 Click on photo to see larger image.
| A Brief Note on Ahmad Shamlu's Lifeby Iraj Bashiri Copyright, Bashiri, 2000 |
| Click on photo to see larger image.
| A Brief Note on Ahmad Shamlu's Lifeby Iraj Bashiri Copyright, Bashiri, 2000 |
Amhad Shamlu was born on December 12, 1925, to the family of an army officer in Tehran. Like many children who grow up in army families, he received his early education in various towns including Khash and Zahedan in the southeast and Mashhad in the northeast. By 1941, his high school still incomplete, he left Birjand for Tehran. He intended to attend the Tehran Technicum and learn German. Finishing high school was relegated to the future.
When, within a year, his father was transferred again, this time to Turkmen Sahra, Shamlu remained in Tehran to contribute to the war effort on the side of the Nazis. He was arrested by the Allied Armies in 1943 in Tehran and transferred to Rasht to serve a one-year prison term. When, at the end of his incarceration his father came to Azerbaijan to bring his son home, both father and son were arrested and placed before a firing squad. They were released, however, at the last moment, when new orders arrived. In 1945, Shamlu made one final attempt at completing his high school degree in Reza'iyeh but, again. he failed. This, however, for the last time.
Shamlu was a nationalist and a staunch supporter of the Musaddiq government. After the fall of Mosaddiq, he went into hiding for six months. Thereafter, he was arrested and incarcerated for over a year. All along, he continued a rigorous program of writing, translating, and composing poetry in the tradition of Nima Yushij.
Shamlu married three times. His first marriage (1947), even though it gave him four sons, did not last long. Neither did his second marriage (1957) that ended in divorce in 1963. His third wife (1964), however, proved to be very different. She became an incredibly instrumental figure in Shamlu's life and remained with him until his death in 1999. Her name, Ayda, appears in many of his later poems.
Due to political unrest and oppression in Iran, Ayda and Shamlu left Iran temporarily in 1977. After living in Princeton, New Jersey, for a while, they left for England and lived there until 1979. When, supposedly, the Islamic revolution opened a new chapter in Iranian history, Shamlu returned to Iran as the editor of Ketab-e Jom'e.
Shamlu has translated extensively from the works of French authors into Persian and his own works are translated into a number of major world languages. He also has written a number of plays for the stage, edited the works of major Iranian poets of the past, especially Hafiz, and contributed to the resolution of artistic and philosophical problems of modern societies. His six-volume Ketab-i Kucheh (Notes from the Alley) is a major contribution in understanding Iranian folklore.
Shamlu's poetry is extremely complex. Yet his imagery, which contributes immensely to the intensity of his poems, is simple. For base, he uses the traditional imagery familiar to his Iranian audience through the works of Persian masters like Hafiz and Khayyam. For infrastructure and impact, he uses a kind of everyday imagery in which personified oxymoronic elements are spiked with an unreal combination of the abstract and the concrete thus far unprecedented in Persian poetry. To those familiar with the works of Nima, for instance, there is not a whole lot new, but those who adore the works of the masters find much that is distressful.
It is still too early to pass judgment on either the pathfinder Nima Yushij or the settler Ahmad Shamlu. There is no doubt, however, that at the end both will be recognized as founders of modern Persian poetry (she'r-i now), each contributing to a different aspect of the nascent form. A list of Shamlu's major poetic works follows:
Contentment-like,
he was thin:
slim and tall,
like a difficult message
in one word.
And with eyes
of question
and honey;
and with a face scorched
by truth
and wind.
A man with the whirling of water:
a laconic man
who was his own resume.
Beetles stare at your corpse with suspicion.
*****
Before being turned to ashes
by the wrath of the thunderbolt,
he had forced the steer of the tempest
to kneel before his might.
To test
the faith of old
he had worn out his teeth
on the locks of ancient gates.
On the most out-of-the way paths
he struggled,
an unexpected passer-by
whose voice every thicket and bridge
recognized.
*****
Roads remain wakeful with the memory of your steps;
for you were going to welcome the day;
although the dawn
emitted you
before
the cocks heralded the morning.
*****
A bird bloomed in its wings,
a woman in her breasts,
a garden in its trees.
we bloom in your angry look,
in your haste.
