A Brief Note
on the Life and Works
of Masoud Sepand
By
Iraj Bashiri
Copyright, Bashiri 2003
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A Brief Note
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Masoud Sepand was born in 1943 in Sarbishe, a village in the province of Khurasan, northeastern Iran. He is a graduate of the Iranian Police Academy and has a Masters degree in Criminology. Since the 1979 Iranian Revolution, Sepand has lived in San Jose, California, and worked as a free lance journalist and poet.
Sepand has published extensively on Persian literature and Mithraism in journals outside Iran. In addition to poetry, he writes short stories; a number of his short stories have appeared in the journal "Khavaran." In fact, he is one of the co-founders of "Khavaran," and for a while, served on the journal's editorial board.
Well-known performers like Dariush, Guiti, and Nasir have created performances based on Sepand's poems and have performed them. Among those composition there is one entitled "Tell Me About Iran." This piece was released in casette format for general distribution soon after it was performed by Dariush in collaboration with a number of other singers.
Some of Sepand's poetry appears in a collection entitled "Palpal," now in its second printing. Sepand is also the author of "Bu-ye Ju-ye Muliyan" (The Fragrance of the Muliyan Brook), in which he presents a vast amount of information about the republics of the former Soviet Union, especially Tajikistan.
Several years before the death of the recluse Iranian poet, Siyavosh Kasra'i, Sepand had arranged an interview with him in Moscow. Glimpses of the interview, now a historical document, are included in "Bu-ye Ju-ye Muliyan." After Kasra'i's death, a film version of the interview was released and was viewed by many of Kasra'i's followers and fans.
Sepand's poetry, generally lyrical in nature, is imbued with his love and enthusiasm for his homeland of Iran. A number of his "Iran Sonnets," too, appear in "Palpal."
In addition to contributing to "Khavaran," which was published in northern California for five years, Sepand has also contributed to "Ruzgar-e Now" ("New Times"), published in Paris; "Kaveh" ("Kaveh"), published in Munich; "Miras-e Iran" ("Iranian Heritage"), published in Washington; "Barrasi-ye Kitab" ("Survey of Books"), published in Los Angeles; "Daftar-i Hunar" (Book of Art"), published in New Jersey; "Andisheh" (Thought), published in San Jose, "Ayandeh" (Future), published in Tehran, and many other publications.
The Air in the Room
By Masoud Sepand
Translated by Iraj Bashiri
Copyright, Iraj Bashiri, 2003.
Oft the air in the room
Becomes suffused with gloom
Oft without reason or rhyme
Tired out by Time
I give up.
Oft the eagle so swift
Over plains independent adrift
By Fate is snatched up.
Oft songs of Liberty so sweet
As mere laments my ear greet
And then they are hushed up.
Oft a stanger's glance
Like a most lethal lance
My tired eyes tear up.
Oft a simple incident's rage
Alters so drastically my age
That my hair white up.
Leave out fret, leave out disdain
Help me friend, ease my pain
Ere I no longer rise up.
Speak, though words have no meaning
Let Truth emerge from gleaning
And Untruth slice up.
From home unto a rover
Her Love beckons my soul over
With her to meet up.
What Calamity Hit the Garden?
By Masoud Sepand
Translated by Iraj Bashiri
Copyright, Iraj Bashiri, 2003.
What calamity hit the garden's
Green leaves,
Fresh flowers, and
Branches, on which the nightingales sang?
What calamity hit the garden's bushes
Under which the partridge dwelled?
What calamity made them the perch of the raven?
The abode of the owl?
Much pained is the garden
And feverish over all.
What calamity hit the garden?
That its cypress, morning glory, and lilac bushes
Are now rooted in blood,
That its sun has sunk below
And mire feeds its once lovely willow?
What calamity hit the garden?
To turn its life-inspiring spring
Its source of ever-lasting light
Into a mere fallen skeleton
Oppressed by a blood-thirsty faith
Screaming its pain to the firmament
Pulled out of existence by roots
Mashed underneath a tyrant's boots!
What calamity hit the garden?
That even the acacia
That is neither East, nor West, nor royal
Is overwhelmed by the odor of death,
Of shrouds, turbans, slippers, and foul breath?
That tree
My heart and me
Have stories to tell.
The Nowruz moon
Imbibing at the Spring Cloud Tavern
Drunken and fragrant
Spoke to me
He began with "In the Name…"
I sought my God among the branches of the acacia
That tree, that tree was God
That tree was Allah.
That tree,
Me,
And the night
Have stories to tell
About final exams and vigils
About anxiety and pointless laughter.
At midnight,
The silhouette of the neighbor's daughter,
Behind the window, was lovely.
Over there
Beyond the lamp post,
Away from all fear,
Where hands met and kisses were exchanged
Books, flowers, wine, and moonlight mingled.
That Night, love made its first appearance.
The Zephyr has left the alley,
Music, in all its forms, is dead;
The musicians' feet will be held to fire,
The instrumentalist is struck by Times.
What calamity hit the garden?
Was it the gardener's shortcoming?
* * *
Tell me truly,
What calamity hit the garden?
Self-Destruct
By Masoud Sepand
Translated by Iraj Bashiri
Copyright, Iraj Bashiri, 2003
For years,
I have pondered,
The shattered voice of a nightingale,
Sold by the old owner,
Silenced by the new.
* * *
I ponder my own life,
And my poetry.
The Palm-Reader
By Masoud Sepand
Translated by Iraj Bashiri
Copyright, Iraj Bashiri, 2003
As it broke, the glass cut into his hand.
* * *
He entered
The humble nursery,
pulled himself to a corner and sat.
"Can I help you, sir!" intoned the druggist.
The teahouse keeper opened his fist,
I looked at his palm.
His lifeline was troublesome
His love life, incongruous
And his luck line, inconspicuous.
There was, however, a long line on his hand
From which blood and life flowed, drip… drip…drip…
By Masoud Sepand
Translated by Iraj Bashiri
Copyright, Iraj Bashiri, 2003
Naught remains but a dingy, cheerless cavern,
Of the merry-makers' noisy, voluptous tavern.
They perished alas in the bottomless mine,
Before getting to taste the sun's wine divine.
Every valiant youth that he discovered,
Jammaran's Zahhak , patiently devoured.
At the artists' and the experts' cost,
Love's melody, in the alleyway, was lost.
Like Mansur who stood steadfast on the ledge,
They all died, but kept their sacred pledge.
They rode the wind down the endless ravine,
Like the fragrance of the tulip and the jasmine.
The ravens dwell now in the ruins and the owl,
Ferocious beasts are everywhere on the prowl.
From the garden the nightingales are gone,
With them are gone the sun-riders anon.
Every epistle dear from my home arrives,
Carries tidings that pierce my soul with knives.