Spring 2013
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Table of content Introduction by guest editor Roger Sedarat Mohsen Emadi From Amsterdam to Tehran Simin Behbahani I am with you Roya Zarrin Sound of the Human Child In the Ghost Train Don’t Close the Window Goodbye Mr. Orwell The Earth was Vast Gone to the Pastore Drugstore Send My Picture to the Journal Alimorad Fadaienia Excerpt from "Tales of the Nameless" Bijan Jalali Untitled
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15 17 19 21 23 25 29
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Sa’id Soltanpur Winter Squall In Pahlavi Prison Communist Victor
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Gholam-Hossein Sa’adi The Invitation
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About the Contributors Translators 120 Writers 122 2
Managing Editor: Barrak Alzaid
Contemporary Literature In Translation Series Contemporary Iranian Literature Guest Editor Roger Sedarat
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Introduction: Contemporary Iranian Literature The obvious convention for a guest edited introduction of work in translation calls for briefly foregrounding what readers should know about the authors and their publications coming into English from another tradition. Though I will of course briefly touch upon this diversely exceptional body of work that loosely coheres around the category of “contemporary Persian literature,” I attempt to do so by inverting the norm: introducing instead the translators featured in this issue of Shahadat to illuminate the importance of what they have chosen to submit. Insofar as a western audience depends upon their talented renderings of Persian drama, poetry, and prose into English, comment upon who has made these texts possible seems warranted, as it has much to teach about the featured texts. The emerging talent of young scholars and translators like Kaveh Bassiri— himself a rather accomplished poet and scholar teaching Persian literature while pursing a doctorate at the University of Arkansas—brings us the verse of Roya Zarrin, a quite established poet that remains relatively unrecognized outside of Iran. Like Kaveh, Samad Alavi and Aria Fani are currently enrolled in graduate study. To cite their academic pursuits is to say something substantial about future discoveries and greater understandings of various Persian writers. Aria, in collaboration with
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Adeeba Talukder (who also translates Pakistani and Afghani poets), brings us verse by the remarkable Simin Behbahani as well as the lesser known (to the west) Bijan Jalali. Samad Alavi, who also teaches Persian at San Francisco State University, offers verse by the poet and playwright Sa‘id Soltanpur, allowing the reader to consider the writer beyond, or perhaps in connection with, the tragic story of his political struggle (more of which can be understood in the author biographies). In addition to publication by emerging scholars, this issue features work by such established and award winning translators as Sholeh Wolpé. Here too the translator’s biography can provide an introduction of her chosen poet, Mohsen Emadi. Like the first poem in this issue, “From Amsterdam to Tehran,” Sholeh crosses regions and traditions to great effect in her own work, translating from Persian into English and vice versa. Among her many projects, she currently has co-translated, with the poet she brings us here, Walt Whitman’s Song of Myself as part of the University of Iowa’s International Writing Program. Like Sholeh, Salar Abdoh is himself a very accomplished creative writer who both bridges and complicates traditions with a deep understanding of contemporary Iranian culture. His instincts for translation in part must surely emerge from his own postmodern sensibilities. Like Salar’s fiction, Alimorad Fadaienia’s short story here remains charged with both lyric power and political intrigue.
Finally Maryam Habibian, with a background in performance, offers along with co-translator Lois Becker a short dramatic work by Iranian playwright and prose writer Gholam-Hossein Sa’adi, my personal favorite Iranian writer of the 20th century. Here again the reader encounters excellent collaborative translation work, which proves quite fitting with a piece written for performance. It remains somewhat cliché to observe that even one translator going at it alone collaborates— insofar as he or she works with the author of the source text— regardless of living or dead. This final one act play, the longest selection in the issue, speaks in part for an ongoing dialogue among those engaging the Persian tradition in various genres and from different perspectives. Maryam summarizes the dramatic piece as follows: The one act play “The Invitation”, from the collection of five one act plays “The Light”, shows the struggle of individuals against their chaotic world. In “The Invitation”, a young society woman and her maid spend a frantic afternoon preparing for a party, only to discover in the end that the young woman doesn’t remember where it’s to be – or if there really is a party at all. It presents a dark, funny, and fascinating portrait gallery of pre-Revolutionary Iran. And yet, like the works of Chekhov or Brecht or Ionesco (all of whose influence can be felt in the collection), Sa’adi’s themes and characters and situations are universally
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recognizable. So too do the translators and their translations here touch upon different influences, producing themes and voices among speakers as well as characters who, although of course from a country that continues to remain somewhat foreign to western sensibilities, nevertheless emerge as “universally recognizable,” albeit in their own distinct ways. R.S.
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از آمسرتدم تا تهران روز بر خاکسرتهای تو خواهد شکست در میدان‌چه‌ی هراس کبوتران. میدان بر ناله‌های تو چاه می‌شود کبوتران پر می‌کشند از چاه. چاه ،دهان توست پیوسته به تنی سوزان که یکراست به مرکز زمین می‌رود به توده‌ی مذاب زخم‌های بی‌نام. دور می‌شوند کبوتران و خاکسرتت در نعره‌ی خاموش باد سیلی می‌زند به رعشه‌ی لذت عابران در متاشای آتش‌بازی. کلمه ،خاکسرت است. آواز می‌خوانیم و خاکسرت می‌پاشیم بر زخم‌ها تا خون بند بیاید بادی رسد بر جراحت کوچکم می‌وزد بر پیراهنی که درد می‌کند از آخرین هامغوشی و تکثیر می‌شود در متام پیراهن‌های جهان که به غیابی مرسی گرفتارند. 6
Poem by: Mohsen Emadi Translated by: Sholeh Wolpe
From Amsterdam to Tehran Day will soon break on your ashes, break on this round plaza where doves are circling in fear. The plaza now becomes a deep well inside your laments from which the doves break away. The well is your mouth joined to a feverish body that spirals to the center of the earth into the molten mass of nameless wounds. The doves flee far, and inside the wind’s quiet wail, your ashes slap the faces of passersby who quiver with pleasure watching the fireworks. The word is ash. We sing and spread it on wounds to stop the blood’s flow. Cold wind blows on my wound, on this garment still aching from its last intimate embrace, and ravages all garments of the world inflicted with a contagious absence.
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زنان ،با تشتی از خاکسرت بر کناره‌ی رود می‌نشینند ترانه می‌خوانند و ظرف می‌شویند. غیاب ،ملودی کوچکی‌است، مشتی خاکسرت که بر استکان و نعلبکی بر قاشق و چنگال و بشقاب‌های چرب می‌ریزند آواز می‌خوانند و آب می‌پاشند و ملودی کوچک متیز می‌کند خاطره را آن را به شکل تنی در می‌آورد که رطوبت دست غریبه‌ای بر آن نچکیده‌است. خاکسرت به یاد می‌آورد شکل نخستین هرچیزی را ،جز خودش. زنان آواز می‌خوانند در آوازشان ماه می‌لرزد ساقه‌های برهنه‌ی علف، برف، بر خنده‌های دخرتکان تازه‌بالغ می‌لرزد و صدای دورگه‌ی پرسان بر آوازها می‌دود. زنگوله‌های کوچک بر گردن بره‌های بازیگوش. زنگوله‌های کوچک بر گردن متام اشیا تا راه خانه را گم نکنند. زنگوله‌های کوچک در غلظت مه که آواز می‌دهند :من اینجایم! این‌جا ،که متام زنان با تشت‌های خالی خاکسرت
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Women sit by a river, their tubs filled with ash. They sing and they wash dishes. Absence is a small melody. It is a fist-full of ash sprinkled on greasy spoons, forks, and plates, on cups and saucers. The women sing and splash and the small melody washes clean the memories, molds with it a body on which no stranger’s hands have dripped wetness. Ash remembers the first shape of everything except itself. The women sing and the moon shimmers inside their melody. The naked spears of grass, of snow, tremble in the recesses of teenage girls’ laugher. The pubescent boys’ breaking voices run on the surface of the songs.
Little bells that hang on the necks of playful lambs. Little bells that hang on the necks of all objects to not lose their way home. Little bells in the thick of fog tolling: I am here, here where all women return home with tubs empty of ash.