We bloom in your brook,
in defending your smile
that is certitude and faith.
*****
The sea envies you
for the drop you have drank
from the well.
In a leaden dawn
the horseman stands silent, and
the long mane of his horse is disheveled in the wind.
Oh God, God,
horsemen should not stand still
when things are imminent.
By the burnt hedge
the girl stands silent, and
her thin skirt moves in the wind.
Oh God, God,
girls should not remain silent
when the men, hopeless and weary, grow old.
translated by
Ahmad Karimi-Hakkak
As the dark cloud passed, I
in the crimson shadow of the moon
viewed the square and the streets
an octopus stretching a languid leg in every direction
toward a black swamp.
And on the cold cobblestones
a crowd stood, so many
and in the midst a prolonged aticipation
bordering on despair and weariness.
And every time the restlessness of the waiting
crept over them, it was as if
the animal shivered under his hide
from the chill of a running water
or else an itching sensation.
I descended the dark stairway
holding the dust-covered tablet in my hands
and stood upon the dais
a half-spear higher than the multitude.
And I saw the crowd, so many
filling the cells all around the square
all over the space it extended
shaped by every passageway leading to the field
up to the borders of shade and gloom
like wet ink spreading into the dark
And with them was anticipation and silence.
Then I held up the clay tablet crying unto them:
"This is all there is, and sealed
it's an old inscrition, aged and worn, lo! behold!
however tainted with the blood of many a wound
mercy it preaches, friendship and honesty."
The crowd, however, lent no ear or heart to me
it seemed as if in the waiting itself was pleasure and profit
I yelled out to them: "You, devoid of courage
in vain you wait, this is the very last Coming."
And I cried out: "Gone are the days
of mourning some crucified Christ
for today every woman is another Mary
and every Mary has a Jesus upon the cross
albeit with no Crown of Thorns, no Cruciform
and no Golgotha
no Pilate, no judges and no court of justice
Christs all of a destiny, clad similarly
uniform Christs, with boots and leggings alike
alike in everything,
with the same share of bread and gruel
(for sameness is indeed the dear heritage
of the human race)
and if not a crown of thorn,
there is a helmet to wear upon the head
and if not a cross
there is a rifle to bear on the shoulder
means of greatness all at hand
every supper may well be The Last
and every glance perchance that of a Judas.
"But beware, weary not your steps
in search of the orchard
for with the tree you shall meet upon your cross
when humanity and compassion
misty as a dream, gentle and fast
will rise before your eyes,
and the savage fangs of the truth
sharp as the rays of the desert sun
will pierce your eyes.
"And you shall know how ill-starred you are
how ill-starred you are!
for the least in you would suffice
to make you most happy
a sincere salaam, a warm hand, an honset smile
And this little you had not.
"Nay, weary not your steps
in search of the orchard
for there is no time
neither for a blessing or for a curse
neither for forgiveness nor for revenge.
"And no more, alas, does the pathway to the Cross
lead to an ascent onto the heavens
but downward to hell and a perpetual wandering
of the soul."
In my delirious fever I kept on crying
but the crowd had no ear or heart for my words
I knew that they were awaiting
not a clay tablet but a Gospel
a sword and some constables
to ambush them with whips and maces
to drop them to their knees
before the heavy steps of the one
who will descend the dark stairway
with a sword and a Gospel.
Then I wept long and hard
and my teardrops were truths
although truth is indeed no more than a word
as if with my tears
I was recounting a desperate truth.
Ah! this crowd, seeking the horrid truth
only in legends, worships the sword
as the weapon of eternal justice
for in our time the sword is a legendary tool.
And thus is called the true martyr
only he who shields his bare chest before the sword
as though suffering, agony and martyrdom
are too ancient to happen with modern warfare.
But what of all the souls burnt in the flames of gunpowder
and what of all the souls bereft of everything
but a vague shadow of a figure
in the horrifying order of millions and millions.
Ah! this crowd seeks the horrid truth
only in legends, or else considers truth
nothing but a legend.
My words the crowd ignored
for I had said the last word about the heavens
without even mentioning the word heaven.
|
 |
|
