be about the leper colony of Bababaghi, the film would also explore the fact that great trouble and suffering is caused when we reject certain parts of ourselves and bury our unwelcome feelings, rather than facing up to our problems and searching for a solution. The story of a community being rejected due to a lack of access to proper medical help would draw wider attention to how societies are willing to condemn anything that is different to themselves, rather than to confront their fears of the other.

Sanctions levied Sanctions heavy Break my back But you will not end me Many have assailed
 Many have failed Pack after pack Blood shed but to no avail Had my share of years Had my share of tears SAVAK to crack A century of polluted atmosphere This is my land This is my clan Turn the clock back I'm as old as the history of man Gone are the golden days Gone are the golden ways Stopped in my tracks Time will lead me out of this maze Keep my people in pain Keep my people in chains Wrapped in my flag The end welcomes tyranny's campaign Levy your sanctions Heavy my reaction From The Burnt City to Ganzak I, Simurgh, will rise from the ashes History will go round History will go down Evil, domestic and foreign Will burn to the ground Time bears witness Time bears justice
Our mystic misfortune A lingering dark nimbus Rise up my wings
Rise up my kings
This majestic sovereign Will be reborn once again

The Last Street of Tehean Facing the airport, all that's now left in my grasp is a crumpled land that fits in the palm of my hand. Facing wavering sunbeams— a sun that is angry and mute. All the way from the salt sands of Dasht-e Lut, it came, the dream that forced my fingers' shift, that set my teeth on edge. A muted breeze, whirlwind spun from sand dunes all the way, even through the back alley. Are you pasting together the cut-up fragments of my face to make me laugh? No longer than the palm of the hand, a short leap, exactly the length you had predicted. A huge grave in which to lay the longest night of the year to sleep. Sleep has quit our eyelids for other pastures, has dropped its anchor at the shores of garden ponds, has lost the chapped flaking of its lips, poor thing! Are you pasting together the cut-up fragments of my face to make me laugh? With scissors - snip, snip - they are severing something. The alphabet shavings strewn on the ground, are they the letters that spell our family name? With every zig-zag, you cage my mother's breath, her footprints fading in the shifting sands. Are you pasting together the cut-up fragments of my face to make me laugh? No. A strange land-shape form. I will not return. I left behind a shoe, one of a pair, for you to put on and follow after me. Translated from Persian to English by Franklin Lewis

The Flintstone Block No.1: A whole nation has created the kindling Which owes you desperately But it hasn’t been specified Whether it’s the flintstone Or A firestorm? Block No.2: A piece of my happiness is in debt with the flintstone You’ve turned to the rocks But it’s for the flint stone. Block No.3: I’m in debt with the flintstone The whole world is in debt with the flintstone Block No.4: It has cast a spell For all your desires Behind the railing. Block No.5: I’m the mother of this Flintstone I’ve nourished it I’ve shed tears on it If the world is on fire I’m the one to blame. Block No.6: I’ve betrayed the heaven above God is disabled by it. Block No.7: And since then people have taken the vow of silence, … From 'Dating Noah’s Son' Rosa Jamali (TRANSLATED FROM ORIGINAL PERSIAN INTO ENGLISH BY ROSA JAMALI)

Sanctions levied Sanctions heavy
Break my back
But you will not end me Many have assailed
Many have failed
Pack after pack
Blood shed but to no avail Had my share of years
Had my share of tears
SAVAK to crack
A century of polluted atmosphere This is my land
This is my clan
Turn the clock back
I'm as old as the history of man Gone are the golden days
Gone are the golden ways Stopped in my tracks
Time will lead me out of this maze Keep my people in pain
Keep my people in chains
Wrapped in my flag
The end welcomes tyranny's campaign Levy your sanctions
Heavy my reaction
From The Burnt City to Ganzak
I, Simurgh, will rise from the ashes History will go round History will go down
Evil, domestic and foreign Will burn to the ground Time bears witness Time bears justice
Our mystic misfortune A lingering dark nimbus Rise up my wings
Rise up my kings
This majestic sovereign Will be reborn once again

Sanctions levied Sanctions heavy Break my back But you will not end me Many have assailed
 Many have failed Pack after pack Blood shed but to no avail Had my share of years Had my share of tears SAVAK to crack A century of polluted atmosphere This is my land This is my clan Turn the clock back I'm as old as the history of man Gone are the golden days Gone are the golden ways Stopped in my tracks Time will lead me out of this maze Keep my people in pain Keep my people in chains Wrapped in my flag The end welcomes tyranny's campaign Levy your sanctions Heavy my reaction From The Burnt City to Ganzak I, Simurgh, will rise from the ashes History will go round History will go down Evil, domestic and foreign Will burn to the ground Time bears witness Time bears justice Our mystic misfortune A lingering dark nimbus Rise up my wings Rise up my kings This majestic sovereign Will be reborn once again

In Indo-Iranian texts there are references to a mythical tree that drips the immortal fluid Soma/Haoma, but it is not pictured as a mighty cosmic tree uniting upper and lower worlds; in the Veda it is located in the third heaven, in the Avesta it stands in the fabulous but terrestrial lake Vourukaśa from which all rivers flow. According to a later Pahlavi source an evil lizard lurks beneath it, trying to get at the Haoma. There is perhaps an analogue to this in the Hesperides’ tree which grows golden apples,an guardian serpent at its base, and is located close to Atlas who supports the sky.

So, then what do they want? The story must be compelling, full of strange, but not-too-strange, details. It must not mimic other stories, but the heart of it, its motive and inciting incident, can be contrived, impure, selfish. You can posture. You must posture. Show that you behaved as a Christian or communist or gay: we don’t care why. What a strange storytelling tradition. In MFA workshop, we learned that the why matters more than almost anything else. How can Iranians—who are trained in poetry and polemics, for whom love is a wordy monologue, every truth buried under layers of meaning, and all stories begin at creation—adjust to it?