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به خانه بر می‌گردند. همدیگر را پیدا می‌کنیم با زنگوله‌ها با ملودی‌های کوچک غیاب در میدان‌های مه‌آلود وقتی سیگاری روشن می‌کنیم و از دل مه شبحی به پیش می‌آید پیت کوچک نفت در دست و آتش می‌خواهد، بخار نفس‌ها یخ بسته‌است و مه راه گلوها را مسدود کرده‌است. امشب متام ناقوس‌ها به صدا در آمده‌اند امشب در مرز وضوح و مه ،گله‌ها رسگردانند امشب آوازها در چاه گلو خاکسرت می‌شوند سایه‌ها در آینه. رها از انعکاس و سایه اوردوز می‌کنم بر پیراهنی مشتعل در فرودگاه اوردوز می‌کنم بر جزیره‌های شناور میدان‌های تیر اوردوز می‌کنم بر زمین که می‌چرخد و می‌چرخد در لحظه‌ای که هواپیام از زمین بلند می‌شود و صندلی از زیرپای اعدامی رها می‌شود یا پیراهنی آتش می‌گیرد بر تن بی‌نام مردی که رگ‌هایش را بر سطرهای کاغذ می‌گشاید اوردوز می‌کنم بر تو از آمسرتدام تا تهران 10
We will find each other with these tiny bells, with the small melodies of absence when we light up a cigarette in the whirling fog and a spirit from inside the fog’s heart approaches, a can of oil in hand, and asks for a light. The steam from breaths are frozen, and the fog has clogged throats’ passageways. Tonight, all church bells toll. Tonight, the sheep wander along the edges of clarity and fog. Tonight, songs become ash in the throat’s well, shadows become ash in the mirror. Free of reflections, of shadows, I overdose on a blazing garment in the airport. I overdose on the floating islands in the execution circles. I overdose on the earth itself that turns and twirls at the very moment the plane takes off and the stool beneath the feet of a condemned is kicked, or a garment is set ablaze on the body of a nameless man who opens his own veins on the lines of this paper. I overdose on you from Amsterdam to Tehran. 11
من با توام
من با توام ای رفیق! با تو
همراه تو پیش مینهم گام
در شادی تو رشیک هستم
بر جام می تو میزنم جام
من با توام ای رفیق! با تو
دیری ست که با تو عهد بستم
همگام توام ،بکش به راهم
همپای توام ،بگیر دستم
پیوند گذشتههای پر رنج
اینسان به توام منوده نزدیک
هم بند تو بودهام زمانی
در یک قفس سیاه و تاریک
رنجی که تو بردهای ز غوالن
بر چهر من است نقش بسته
زخمی که تو خوردهای ز دیوان
بنگر که به قلب من نشسته
تو یک نفری ...نه! بیشامری یک جمع به هم گرفته پیوند
هر سو که نظر کنم ،تو هستی یک جبهۀ سخت بی شکستی
زردی؟ نه! سفید؟ نه! سیه ،نه
باالتری از نژاد و از رنگ
تو هر کسی و ز هر کجایی
من با تو ،تو با منی هامهنگ
سیمین بهبهانی ،جای پا 1335 - 12
Poem by: Simin Behdahani
Translated by: Aria Fani and Adeeba Talukder
I am with you I am with you, my friend! With you. It is with you that I tread forth. Your joy is my own elation; I raise my wine-cup to your glass. I am with you, my friend! With you– our oath has bound us for eternities. My steps are your steps–take me by the hand. My feet are your feet–lead me to the path. a history of suffering has pulled me closer to you– I once shared with you a prison cell a single cage, black and dark. the anguish you’ve borne at the hands of the vile has left its traces on my own face the scars you’ve suffered at the hands of fiends all reside in my own heart A single entity? No, you are so many; whichever way I turn, I see you. We are so many drawn together, bound bound so that we cannot break. Not white or black or yellow, no! You are higher than race, above all color. You are everyone, from everywhere I with you, you with me, a single pulse.
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صداى كودك انبسان
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Written by: Roya Zarrin
Translated by: Kaveh Bassiri
Sound of the Human Child The sound of the human child was loud and plaintive. The sound was forever erupting. Stars stepped aside and we journeyed to a new world, Obadiah, to touch our broken foreheads against the ground. The sound of the human child was loud and erupting. Wolves stepped aside. The sky grew furious. And we resolved that the bent hills be divided and the young fish in the murky waters and the joint leaves of the olive tree and the segments of the reed and the wind and music in the thickets of moss and the Marmar shells be divided. Still, there remained the bountiful sap of my bones the white sap of my veins forever erupting.
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دراين قطار ارواحى
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Poem by: Roya Zarrin
Translated by: Kaveh Bassiri
In This Ghost Train In the ghost train where they’ve pinned our expired tickets to our breasts how much like night I am, and free, in a tunnel more like a bathhouse drain brimming with tears, blood, water, and piss. And the station always a mirage in our sleep. Each stop we step off with full bladders. Each stop we climb aboard with empty bowels. And the houses of worship are laden with broken prayers. All aboard! We climb aboard. It doesn’t get late as if we aren’t meant to reach a place of light. Night is so stretched here that we constantly crumple and I embrace myself tightly as no mother. My legs are now a closed parenthesis around a dim infinity.
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ينجره رانبند صداى ب ران
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Poem by: Roya Zarrin Translated by: Kaveh Bassiri
Don’t Close the Window Don’t close the window The voice of the rain will suffocate behind the double panes, Obadiah. Firewood! I need it for this stove, to scatter its yellow, red, and blue around the room. Fill my cup with water. Tonight, I must send a signal. You must bring some paper. You must write and tend to the beats of your pulse. The stuttering history Obadiah will find its way through the cleft of every stone through the seam of every night until it freezes, as is water’s custom. Little by little I’m getting cold; close the window. Little by little the legs of my chair are wobbling go look for a carpenter, Obadiah.
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خداحافظ اقاى اورول
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Poem by: Roya Zarrin Translated by: Kaveh Bassiri
Goodbye Mr. Orwell Goodbye Mr. Orwell Mr. Marx Ms. Duras Goodbye Mr. Kundera Ms. Sylvia Dear Mayakovsky Goodbye The Human Zoo The Labyrinth of Solitude The Clown. Goodbye to you human attachments my bourgeois habits busybody bits of language games in the folds of all these books. I kiss your lovely faces ladies, gentlemen. Forgive me for selling you.
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زمني بزرك
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Poem by: Roya Zarrin Translated by: Kaveh Bassiri
The Earth Was Vast The earth was vast and empty and the sky reclined on its invisible spine and water brimmed over the corners of the land. It was the end of the ninth day and I gave birth to two large slices of apple.
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بودم دراك استورياستور
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Poem by: Roya Zarrin Translated by: Kaveh Bassiri
Gone to the Pastor Drugstore I had gone to Pastor Drugstore, bought a lot of Valium to relieve someone’s mistrust, bought a lot of Ibuprofen to see untimely dreams. Out of money. Out of hope. After a lost desire, taking a shortcut from Republic Street, came from prison… You were sitting as if you had been crying for your land and mother tongue twirling in your mouth. No. It’s more poetic if you were standing facing me who had come thirsty from the shortcut, facing me who loves overturned flowers and the green icicles and the autumns in Saei park and lamb stew on the fortieth day of summer at Azeri cafe and non-alcoholic beer at Saless bookstore and sour-plum rolls at Darband. I am in love with a simple “I like you” in the Asre-jadid cinema and the bang bang songs of Kill Bill in the Sepideh cinema. Really! I’d bought a lot of Valium to take a shortcut from where going where? The newspapers said: incidents are useless to a women who is mad…
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Now at the start of this new cycle I’m being flung off you when I won’t say goodbye, still hoping for brave incantations, standing here not in Spain. I keep thinking you’re leaving to come back again with clear words from a place of healing. I keep thinking, “Wish one could take her homeland, like violets, wherever she desires.” I keep thinking keep planting violets keep walking from what public square to where.
The street is still filled with the sound of a small loudspeaker: “go back home go back home.” And we exactly at five in the afternoon of an unalloyed sunset of a strange year lose the road home in our throbbing temples.
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عكسم رابه مجله مى فرستى
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Poem by: Roya Zarrin Translated by: Kaveh Bassiri
Send My Picture To The Journal Either you send my picture to the journal or I don’t get you. I clasp you, so you won’t miss anything. (For God’s sake don’t be like your father like his grandfather who won’t eat this sugar cube with Belgian ancestors before its ablution in the afternoon tea.) What’s wrong with this picture this hair this brazen eye looking straight ahead? Help me so I won’t turn from you, my dear. It was the year of tobacco and I was weaning you. It was the year of tobacco and I had issued a fatwa, no one should rub coal on her breasts. No one should of bogymen… should be afraid of bogymen, my dear. You had wet your restless night between the wool blankets. Why did I doze off ? Dozed off and you dreamed of caves and herds? Now “take three times from this sack with lots of water” this is what the family consultant has prescribed to restore the roots. You didn’t say what’s wrong with the curves of this hair this woman that any void in her you touch your index finger will swell. Delete my pictures I have laid down my floral clothes in the copper basin. I didn’t know English, my dear.
