October 21, 2020
Dear Friends of the Persian Garden,
The poetry we've shared has ranged from the tenth century to modern times, an enormous span of history. Today, Nassrin and Tooraj Zahedi bring us a poem from Sohrab Sepehri (1928-1980), one of the most important modern Iranian poets, that calls to the reader to seize the day.
Sepehri was among a group of poets including Forough Farrokhzad who were freed by the earlier work of Nima Youshij and Ahmad Shamlou from the restrictions of classical Persian poetry. Sepehri abandoned the confines of traditional meter and topic and wrote in free verse. His words have a conversational immediacy that speaks to the reader.
In this poem, he brings the reader into the moment when he hears his inner voice calling him to leave the familiar world of home and to go out "toward the vast wordless expanse which keeps calling [him]."
Nassrin writes:
"For me, this poem speaks of the empowerment that comes with taking one’s life and circumstances in one’s own hands."
Dear Friends of the Persian Garden,
The poetry we've shared has ranged from the tenth century to modern times, an enormous span of history. Today, Nassrin and Tooraj Zahedi bring us a poem from Sohrab Sepehri (1928-1980), one of the most important modern Iranian poets, that calls to the reader to seize the day.
Sepehri was among a group of poets including Forough Farrokhzad who were freed by the earlier work of Nima Youshij and Ahmad Shamlou from the restrictions of classical Persian poetry. Sepehri abandoned the confines of traditional meter and topic and wrote in free verse. His words have a conversational immediacy that speaks to the reader.
In this poem, he brings the reader into the moment when he hears his inner voice calling him to leave the familiar world of home and to go out "toward the vast wordless expanse which keeps calling [him]."
Nassrin writes:
"For me, this poem speaks of the empowerment that comes with taking one’s life and circumstances in one’s own hands."
The Primeval Call
Where are my shoes?
Who was it who called Sohrab?
It was a familiar voice like the touch of the wind on the leaf.
My mother is asleep
So are Manouchehr and Parvaneh and perhaps all the townsfolk.
The June night passes gently over seconds like an elegy,
And a cool breeze from the corner of the blanket sweeps my sleep.
It smells of separation:
My pillow is full of the song of the swallow plumes.
Morning shall break,
The sky will migrate
With this cup of water.
I must go tonight!
I who spoke to the folk in this region through the widest window,
Never heard a word that matched time;
No loving eye stared at the ground;
Nobody was enchanted by looking at the garden,
Nobody took a magpie seriously at a farm.
I am dejected like a cloud.
When I behold Houri - the neighbor's full grown lass -
Studying theology
At the foot of the rarest elm tree on earth.
There are other things also - moments of exaltation
(For example I saw a poetess
So absorbed watching the horizon
That the sky laid eggs in her eyes;
And one night out of other nights,
A man questioned me:
"How long does it take to the rising of grapes?)
Tonight I must go!
I must take a suitcase
Big enough to contain my shirt of loneliness
And walk in a direction
Where epic-singing trees can be seen;
Towards the vast wordless expanse which keeps calling me.
Someone called me again: Sohrab!,
Where are my shoes?
Where are my shoes?
Who was it who called Sohrab?
It was a familiar voice like the touch of the wind on the leaf.
My mother is asleep
So are Manouchehr and Parvaneh and perhaps all the townsfolk.
The June night passes gently over seconds like an elegy,
And a cool breeze from the corner of the blanket sweeps my sleep.
It smells of separation:
My pillow is full of the song of the swallow plumes.
Morning shall break,
The sky will migrate
With this cup of water.
I must go tonight!
I who spoke to the folk in this region through the widest window,
Never heard a word that matched time;
No loving eye stared at the ground;
Nobody was enchanted by looking at the garden,
Nobody took a magpie seriously at a farm.
I am dejected like a cloud.
When I behold Houri - the neighbor's full grown lass -
Studying theology
At the foot of the rarest elm tree on earth.