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بيست و دوم
قاتل ِ دوستم را كاو فقط مامور اعدام بوده ،باقى ش را بايد به اداره يى ديگر رجوع كنم .هر چه گفته بود كردم .شخص ِ مسول ،انسان ِ محرتمى بود .سالم و حال و احواىل خودماىن كردم .رسش شلوغ بود .آدم هاى ديگرى هم آمده بودند كه رساغ خويشان ِ دور يا نزديكشان را مى گرفتند يا مثل من نشان ِ دوستى آشنايى ه ديدم ،سالم و عليىك كردم و نشان ِ مزار را گرفتم .منى دانست .مى گفت را. گفت كه منى تواند نشانِ ِ مزار را بدهد چون من هيچ خويىش ِ نزديىك با شخص مربوطه ندارم .گفتم، پدر و مادر ِ شخص مربوطه ،عاقش كرده اند و برايشان فرقى منى كند كه چه باليى رس فرزندشان آمده ،من دوست ِ بسيار نزديكش بوده ام ،نشاىن را به من بدهد ،همه ى عمر ممنون محبتشان ش را ببوسم .گفت اين كارها الزم نيست ،صرب كن ببينم چكار مى خواهم بود .كم مانده بود دست توانم بكنم .واقعا هم كمك كرد .گوش نكردم كه با ديگران چطور حرف مى زد .روى يك صندىل گوشه يى نشستم ،چندين ساعت .آخر رس آمد و گفت هنوز اين جايى .گفتم هر گىل بزند به رس خودش ش خواهم بود .گفت نشاىن -ات كجاست ،پيدا مى كنم ،تلفن مى كنم. ش خواهم كرد ،ممنون زده ،دعا گفتم ،مسافرم ،در مسافرخانه هستم ،هر وقت بگويد مى آيم ،غرض خواندن فاتحه يى ست و رفنت. گفت طرف مسلامن نبود .گفتم كار ِ ثواب اسمش روى خودش است .نگاهى كرد كه يعنى يا خيىل پرتم يا مغزم پاره سنگ بر مى دارد .گفتم ،منى دانم چه فكر مى كنى ،وىل هم عقلم پاره سنگ بر مى دارد و هم كمى پرتم ،برادرى كند ،هر كارى مى خواهد مى كنم .گفتم ،اجازه بدهد ،فردا بيايم ،مى دانم كه رسش خيىل شلوغ است و اين شغل هم كار سختى است ،دركش مى كنم بقول قدميى ها، حاال هم اگر بخواهد صرب مى كنم ،كارش كه متام شد ،برويم يك قهوه خانه همني حواىل يك چايى با هم بنوشيم ،يا اگر خانواده اش منتظرش نيستند ،برويم يك شام مهامن من باشد .گفت ،هم كارم حاال حاال ها متام منى شود ،هم زن و بچه منتظرم هستند ،آدم هاى زيادى آمده اند مى خواهند نشاىن فرزندا ْن پدرا ْن خواهرا ْن برادرانشان را كه اعدام شده اند بگريند ،منى دانم با مرده مى خواهند چكار كنند ،مرده كه حرف منى زند ،ىب كارند ،كار ما را هم زياد مى كنند .گفتم ،تقصري آن ها هم نيست، باالخره رسم است كه بروى رس قرب مرده .گفت شام چرا ديگر دنبال اين رسم ايد .گفتم من دنبال رسم نيستم ،من آمده بودم اين جا كه ببينمش ،گفتند زندان است ،رفتم زندان ،خيىل محبت كردند، با اين كه خويش نبودم ،همه ى اطالعات را در اختيارم گذاشتند ،واقعا آدم هاى درستى بودند ،خيىل زحمتشان دادم ،باالخره بعد از گشنت همه ى پرونده ها گفتند ،فوت كرده .رساغ خانه شان را گرفتم. نشاىن دادند .رفتم .پدر ايشان يا حوصله نداشتند يا ىب وقت رفته بودم ،يا هر چه ،چند تا ناسزا 30
Written by: Alimorad Fadaienia Translated by: Salar Abdoh
Excerpt from “Tales of the Nameless” Coming at last upon my friend’s murderer, I bid him a greeting and asked if he knew where my friend was buried. The man didn’t know. His job, he said, was only to execute people. If I wanted to know where they’d actually buried my friend, I had to go ask at a different government agency. So I did. The man in charge at this other office seemed like a respectable fellow. Busy though. There were a lot of people going in and out of there asking about their executed relatives. He told me there was no way he could give the whereabouts of my friend; I wasn’t family. I let the man know that my friend’s parents had disowned him a long time ago and could care less what happened to their child. But me, I was like a brother to him. “Just give me the location, and I’ll be grateful to you to the end of my days.” “No need for theatrics,” the man said, “wait around and I’ll see what I can do for you.” I sat, waiting while he went about dealing with the other supplicants. Then at the end of the day he noticed me again and asked, “You are still here? Give me your address. When I find your friend’s file, I’ll let you know.” “But I’m not from this town. I’m staying at a guesthouse. Truth is, all I want to do is pray one time over my friend’s grave. That’s all.” “But the guy we killed, he wasn’t even a believer. He had no faith. Why would you pray over someone like that?” “A good deed is its own reward,” I answered. Which made him look at me like I was either crazy or a bit thick in the head. So I immediately added, “I’m both a little crazy and more than a bit thick in the head. But come, be a sport! I know you are very busy, and this job, well, it’s not an easy job, is it? I understand your situation completely. I’ll wait as long as you say. When you’re finished with work, we could go to a teahouse together. Or if your family is not expecting you, we could go have dinner. My treat.” “For starters, I still have a lot of work to do. Besides, my family expects me home.” Then he added, “Listen! We’ve had to put a lot of people to death. But folks still keep coming around asking about their children, their fathers, their sisters and brothers. I don’t understand what it is they think they want to do with a dead body. Does a dead body talk? No. These people, they have nothing better to occupy their time. So they come here and make more work for us.” “Can you blame them?” I asked. “I mean, Isn’t it proper to show up where your loved one is buried?” “Yes, but why are you following this custom?” “I’m not following any custom. I’m in this town on a visit. They told me
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my friend’s in jail. So I went there and they were perfect gentlemen about it all. I mean, even though I wasn’t a close relative they gave me what information they could. They spent a long time looking in their files and finally told me they’d killed him. They gave me the address of his family home. His father was there. But, I don’t know, maybe he wasn’t in the mood to talk; he just swore at me and ran me off. Then I ended up here. Everyone says this is the place where one can locate a grave.” “Come tomorrow then.” “To be honest with you, I’m leaving day after tomorrow. What if the this thing drags out? I don’t have the money to change my ticket. And even if I were to spend that kind of money … well, I’d rather give it to you rather than the airlines. Yes you. Because you are a hardworking man. I can tell.” It was just the two of us there now. So I took my money out and put it in his hand. “You won’t eat with me, then at least take the family out tonight. And God bless you.” I didn’t give him a chance to refuse the cash and walked right out of there. Now I was scared. What if the guy went and reported that I’d tried to bribe him? What if they threw me in jail first. And then … I jumped in the first car that slowed down. When the driver asked “Where to?” I told him to drive me wherever his other passengers were headed. The fellow laughed and I did my best to laugh along with him. “So where are you coming from?” he asked. “The Office of the Cemetery.” Now the other passengers chipped in, “You got scared and ran?” “Of course,” I said. “Then obviously you’re not from these parts.” Now they all eyed me like I was some kind of leper. “Tell us where you’re staying and we’ll take you there.” I gave an address two blocks away from the guesthouse. By the time I got off, I was ready for the airport. I told myself I had to act like I had never asked to see my friend’s grave. And so it went. No idea how I endured the hours till the next day when I got on that plane. I talked to no one. In the plane I sat quite still in my seat, and not until the voice announced we could undo our seatbelts did I believe I had finally escaped danger. I got up and headed for the bathroom. In the bathroom I began shaking and before I knew it I was weeping hysterically. Now was a good time for that, but I still put my hand to my mouth so no one could hear me. When I was finished weeping, I went back to my seat. The fellow next to me says, “Do you have some kind of allergy?” “To what?” I ask. “I don’t know. Your eyes, they’re bloodshot.” “I had me a good cry in the bathroom, is what I did.” “Lucky you.” 32
گفتند ،من فكر كردم عصباىن است حتام مزاحمش نشدم ،شنيدم ،نشاىن قرب را مى شود اين جا بگريم، اين است كه آمده ام خدمت شام .يقني كردم ،كه يك مشكىل پيدا كرده ،وىل منى دانستم چيست. گفت ،حاال فردا بياييد ببينم چكار مى شود كرد .گفتم حقيقتا پس فردا من مسافرم ،بليطم را هم خريده ام ،منى دانم چكارش كنم اگر كار طول بكشد ،امكان هم ندارم كه پول ِ اضاىف بليط بدهم ،اگر هم قرار است بدهم ،بهرت است كه بدهمش خدمت شام كه فرد زحمتكىش هستيد ،تا بدهمش به اداره ى هواپياميى كه احتياجى به پول من ندارد .و ضمن همني حرف ،ديدم غري از خودم و خودش كىس توى اداره منانده .موقعيت را مغتنم شمردم ،مبلغى كه يك شب شام ِ خانوادگى را مثال بدهد گذاشتم كف دستش .گفتم با ما كه شام منى خوريد ،خانواده را بربيد شام بريون از طرف من ،تصدقت .گردم .نگذاشتم چيزى بگويد .گفتم ،فردا خدمتت مى رسم و آمدم بريون بريون كه آمدم ترسيدم .گفتم نكند گزارش كند كه رشوه داده ،بگريند زندانم كنند رسم را بكنند زير ِ آب .اولني سوارى كه رسيد ،سوار شدم .گفت كجا ،گفتم هر جا كه ديگران مى روند .سوارى دو تا مسافر ديگر هم داشت ،زد زير خنده راننده .منهم همراهى كردم .گفت كجا بودى .گفتم دفرت قربستان .مسافران ديگر هم همراهى ش كردند .گفتند ،ترسيدى در رفتى .گفتم ،مگر ترس ندارد. راننده گفت ،معلوم است كه مسافرى .گفتم ،چطور مگر .گفت ،هيچى رست سالمت .انگار يك جذامى ديده اند .گفتند بگو كجا ،اول شام را مى رسانيم .اين يعنى خود ِ محبت .ترسيدم نشاىن ِ مسافرخانه را بدهم .يىك دو كوچه حواىل مسافرخانه را نشاىن دادم كه اسمشان را هم حقيقتا درست .منى دانستم پياده كه شدم ،گفتم بخودم همني حاال مى روم فرودگاه .بعد گفتم ،اگر حاال بروم مشكوك مى شوند. يك جورى بگذرانم تا فردا .بايد فقط طورى رفتار كنم كه كىس نداند رفته ام نشاىن قرب بگريم .نبايد كار .سختى باشد تا وقت سوار شدن ِ هواپيام را منى دانم چطور گذراندم .منتهاى سعى ام را كردم كه با كىس تا الزم نباشد حرف نزنم .سوار ِ طياره هم كه شدم همني كار را كردم .همني كه گفتند كمر بندها تان را وا كنيد ،فهميدم كه واقعا ديگر از خطر جسته ام .رفتم دستشويى ،قبل از اين كه آىب بصورتم بزنم، ديدم مى لرزم و لرزه متام نشده گريه يى كه منى دانستم از كجا آمده ،وادارم كردم كه دست بگذارم روى دهانم كه صداى ضجه ام را كىس نشنود .متام كه كردم ،صورتم را شستم و آمدم نشستم. بغلدستى ام گفت ،حساسيت دارى .گفتم به چى .گفت منى دانم وىل چشم هات عني كاسه ى خون ش بحالت .است .گفتم جاى شام خاىل ،توى دستشويى ،گريه ى مفصىل كردم .گفت ،خو
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می خواهم در پوست حیوانات بخزم و دنیا را از چشم آنها بنگرم شاید معنایی را بیابم به وسعت اندوه خود آن روز که مردم آن چه را که یادگار دریاست به دریا بازدهید و آن چه را که از آسامن در دل من مانده است به آسامن بازگردانید زمزمه ی جنگل و صدای آبشارها را به جنگل و آبشارها برگردانید و اگر ستاره ای در دست های من مانده است آن را به آسامن بازفرستید و آن گاه تن من را به زمین باز دهید و قلب من را به سکوت و تاریکی بسپارید صدای گریه کودکان و درخشیدن خورشید در همه جا یکسان است چه خوب است دلی باشد میرا و در آن عشقی باشد جاودانه وقتی واقعیت ناگفتنی است یا باید سکوت کرد یا باید شعر گفت 34
Written by: Bijan Jalali Translated by: Aria Fani and Adeeba Talukder
i want to crawl into the skins of animals and see the world from their eyes maybe i’ll find meaning vast as my despair the day I die return to the sea what i’ve held of it as keepsake return to the sky what’s left of it in my heart the humming of the forest the noise of the waterfalls return them to the forest and waterfalls and if any stars should remain in my hands send them back to the sky then return my body to the earth my heart to dark, silence the sound of children wailing and the splendor of the sun everywhere are the same how wonderful for a mortal heart to hold eternal love when reality cannot be spoken one should resort to silence or to verse
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ا سقند با دأ
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Written by: Sa‘id Soltanpur Translated by: Samad Alavi
Winter Squall Such as the days transpire such as the wind gusts with its gasps and rears it head to probe each door and rears its head at every roof and raids the cracks of every wall and rushes savagely and sets with its covert paws before the valiant man on the path of peril and blood, its snare Such as the scheming old wind wears on crying out in dread, at the jungle's head shrilling in fear, at the massif's heart and wrangles through entangling alleys Such as it breaks us and flees but now it too more broken from fear of standing still, away from the mighty stones Such as it passes babbling and cloaked glass and beads adorned on a thousand limbs standard and scripture clutched in a thousand fists glowing flamelike in rage pounding dirt and blood upon its crown in rancor its body armored with a thousand spikes and barbs and turns circles and yelps deranged and rams its horns into the sprouts of the red rose and thrashes its tail against the people's windows and claws at the walls of their homes and punctures the veins of the living and dead and cooks up a thousand dreams and delusions: as the sun which arises, signs appear in its tactics and its rush signs of demise 37
دربند يهلوى
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Written by: Sa‘id Soltanpur Translated by: Samad Alavi
In Pahlavi Prison In Pahlavi prison a man has fallen fatigued and bloodied fire set alight from the soles of his feet blood from his veins’ blazing walls like fire drops flows calmly in the leaves of the wound the wire lashes having traveled circuits of his blood have not travelled another circuit, his resolve it shines like a spring and spills on his broken face - moonlight of December moon quicksilver of his patient cries close-lipped on the bellow’s fire he burns in the blossoming fire of the wound-flower in his narrow corner he stays restless like a flame. But in the heavens of the window the full moon, the crimson pupil of revenge, in the clouds’ sinister sockets stays awake. Glowing crimson and scorched in the prison’s narrows on sweetbrier boughs he sees the broken moon in nightly garden-stroll solitude he plucks blood-flower mementos from the branches of the wound to release himself as if from pain like a broken branch he plants his head on the wall’s chest calmly he sits: I am not alone here broken
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I am not alone here seated in this blood what branches, broken in this plain what wounds, blossomed in this garden here, what countless springs have burned. The wound-flowers burn with fire-drops fiercer and sleep-flames ignite the man’s eyes more triumphant and more lit with blood: at home far away midnight moonbeams through window panes scattering grief ’s ashen dust there my mother sits in smoke and tears there my father clutching sorrow’s knees with dew drops spilled, with dripping cheeks my brother asleep on his nightly assignments my wife’s disheveled ringlets spill on Dawn’s chest lullaby mingled with her bouts of weeping mother until the dawn of execution involuntarily breaks her sobs but father still curled on sorrow’s knees weighted by the sleeping cries. Calmly, mother, calm allow the morning light to rise allow them to bind at first light my aspirations to the stake allow the call of “fire” to rise allow the star of the discharge to pass madly through this galaxy of blood the blood to grow flame-like the blood garden to scatter on the bullet-hail’s field the summer seed to forest in the blood-lit sun to cry these seeds will not lay grounded from the earth’s heart like lightning they will bloom and will traverse the plateau like thunder this is blood and will remain. 41
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Sleep’s blood flames hang on the man’s eyelids he frees his body from the wall and sleeps in blazing anguish sifting dreams of morning through his sleep and blood and night, bloodthirsty, monstrous night like a hangman, furious arms at the ready elbows exposed from rolled up, blood-stained sleeves eyeless sockets filled with blood in the fortress of Evin in the fortress of Hesar in the dreaded buried halls of Qezel Qal'eh in the fortress of the Committee's slaughterhouse hunches over the darkened pit at work with his bloody arms. The man asleep, fevered in his visions a thorn from the flower bed of the wound piercing him each moment in blood and the crimson moon glowing past the prison window.
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جهان كمونيست ٥
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Written by: Sa‘id Soltanpur Translated by: Samad Alavi
Communist Victor A bullet in the mouth a bullet in the eye. On the blocks of ice in the freezer of the state morgue two frozen blood-flames glow a firelight in the mouth a firelight in the eye. In the February sixth meeting in the throngs of supporters and the people among the slogans and signs under the patrol of armed republicans and droves of guards and thugs in the preserve of nunchucks, maces and chains in discharges of fear and maniacal gibes in the glimmer of bayonets and tin stars in the caws of surveilling crows and clobbering vultures in the February sixth meeting in the red meeting of the uprising in the red Siyahkal meeting two incendiary solar cries radiate from Victor's lashes and lips a sunburst in the mouth a sunburst in the eye. Victor the Communist Victor of today and the future Victor The workers Victor Victor of the world Victor of hammer Victor of sickle Victor of red flag Communist Victor springing Victor of the meeting springing from Shoosh Square 45
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to the restricted square - Liberation Square springing from the restricted Liberation to Revolution Square springing above the heights of the murderous convoys and the wounding bayonets springing from the ricochets of the blasts springing from blind alleys and roofs to Avenue of the Flag - avenue of patrol and bullets and blood springing Communist Victor Victor of revolution in the suffocating republican air with lips of flint and steel eyelids of flint and steel lightning bolt in the mouth a bolt of lightning in the eye. Meat prices inflated bean prices inflated unemployment and lusting for bread Arise, arise toilers! Toilers arise, arise! Victor of slogans slogans of toil slogans of labor incendiary throat of fire volcanic burst of blood and uproar heaving in the meeting's sky a galaxy in the mouth a galaxy in the eye. Born of toil in alleys of dust and hunger yesterday's little Victor at the threshold of awaiting bread and smiles on the knees of labor in the coarse caress of toil's hands in the skirt-folds of travail with motherly songs and tears grown up Victor of today Victor bearing standard red Victor Victor of meetings and struggle revolving Victor springing forward 47
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Victor of workshop Victor of work Victor of smoke and fumes and fire Victor of stone and lava and flame a volcano in the mouth a volcano in the eye. At the meeting Victor did the rounds and the pages of communiquÊs took flight from his fingertips hovering above the meeting and the people - melodious islands of doves on a tumultuous sea of shouts and fists Victor the messenger a pigeon in the mouth a pigeon in the eye. At six oclock in the morning with bundled manifestos at suppliers' square ten minutes past eight with leaves of slogans and tracts at the Gomrok Press nine o'clock with the "Defense" comrades behind the greenery of "Liberation" with the long sickle of love and the weighty hammer of a cry a panther in the mouth a panther in the eye. At half past ten on Worker's Avenue binding a comrade's wounds in the people's house and in the tumult of patrols and alarms carrying on his shoulders a comrade with a bullet through his cheek through the alleys of "Khosh" a future in the mouth a future in the eye. The leaden bows and canopies of gas suspended between earth and sky and Victor calling from his volcanic throat " ‌ persist , persist! toilers 49
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struggle " resist, resist! a revolution in the mouth a revolution in the eye. Victor the Feda'i Florid Victor of redemption and love , flowers of 71 flowers from then until now eternal flowers forest flowers and ambrosial flowers Feda'i flowers harvests in heaps and heaps from Siyahkal to the Uprising harvested heaps from the uprising until today. Communist Victor with red arrangements for Comrade Tomaj a bouquet in the mouth a bouquet in the eye. Brass knuckles and knives snorts and hoofbeats Ay! Wounded Victor Victor spilling blood in the bloodied convoy of the Republic. Rifle butts and boots whipping and swelling and wounds Ay! Victor withstanding torture Victor refusing to break Communist Victor with two bolted locks of blood in the torture chamber a padlock in the mouth a padlock in the eye. Hands bound with the Republic's cuffs Republican boots on chest Republican fists on Victor's bloodied jaws worn Colt barrel in the mouth worn out barrel a bullet in the mouth 51
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a bullet in the eye. In the freezer of the state morgue documents of Republican crimes on blocks of ice. Banners in the intersections manifestoes in factories and streets Communist Victor in hands on walls Communist Victor in tracts in air in schools in homes in hearts in mouths in eyes partisan's flint and steel in the jungle of the toilers' rage and the toilers surrounding the banners beside the manifestoes and the meeting's air the Feda'i air circulates in the homeland of struggle with Victor's shining voice "…persist, persist! Toilers struggle resist, resist!" Among the banners the Revolution with its forehead split and bleeding calls with Victor's shining voice and rivers and Victor's comrades sing "Communist Victor" and they sing with bouquets of blood at the head of the meeting of history.