There are other things also - moments of exaltation
(For example I saw a poetess
So absorbed watching the horizon
That the sky laid eggs in her eyes;
And one night out of other nights,
A man questioned me:
"How long does it take to the rising of grapes?)
Tonight I must go!
I must take a suitcase
Big enough to contain my shirt of loneliness
And walk in a direction
Where epic-singing trees can be seen;
Towards the vast wordless expanse which keeps calling me.
Someone called me again: Sohrab!,
Where are my shoes?
ندای آغاز
کفش هایم کو،
چه کسی بود صدا زد: سهراب؟
آشنا بود صدا مثل هوا با تن برگ.
مادرم در خواب است.
و منوچهر و پروانه، و شاید همه مردم شهر.
شب خرداد به آرامی یک مرثیه از روی سر ثانیه ها می گذرد
و نسیمی خنک از حاشیه ی سبز پتو خواب مرا می روبد.
بوی هجرت می آید:
بالش من پر آواز پر چلچله هاست.
صبح خواهد شد
و به این کاسه ی آب
آشمان هجرت خواهد کرد.
باید امشب بروم.
من که از بازترین پنجره با مردم این ناحیه صحبت کردم
حرفی از جنس زمان نشنیدم.
هیچ چشمی، عاشقانه به زمین خیره نبود.
کسی از دیدن یک باغچه مجذوب نشد.
هیچ کس زاغچه ای را سر یک مزرعه جدی نگرفت.
من به اندازه ی یک ابر دلم می گیرد
وقتی از پنجره می بینم حوری
-دختر بالغ همسایه-
پای نایاب ترین نارون روی زمین
فقه می خواند.
چیزهایی هم هست، لحظه هایی پر اوج
(مثلاً شاعره ای را دیدم
آنچنان محو تماشای فضا بود که در چشمانش
آسمان تخم گذاشت.
و شبی از شب ها
مردی از من پرسید
تا طلوع انگور، چند ساعت راه است؟)
باید امشب بروم.
باید امشب چمدانی را
که به اندازه ی پیراهن تنهایی من جا دارد، بردارم
و به سمتی بروم
که درختان حماسی پیداست،
رو به آن وسعت بی واژه که همواره مرا می خواند.
یک نفر باز صدا زد: سهراب!
کفش هایم کو؟
کفش هایم کو،
چه کسی بود صدا زد: سهراب؟
آشنا بود صدا مثل هوا با تن برگ.
مادرم در خواب است.
و منوچهر و پروانه، و شاید همه مردم شهر.
شب خرداد به آرامی یک مرثیه از روی سر ثانیه ها می گذرد
و نسیمی خنک از حاشیه ی سبز پتو خواب مرا می روبد.
بوی هجرت می آید:
بالش من پر آواز پر چلچله هاست.
صبح خواهد شد
و به این کاسه ی آب
آشمان هجرت خواهد کرد.
باید امشب بروم.
من که از بازترین پنجره با مردم این ناحیه صحبت کردم
حرفی از جنس زمان نشنیدم.
هیچ چشمی، عاشقانه به زمین خیره نبود.
کسی از دیدن یک باغچه مجذوب نشد.
هیچ کس زاغچه ای را سر یک مزرعه جدی نگرفت.
من به اندازه ی یک ابر دلم می گیرد
وقتی از پنجره می بینم حوری
-دختر بالغ همسایه-
پای نایاب ترین نارون روی زمین
فقه می خواند.
چیزهایی هم هست، لحظه هایی پر اوج
(مثلاً شاعره ای را دیدم
آنچنان محو تماشای فضا بود که در چشمانش
آسمان تخم گذاشت.
و شبی از شب ها
مردی از من پرسید
تا طلوع انگور، چند ساعت راه است؟)
باید امشب بروم.
باید امشب چمدانی را
که به اندازه ی پیراهن تنهایی من جا دارد، بردارم
و به سمتی بروم
که درختان حماسی پیداست،
رو به آن وسعت بی واژه که همواره مرا می خواند.
یک نفر باز صدا زد: سهراب!
کفش هایم کو؟