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دعوت
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Written by: Gholam-Hossein Sa'adi
Translated by: Maryam Habibian and Lois Becker
The Invitation Characters Miss Asieh (her maid) Setting The room of a thirty-year-old woman. It is a mess. On one side of the room is a dressing table and, next to it, a small table with a telephone. Near the dressing table is a large closet. On the other side of the room is a single bed. Three doors open onto a bathroom, the hallway, and the next room. The place is extremely untidy, and everything is piled on top of everything else. There is an ironing board with an electric iron and an electric phonograph with a stack of records next to it. A number of books and magazines are strewn about the place. In spite of its chaotic state, the room has a look of comfort and affluence. When the curtain rises, the stage is empty. Miss can be heard singing in the next room. She enters a few minutes later, in sloppy *the Farsi text was not transcribed but scanned from the original text
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house clothes, carrying a load of dirty laundry under her arm. She goes toward the hallway, still singing. As she passes the mirror, she stops and looks at herself. She smiles, then enters the hall and shouts. Miss: Asieh! ... Asieh! Come and pick up these things. I'm putting them in the corner here. (She enters the room and looks around, shakes her shoulders, puts on a record, starts toward another room, stops in front of the mirror again, and winks at herself. As she moves on, the phone rings. The woman stops, hesitates, turns off the record player, and picks up the receiver). Hello . . . Oh, hello . . . hello . . . How are you? . . . Are you O.K.? . . . It's strange . . . Well, (she laughs) I'm not bad . . . Yes, I'm fine . . . No . . . You're kidding! No, really . . . Well . . . Where? . . . Whose house? . . . Not in the house? . . . Then where? . . . Uh huh . . . Oh, that's cute . . . You're naughty. It sounds like you need a chaperone . . . Well . . . Who's going to be there? . . . Yeah . . . Yeah . . . Is her husband coming too? . . . So they're back together? How many times does this make? . . . (She laughs). You mean you aren't counting? . . . Those two have really made a mess of it . . . Well . . . Me? . . . No . . . I can't . . . I really can't 57
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. . . I'm busy tonight. Yes, a real invitation . . . No . . . It'snot a secret . . . You have a dirty mind ... Well ... I'm too old for that kind of thing . . . No one pays any attention to .me anymore . . . No . . . It's impossible .. . There's an old saying . . . What? . . . How can I? . . . It's impossible. I have to go . . . It wouldn't be polite . . . You know there's no getting out of it . . . No . . . Stop acting like a child . . . No way . . . It's over. He left . . .Well . . . O.K. It's not because of him . . . He just called me a few days ago . . . Nothing . . . Just to say "hello" . . . You know how I am . . . It's not my style to make a fuss . . . When something's over, it's over. The rest is a waste of energy . . . No way . . . He wasn't that great anyway . . . It's true . . . I didn't expect anything from him . . . You want me to beg? . . . No, it's true . . . I wouldn't know how to trap a man . . . Why should I? Life goes on. (She laughs). I've been there before . . . What, does he think my heart is an open door that he can come and go whenever he likes? . . . What's that supposed to mean? . . . Well, let it go . . . So what? . . . No . . . No . . . I'm not angry . . . It's not even worth talking about . . . (She laughs). I told you, it's impossible . . . What? . . . I don't have the patience for people like that . . . 59
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Yes, I have patience for anything . . . Apologize to them . . . Yesterday, today, it's all the same . . . You know that I'm always available . . . No . . . I didn't do anything . . . I only just remembered ... You don't know how I look. (She touches her hair). Dirty . . . Disheveled . . . I can't bear to look at myself . . . (Laughs) I'm a mess, my dear, a mess. If you were here, you'd understand . . . My room looks like a bazaar . . I don't know . . . I don't know anybody . . . Yes . . . It's a nice place . . . A lot of cultured people . . . I count on that . . . No way . . . Well, that's one way to look at it . . . Sure . . . Are you shy? . . . Well, it's impossible not to be shy . . . I'm sorry about that . . . I would have liked that too . . . Next time, God willing . . . Say "hello" to them . . . Love you . . . Good-bye. (She puts down the receiver, looks around her). I haven't gotten anything done. (She doesn't know what to do. Then, with an air of decision, she goes to the closet and starts examining her clothes. She takes out a dress, holds it against her body, studies it, and decides she doesn't like it. She takes out another dress and unconsciously
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hums a slow melody. Throughout the play, whenever the woman thinks about the invitation, she begins humming, deep in her throat. She tries on the dress, but she doesn't like it. She is confused. Thoughtfully, she pulls a stool in front of the closet. She sits there, looking, and tries to choose one of the dresses. Finally, she chooses one, examines it, and her singing becomes louder. She holds the dress in front of her body and looks at herself in the mirror. She frowns, she likes it; she takes out another dress and hangs it over her left arm. She holds them up, alternating. She is unsure, she puts her hand down and calls Asieh.) Asieh ... Asieh . . . (She waits, and, to herself) Which one should I wear? (As she is thinking, she watches herself in the mirror.) Which one looks better on you? Asieh: (In the doorway) Yes, Miss? Miss: (Suddenly catching herself) Look at this place. Asieh: You've made a mess all right. (She begins tidying up). Miss: What are you doing? Just leave it . . . This isn't the time to do this . . . When is Mom coming back? Asieh: I don't know. Miss: Don't you know anything? (Silence) Why does she have to disappear now, when there's a thousand 63
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things to do. Asieh: Well, I'll help you. Miss: You? (She looks at Asieh very carefully, and she puts the dresses on the bed. She examines Asieh and the room, then walks around aimlessly. She looks at the bed, the mirror, the telephone, and her own fingers. She can't decide what to do). Asieh: What's going on, Miss? Miss: Don't confuse me . . . Don't confuse me. (To herself) Let me see what I have to do. One thing at a time . . . The dress . . . the hairdresser . . . would I get there on time . . . What time is it? (She picks up her watch from her dresser and looks at it). Asieh: When do you have to go? Miss: I don't know . . . I told you to let me think, I don't know anything. (She goes to the closet and looks for a dress. She gets angry when she can't find it). Where did I put it? Asieh: What are you looking for, Miss? Miss: Nothing. (She notices the dresses on the bed). Oh, there it is . . . I'm absent-minded . . . Asieh, listen . . . (She picks up the dresses.) Which do you think looks better on me? (In front of the mirror) This one? (She holds it to herself.) Or this one? (She 65
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picks up another dress). Asieh: I can't see you. Miss: In the mirror . . . look in the mirror, not at my back. (Asieh comes forward and looks at
her in the
mirror). Well? Asieh: Very pretty. Miss: Which one? Asieh: Both of them. Miss: I can't wear two dresses at the same time. I asked you which one? Asieh: Everything you wear looks good on you. Miss: If you were in my place, which one would you choose? Asieh: Me? (She picks up the dresses and examines them and stands in front of the mirror.) But . . . What can I say? If it was me . . . (Spontaneously) You're very lucky. (The young woman smiles.) Which one do you prefer? Miss: If I knew, I wouldn't have asked you. Asieh: Well, it's your opinion that counts. Miss: Sure, but what about you? Asieh: I would wear this one. (She chooses one). Miss: This one? . . . Why this one? Asieh: Well, why not? 67
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Miss: (Satisfied) Then this is the one I'll wear. Asieh: (Excited) Didn't I tell you? Miss: (She throws down the second dress and walks around with the chosen one). So, this one is better than the rest. (In front of the mirror) Yes ... it's better than the rest. (Imagines herself in the dress) The bright color . . . the bare shoulders ... the skirt ... You're sure the color isn't too bright? Miss: But why? Asieh: Because it's nice. Miss: What's nice about it? . . . Can you tell me? Asieh: You know, Miss, it's a nice color . . . it's well tailored, it's nice. Miss: (Convinced and thoughtful) Is it nice? Asieh: Very nice . . . beautiful. Miss: (Satisfied) Then this is the one I’ll wear. Asieh: (Excited) Didn't I tell you? Miss: (She throws down the second dress and walks around with the chosen one). So, this one is better than the rest. (In front of the mirror) Yes . . . it's better than the rest. (Imagines herself in the dress) The bright color . . . the bare shoulders . . . the skirt . . . You're sure the color isn't too bright? Asieh: No, Miss ... it's very pretty. 69
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Miss: Well, I'll put a pin here. (She puts the dress on the table and pins her hair in the back, while humming a song). Asieh: Aren't you going to put it on? Miss: The way I look? . . . So, what about the shoes? (She studies the closet, brings out some shoeboxes, and examines them carefully). None of these shoes go with the dress. Asieh: But these shoes are all new, you haven't even worn some of them yet. Miss: I am talking about their color. (Testy) For example, does this shoe go well with my dress? Asieh: No, it doesn't. Miss: So, what do you suggest? Asieh: Well . . . what about those others? Miss: They're all the same. Asieh: What do I know . . . this must be one of those formal parties. Miss: Why? Asieh: Because you're so nervous. I've never seen you like this. Miss: (Offended) Never seen me like what? Will you let me get on with this or not? (She examines the shoes again). It's embarrassing. 71
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Asieh: Why is it embarrassing? No one will notice. Miss: You think people are blind, that they don't have eyes? Asieh: Who's going to be looking at your shoes?
Miss: At a big party, they notice everything you have on . . . shoes . . . hat . . . clothes . . . hair . . .
Asieh: So what if they do, Miss? Miss: Nothing! But what about me? Perhaps no one else will say anything, but I'll know . . . I am someone too. (She begins thinking). What a problem! (She gets up, puts the dress away, and lies down on the bed). Asieh: So you're not going, Miss? Miss: Where? Asieh: To the party. Miss: (She gets up). Who said I wasn't going? I wouldn't miss it for the world. I have to go. It's impossible not to. Asieh: So what will you do? Miss: Do? Asieh: About the shoes? Miss: (Determined) I'll think of something. Asieh: How? 73
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Miss: (More determined) I'll fix it ... There is nothing one can't do . . . Be patient for one minute (goes toward the phone), be patient. (She looks for the phone number. Asieh comes forward and watches her). Hello . . . Susan, dear . . . hello . . . How are you? . . . Yes, it's me . . . thanks. How are you? . . . Are you O.K.? I'm not surprised . . . I'm calling to bother you about something. (With a nervous laugh) I have a problem . . . No, my dear . . . Don't worry . . . You see, I have to go somewhere right now, and I don't have the right kind of shoe to go with my dress. I just remembered that we both wear the same size shoes . . . No . . . I want to borrow your maroon pumps . . . What are you doing? . . . Can you have Mohammad bring them for me? . . . Thanks so much . . . You won't need them, will you? ... Thank you very much, dear Susan . . . So Mohammad is going to bring them? Yes . . . thanks . . . good-bye. (She puts down the receiver and, happily, to Asieh) See? (She laughs and twirls around). It all worked out. Asieh: You're going to be late, Miss.
Miss: (Notices) What time is it? (She runs toward her dresser and looks at her watch). It's getting late. 75
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Asieh: (Flustered) So, hurry up . . . hurry up. Miss: What? Asieh: It's time to go ... to leave. Miss: (She is nervous and doesn't know what to do). I'm confused. With the way I look, and all this mess. (She goes into the bathroom. Silence. Asieh is listening to her. The woman comes to the doorway). Asieh! Asieh: Yes, Miss. Miss: Should I take a shower? Asieh: Do you have time? Miss: I don't know. Why didn't I think of it earlier? Put the iron on. (Asieh puts the iron on). Is there any hot water? Asieh: I just turned it on. Miss: When will it be warm? Asieh: Right away. Miss: (She enters the bathroom, and, from the bathroom) What if it isn't warm? Asieh: It will be. I'll have your dress ironed by the time you get out. Miss: Would you? It's not your job. Asieh: What, Miss? . . . Who does all your ironing for 77
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you? Miss: This is different. Asieh: (Surprised) What do I know? Miss: (Shouting) Asieh. Bring my clean slippers here. They're under the bed. (Asieh brings them from under the bed). Give them to me, hurry up. (She takes the slippers, puts them on, and enters the room. She starts cleaning her feet). Asieh, please dial my hairdresser's number.
Asieh: (She dials the number) Hello. Hello . . . Ms. Mojgan? Hold on, please. (She points at the young woman).
Miss: Just a minute. (She dries her feet hurriedly and throws the towel on the floor, goes toward the phone.) Hello. Hi, how are you, my dear? . . . Do you have any time today? (She points to Asieh to bring the stool for her). No? . . . What? . . . I'm going to a party. (She sits on the stool.) Yes, it's an important place. I'm already a little late . . . Isn't there something you can do? Maybe you could ask someone to give me their appointment? Please . . . Well what am I going to do? . . . No . . . No . . . There's no need to be 79
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embarrassed . . . Good-bye. (She puts the phone down and buries her head in her hands). This isn't going to work. Asieh: Miss. Miss: What? Asieh: I wish you had called earlier. Miss: (Excited) What difference would that have made? Even if I had called earlier, what good would it have done? Asieh: (Shocked) None. Miss: (Chin cupped in her hand, she looks at herself in the mirror and smiles). Pfft! . . . It's ridiculous to expect anything from people like that. Asieh: You shouldn't get all worked up about this, dear Miss. Miss: What do you suggest I do with this dirty hair? (She grabs a bunch of hair in her hands and shakes it). Ha? What should I do? Asieh: You can find a comb and water anywhere, Miss. Miss: Comb and water? Asieh: (Carefully) To, well, wash it . . . Miss: Wash it? How can I do that? (Screaming) Be careful that iron doesn't scorch! 81
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Asieh: (She runs toward the iron. The young woman enters the bathroom; Asieh, in a loud voice) Miss, it’s very hot, what should I do? Miss: (From the bathroom) What should you do? . . . Let it burn! (The sound of the water is Heard). Asieh: Burn? Miss: (She sticks her head out the door). What are you, brain dead? Turn it off! Asieh: Turn what off ? Miss: The damned thing, I mean that damned thing! Asieh: O.K., Miss. (She turns off the switch). Miss: Did it burn? Asieh: No, nothing happened. Miss: Why are you standing there watching me? Asieh: What do you want me to do? Miss: Come and help me wash my hair. Asieh: Wash your hair? Miss: Yes, wash my hair. (She is contemplating). Should I wash my hair? If I do, it isn’t going to dry. I wish I had a hair dryer. Asieh, could you go and borrow the colonel’s wife’s hair dryer? Asieh: If you want me to, I will. Miss: (Uncertain) No, better not, or tomorrow they’ll be talking behind my back. (She touches her hair). 83
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So . . . (with a pleading look) what do you think I should do? Asieh: About what? Miss: This damned hair. Asieh: You’ll have to do something with it . . . but you don’t want to be late. Miss: I’ll fix it somehow . . . There must be something I can do. (She opens the drawer, takes out some rollers, combs her hair hurriedly, and puts the rollers on). Asieh, some water. Asieh: Miss! Miss: What? Asieh: This is going to take a long time. Miss: (She is upset and starts throwing everything within arm’s reach). So, what the hell should I do? Asieh: You used to have something . . . Miss: What? Asieh: That wig, the one that you said was so expensive. Miss: Yes, you're right. (Excited) Well done, Asieh, you've saved the day, I didn't think of that! (She looks at herself in the mirror). You don’t think it looks ugly on me? Asieh: Not at all ... it looks great. 85
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Miss: I'll try it ... (She gets up). Make sure the iron hasn't gotten cold. (Asieh wets her finger to examine the iron). Set up the ironing board. (She lays the dress on the on the table and goes toward the closet to get her wig. The bell rings loudly; both of them start and look at each other). Oh, God, not now, who could that be? Asieh: I don't know. Miss: Do you think it's a visitor? Asieh: It must be. Everyone else has a key. Miss: Oh . . . this isn't a house, it's a hotel. This one comes, that one goes. There's always someone here. Asieh: Shall I answer the door? Miss: And say what? Asieh: So you don't want me to? Miss: No, stay where you are. (The bell rings insistently). Asieh: Whoever it is isn't going to give up. They must know we never leave the house. Miss: Let them ring till they drop. After a while, they'll get tired of it and get the hell out. (The bell rings loudly). Asieh: Do you want me to go tell them there's no one home? 87
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Miss: What if it's a relative? . . . They'll come in anyway. (The bell is heard). Asieh: Let me peek out the window. Miss: Be careful they don't see you. Asieh: I'm being careful. (She looks outside). It's a man. Miss: A man? What does he look like? Asieh: I can't really see from here. Miss: Let me see. (She goes to the window, peeks out, and, suddenly realizing something, to Asieh) Go. . . run . . . it's Mohammad with the shoes. (She sticks her head out the window). Yoo hoot . . . Mohammad . . . Mohammad . . . just a minute . . . wait . . . she's coming! . . . (She comes back into the room). Run . . . (She is confused. She can't make up her mind between the three doors, the hallway, the bathroom, and the bedroom. Finally, she decides and goes toward the hall. Asieh comes up with a shoebox in her hand. They both laugh, they are happy, the young woman picks up the box and hums the usual tune). Asieh: He said to tell you the madam says "hello." Miss: (She gives the box back to Asieh.) Open it, let me see. (Asieh starts opening it.) Break the string . . . Oh . . . You can't even untie a string . . . 89
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Give it to me . . . This won't take long. (She opens the box and brings out a pair of shoes. She holds them up and whistles). They're great . . . it's exactly what I wanted . . . See how they look on me. (She puts them on and walks toward the ironing table, compares the dress and the shoes). This is just what I wanted . . . It's a perfect match . . . Come . . . come, look . . . (She saunters along). Do they look good on me? Asieh: Very nice. Miss: Where are you looking? Look at the shoes, not me. (She takes them off). So, now the shoes are taken care of. (She goes toward the iron). Now if this dress looks all right . . . If this goes well, then that goes well, and this will go well, and I will go well, and you will go well too, and everything will go well. The whole world will go well! And no one will have any regrets. If only death didn't exist . . . but that's not such a big problem. (Laughs and sings) La la la . . . (She picks up the ironed dress, holds it in front of herself, and twirls around the room). Asieh: You don't want to be late. Miss: Late? . . . Oh my God. (Happy and excited) What should I do first? 91
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Asieh: Put your dress on. Miss: First I should put on some make-up, and then . . . Asieh: Whatever you do, you'd better hurry up. Miss: You should be doing something, instead of telling me what to do. Asieh: What can I do? . . . I'm not the one going to the party. Miss: Go find my watch and purse and bring them here. And see what the weather's like . . . It was a bit cloudy this afternoon. If it's still cloudy, bring me my umbrella. (Asieh leaves). I'm afraid it's going to rain . . . My evening will be ruined . . . One can't trust this weather, it's fickle. (She takes out the wig and stands in front of the mirror). What's going on, Asieh?
Asieh: The weather looks bad, so I brought the umbrella. Miss: Excellent, Asieh, wait till you see what I'm going to do for your wedding. I'll pay you back for everything you've done for me. (Asieh laughs. The young woman is diligently applying make-up). Asieh, do I look nice? No? Tell me the truth. Asieh: Put this on, then I'll tell you how you look. Miss: Whatever you say, Miss. (She laughs and starts 93
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putting on the dress, and, as she is changing her dress) At last. Well, Asieh, you see how it is . . . One should always expect the worst . . . till . . . everything is worked out . . . everything is organized . . . everything is going right . . . Then you can relax . . . then you don't feel tired anymore . . . You feel clean . . . chic . . . beautiful . . . All the men rise for you . . . open doors for you . . . greet you . . . bow to you . . . and show you respect. (She comes toward Asieh). Do my zipper. (Asieh pulls up the young woman's zipper. The young woman puts her shoes on, puts the wig on, looks at her nails, picks up her purse, and looks at herself in the mirror for the last time. She executes this series of movements quite elegantly, and then) Well, everything seems fine . . . Now I have to go . . . (She winks).
Asieh: I hope you have a good time. Miss: I'm sure I will. I'll be home late . . . Tell them not to wait up for me . . . Don't put on the chain. (She looks in her purse). I have my keys . . . Tell them that I'll get a ride home late tonight . . . They needn't wait up. Asieh: O.K., I'll tell them. Miss: Well, I should go now. Asieh: Good-bye. 95
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Miss: Good-bye. (She starts toward the door, hesitates, turns back astonished, contemplates, stands in front of the mirror, is terrified, confused, comes back to the middle of the room. She looks around, miserable and helpless).
Asieh: Is something wrong, Miss? . . . What is it? (The young woman doesn't respond. She is staring into space). What's happened, Miss? . . . Why are you acting like this? (She holds the young woman who is bent over). Sit down, Miss, for a minute. (The young woman sits down).
Miss: Asieh. Asieh: Yes. Miss: Where was I supposed to go? Asieh: Where were you supposed to go? Miss: Yes. . . where? Asieh: To the party, Miss. Miss: To the party? Which party? Asieh: I don't know. Miss: You don't know? Asieh: No. Miss: I didn't say anything to you? 97
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Asieh: Yes, you did. Miss: So, where am I supposed to go? Asieh: You didn't tell me where. Miss: Think a little . . . Perhaps I told you. Asieh: There's nothing to think about, you didn't tell me. Miss: Asieh . . . I beg you, think. Asieh: Even if I think, it won't help you remember. Miss: Am I really supposed to go anywhere? Asieh: Of course you are. Miss: Are you sure? Asieh: You said so. Miss: When? When did I say that? Asieh: Today. Miss: (She gets up at once). So, why is this happening . . . Asieh . . . Do you think I just forgot? Asieh: I don't know, Miss. Everything was in such a state . . . Miss: Do you think I'm having a nervous breakdown? Asieh: God forbid. Miss: So, why . . . Asieh: Maybe if you walk around a little, it will help you remember. 99
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Miss: (As she is walking) Why should I walk to remember? I was walking when I forgot. Asieh: (Walking with the young woman) Walk, think . . . walk, think.
Miss: (Biting her nails) What am I going to do? Asieh: Think, think hard, and then say: “Aha . . . Aha . . .� That might jog your memory. Miss: How? Asieh: It's what you did as a child, whenever you forgot something. (She frowns and holds her chin). Don't you remember? (She laughs). Whenever you wanted to think . . .
Miss: Don't say another word, Asieh . . . Don't talk for a few minutes. (She walks. Asieh is looking at the young woman all this time. Whenever the young woman seems to be happy, Asieh is happy too and smiles, and whenever the young woman looks upset, Asieh looks upset too). Asieh: (Gently) Miss! Miss: What? Asieh: Shall I bring you a little something to eat? Miss: What? 101
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Asieh: I don't know, anything you'd like. Miss: What for? Asieh: To help you remember. Miss: I don't think eating will help. Asieh: (She pours a glass of water.) Here, take a sip. (The young woman is still walking and Asieh brings her the water). Please, humor me, I beg you, Miss. (The young woman takes the glass and sips. Asieh waits, smiling, and watches the young woman's face intently). Is it coming back to you?
Miss: (Nervous) Leave me alone, leave me alone till I figure out what the hell to do. (She sits down angrily and immediately calms down). If I am truly a guest, if I have been invited somewhere, where is this place? If not . . . then . . . why did I put on my dress and makeup? Asieh: Of course you were invited . . . why else would you have been so nervous? But I don't understand why you suddenly forgot where you were supposed to go. It happens to me sometimes . . . I go to buy something and forget what it was . . . I'm confused, I wander from store to store. I ask myself over and over what it was I was going to buy, I look at the money, I pray, I say 103
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whatever comes into my head, but I can't remember a thing. Then, as soon as I get home, I remember. You're going through the same thing. Miss: So you think I've forgotten where to go? Asieh: Yes . . . What other explanation could there be? Miss: Yes . . . What? I don't know . . . perhaps. (Determined) I have an idea. (She takes off her coat and goes toward the phone). I will find out once and for all where I am supposed to go, where I wanted to go. (Both are calm and happy. The young woman dials a number. Asieh puts on a record. The room is filled with music). Turn down the volume . . . turn it down. (She lights a cigarette). Hello . . . hello, dear Jaleh . . . hello . . . How are you? Nothing . . . I am at home . . . Nothing . . . What about you? Are you knitting something? (She is impatient). Lucky you. Well . . . anything else . . . Me? No, I just wanted to see how you were doing . . . God willing . . . Love you. (She hangs up). She has nothing else to do, so she is knitting. So, she's not going anywhere. (She starts dialing another number hurriedly and, to Asieh) They will certainly ask me why I'm late. (Seriously) Hello . . . hello. Madam . . . How are you . . . Yes . . . yes . . . Thank you, 105
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not bad, they say "hello", I wanted to talk with dear Minoo . . . She's not home? . . . Where is she? You don't know where she is? . . . At the movies? . . . Oh, yes, so she's gone to the movies. Nothing, I just wanted to see how she's doing, O.K., O.K., good-bye. (She hangs up and takes a puff of the cigarette).
Asieh: (Worried) Miss?
Miss: (Nervous) No, she's gone to the movies. (She starts walking around the room. Her head aches, she doesn't know what to do. She goes to the phone and dials a number dejectedly. No one answers. The young woman listens impatiently). Why don't they pick up? I wonder where they've gone. (She hangs up angrily. She is very disappointed. Finally, she dials another number. She is smoking away, puff after puff. She listens, waits, listens. Suddenly her face lights up). Hello . . . hi . . . How are you, dear Malih . . . Are you well? . . . Well, what's up? . . . Are you at home? You aren't going anywhere? . . . (Hastily) I just wondered . . . I really don't have the time . . . I really wanted to . . . Aha . . . aha . . . So you had a good time . . . How . . . Not on the phone . . . O.K. then . . . tell me . . . Well, now . . . (She 107
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turns around and shows her impatience by a gesture to Asieh.) Well . . . hey . . . aha . . . well . . . hmm . . . aha . . . hmmm . . . (She cups her hand over the receiver and, to Asieh) What a chatterbox ... She's not going to give up. (On the phone) . . . aha . . . hmmm . . . (Listening impatiently. Finally she sets the receiver on the stool and starts walking around the room). What a mistake, she just talks and talks. (She sips a little water and picks up the phone) . . . hmmm . . . well . . . so that's it. (She puts the phone on the table). She makes me sick . . . She won't stop talking . . . (She is moving around the room. Suddenly she turns to the phone and says forcefully) stop, woman. Leave me alone . . . (She picks up the phone again). Aha . . . aha . . . hmmm . . . hmmm . . . (She holds her hand over the receiver) She just keeps chattering.
Asieh: Tell her that you're busy and will call her back. Miss: As if she listens. (Into the phone) Well . . . aha . . . (more impatient) aha . . . (She hits her head with the receiver, making a loud noise) Very well. (Angrily) I can't talk anymore. I have to go. Asieh just called me from downstairs . . . What? . . . I should ignore her? . . . But she needs something. (She can't 109
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wait, gets up). Once she starts talking, you can't stop her. Asieh: You should hang up, Miss. Miss: How can I hang up? She should be considerate and understand. (She picks up the phone again). Aha. aha . . . (She starts crying, she bites her hand, Asieh comes near her). Asieh: (Slowly) I am going to call you loudly and say that we have some guests.
Miss: Hurry up . . . do something. (Into the phone) Well. Yes. (She hands the phone to Asieh). Asieh: Miss, there are some people waiting for you downstairs, they've been here an hour already, they're guests. They want to know why you aren't coming down? Miss: (Worried) I'm coming . . . coming. (On the phone) I'm very sorry . . . I have some guests . . . I have to go downstairs . . . No . . . no . . . I will come to see you . . . One of these days, I can't promise, not tomorrow, I'll let you know . . . love you . . . good-bye. (She bangs down the phone. She is tired and weak). God damn that woman. She never stops talking. (Silence. The young woman notices the phone again and dials a number). 111
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No, she's always talking. (to Asieh) What do you think I should do? Asieh: Calm down a bit, maybe you'll remember. Miss: Remember? My mind is a complete blank. Asieh: So, what are you going to do? Miss: Nothing. . . I don't have anything to do . . . Go back to your work. (Asieh waits for a moment, then, realizing that she's not wanted, she exits. She leaves the door open behind her. The young woman closes the door and bursts out crying. She throws the wig and the purse into a corner of the room in a fit of anger. She takes off all her jewelry and sits down on a broken stool. She looks at the phone, she dials a number without excitement, she waits, she bites her lips, she tries to choke back her tears). Hello . . . hello . . . Homa . . . dear Homa . . . I'm glad I found you . . . I was dying . . . yes, Homa . . . I am miserable . . . (She is in tears.) Homa . . . I was supposed to go someplace . . . someplace nice . . . someplace I wanted to go . . . I was supposed to go there. (Choking up) I knew . . . I don't know where . . . Where do you want me to start? . . . From the beginning . . . I don't know myself . . . Dear Homa, what should I do . . . 113
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where should I go? . . . I don't know anything anymore, Homa . . . There's nothing happening anywhere. No one expecting me anywhere. Who can I turn to? (She lowers her hand as if to put the phone down and drops it instead, she sinks into the bed and buries her face in the pillow, crying). Curtain
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About the Contributors Translators
Salar Abdoh was born in Tehran and is the author of the novels The Poet Game and Opium. His articles, short stories, essays and translations have appeared in journals in the United States, Europe and the Middle East. He is currently on the faculty at the English department of the City College of New York and divides his time between NYC and Tehran.
Aria Fani has taught Persian in California and English in México. Currently, he is a graduate student at the Department of Near Eastern Studies at the University of California, Berkeley. His translations with Adeeba Talukder have been featured in publications such as PBS Tehran Bureau, The Huffington Post, and Consequence Magazine.
Samad Alavi teaches Persian at San Francisco State University. He is currently completing his PhD in Near Eastern Studies at the University of California, Berkeley.
Kaveh Bassiri was the recipient of a Witter Bynner Poetry Translation Residency and Walton Translation Fellowship. His poetry won the Bellingham Review’s 49th Parallel Award and was published in Best New Poets 2011, Virginia Quarterly Review, Beloit Poetry Journal, and Mississippi Review.
Lois Becker, Stanford graduate, is a writer whose work, in collaboration with husband Mark Stratton, includes children’s television (the Emmy-winning series Muppet Babies, Clifford the Big Red Dog), a Sundance short (“Conquering Space”), and feature screenplays (freeFALL, a special selection of the international film society DreamAgo, and Lover’s Leap). Ms. Becker is also an experienced journalist and print editor (NoHo>LA), independent film producer (Monkey Love), and songwriter (member of ASCAP). She is currently working on a song cycle project with composer J. Brockman. Ms. Becker has had the pleasure of working with Dr. Habibian on numerous Farsi-to-English projects and is always fascinated by the special challenges faced in the translation process – in particular, the challenge of maintaining a sensitive but dynamic working balance between accuracy in details of culture and authorial voice and those synchronisms of meaning and spirit that “translate” on some deeper level, beyond words.
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Maryam Habibian has a Ph.D. in Educational Theater from NYU. Her doctoral thesis was “Iranian Theatre in Exile: An Examination of Gholam-Hossein Sa’adi’s Plays in Iran and Abroad between 1866 and 1985.” She translated and collaborated on Dr Sa’adi’s collection of five one act plays The Light with Lois Becker in 1996. The two one act plays: “The Invitation” and “Blessed Are the Meek” from The Light collection were directed by Maryam Habibian and produced at Expanded Arts theater in Manhattan in 1997. Her paper “The Theme of Exile in Dr. Gholam-Hossein Sa’adi’s collection of five plays: The Light,” was presented at the BRISMES conference, University of Manchester, (England) in 1994 and at the East Stroudsburg University Conference in Philadelphia, 1994. She has had an NEH-grant to study the iconic Iranian poet Forugh Farrokhzad and her relationship to the city of Tehran. The resulting documentary short, “Forugh Farrokhzad: Young Revolutionary Poetess of Tehran” has been screened at the Library of Congress and many other venues. Other directorial credits include her multimedia play “Forugh’s Reflecting Pool” on the life of Forugh Farrokhzad (1967-1935), an Iranian woman poet who was attacked for her sexual openness, feminism, and earthy, militant poetry. This play was subsequently published in the anthology Shattering the Stereotypes: Muslim Women Speak Out (Olive Branch Press: Massachusetts, 2005). She has translated and performed selected poems of Forugh at different poetry cafes. Her latest work is a feature documentary, The Mist (2009), which follows her on a journey of discovery in the land of her birth, Iran. It has been screened at many different venues in New York City and elsewhere.
Adeeba Talukder lives in Brooklyn, New York. She holds a degree in Middle Eastern Studies from New York University, and has translated as well as performed Pakistan's progressive poets as well as work by Afghan and Iranian poets. Her translations with Aria have been featured in publications such as PBS Tehran Bureau, The Huffington Post, and Consequence Magazine.
Sholeh Wolpé was born in Tehran, Iran, and has lived in Trinidad, the UK, and the United States. Her publications include Keeping Time With Blue Hyacinths (University of Arkansas Press, 2013), Rooftops of Tehran (2008), The Scar Saloon (2004), and Sin: Selected Poems of Forugh Farrokhzad (2007) which awarded the 2010 Lois Roth Translation Prize. Wolpé is the editor of The Forbidden: Poems from Iran and its exiles (Michigan State University Press, 2012), Breaking the Jaws of Silence--Sixty American Poets Speak to the World (University of Arkansas Press, 2013), and a regional editor of Tablet & Pen: Literary Landscapes from the Modern Middle East (Norton 2010). Her Persian translation and reading of Walt Whitman’s Song of Myself (co-translated with Mohsen Emadi) was launched by the University of Iowa’s International Writing Program in October 2012, in celebration of Whitman’s work.
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About the Contributors Writers
Simin Behbahani, born in 1927 in Tehran, began to compose poetry at the age of 14. Having experimented with linked couplets and free verse, she later turned to the ghazal as a vehicle for her artistic expression. She has published more than 15 books of poetry, and more recently an autobiography, entitled “In My Mother’s Company” (Sokhan Publications, 2011). English translations of her verse include “A Cup of Sin” (Syracuse University Press, 1999) published in the United States and the bilingual edition, My Country, I Shall Build You Again (Sokhan Publications, 2009) published in Iran. Behbahani’s verse reflects her social milieu and conditions. Spanning over 600 poems, her works deal with war, peace, revolution, class disparities, gender discrimination, polygamy, marital life, domestic violence, patriotism, prostitution, aging, poverty, and global violence. Her poems have been turned into popular songs, extracted for daily aphorisms, recited in literary circles in Iran and abroad, and rapidly circulated through mass emails. For her efforts in the struggle for freedom of expression in her homeland, Behbahani was awarded a Human Rights WatchHellman/Hammet grant in 1998 and the Carl von Ossietzky Medal in 1999. She resides in Tehran.
Mohsen Emadi was born in Iran. He is the author of four collections of poetry La flor de los renglones (2003, Spain), We did not speak of her eyes (2007, Tehran), Las leyes de la gravedad (2011, Spain), and Visible come el aire, legible como la muerte (2012, Spain), and four books of translations: Selected Poems of Vladimir Holan (Iran, 2008), Selected Poems of Nichita Stănescu (Iran, 2008),Panther's Night by Clara Janes (Iran, 2008), and Songs of love and war, a selection of Afghan Women's Poetry (Iran, 2008). While enduring extensive censorship by the Islamic Republic of Iran, Mohsen founded The Persian Anthology of World Poetry (or the House of World Poets) on the web in 2006, where he continues to publish translations of world poetry into Persian. Mohsen was awarded Primeo de Poesia de Miedo in 2010 and IV. Beca de Antonio Machado in 2011. Presently, he lives in Mexico City. (website: mohsenemadi.com).
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Alimorad Fadaienia was born in Masjed Suleiman, Iran. In the earlier part of his career he published several books in Iran, including The Gift, Ancient Towers and The Pedestrian. In more recent years he has published the following novels in the United States: M, The letters of Shapur and his Gazelles, and The Tales of the Nameless, of which the current selection is taken. All of Alimorad's work is written in Persian.
Bijan Jalali was born in 1928 in Tehran. For several years he studied physics at the University of Tehran and natural sciences in France. Ultimately, his all-consuming passion for letters led him to obtain a bachelor's degree in French literature from the University of Tehran. Over the course of his professional life until his retirement in 1981, Jalali taught English and French, consulted with the Ministry of Culture's Museum of Anthropology, and worked for Tehran's Petrochemical Organization as a translator. He set to publish his books of poetry in the 1960s. Nine volumes of his work have been released: Days (1962), Our Hearts and the World (1965), Color of Waters (1971), Water and Sun (1983), Play of Light: Selected Poems (1990), Dailies (1995), About Poetry (1998), Encounters (2001), and Verse of Silence: A Selection of Unpublished Poems (2002). In 1999, he passed away in the city of his birth. Unlike many contemporary Iranian poets, Jalali was neither a sloganeer nor politically conscious; he was unfazed about the socio-political circumstances of his time. The history of the human struggle to achieve happiness and reconcile with the forces of nature—this is what preoccupied Jalali’s mind and shaped his poetry.
Gholam-Hossein Sa’adi was born in Tabriz, Azarbaijan in 1936 and died in exile in Paris in 1985. Trained as a psychiatrist, he is considered as one of the most prominent Persian playwrights under the pen name Gohar Morad who has also written novels, screenplays and short stories. He has published more than thirty plays that were written between 1966 and 1985. His first short story was published when he was fourteen years old. He became involved in politics at a young age and was even arrested for his cultural and political activities in his teen years in Tabriz for a couple of times. Throughout his career, Sa’adi suffered
censorship, imprisonment, torture, and exile, but he continued to write. He even said in his own biography: “I still haven’t been broken despite the harsh blows that I have experienced in my life. And from now on, my story will have a lot of adventure in it….yes, I know that from now on I will sit in a corner and will observe the whole stage and know how I should scream that its reflection is not only in the sound. Writing is not less than boxing and I think I have learned the techniques of boxing whether in life and if I dare say somewhat in writing too”. Sa’adi’s uniqueness as an Iranian playwright lies in the independence and absolute integrity with which he exclaimed various situations and types of people. His settings varied from deserts to villages to great cities, from scenes of rural poverty to the middle class houses in Tehran to the mansions of the wealthy. His plays express a twentieth- century view of geopolitical and psychological alienation, such as one finds in Camus, Sartre, Beckett, Ionesco and Brecht, combined with a more traditional use of dialogue and plot, such as one finds in Chekhov. As indicated in Sa’adi’s autobiography, as soon as he was introduced to the world of books, Chekhov became his hero. Perhaps he felt close to Chekhov because they shared similar experiences, both having started as doctors – Sa’adi as a psychiatrist and Chekhov as a physician – and both turning their analytic skills to writing instead.
in order to capture a political rally and a gruesome act of state terror in the un-ornamented language of what critic Saeed Yousef has called a “documentary” style. As such, Soltanpur can be considered a pioneer of postghazal poetics in Persian verse, anticipating the form’s many afterlives in the decades to follow. Unfortunately, “Communist Victor” also marks the last poem of Sa’id Soltanpur’s career. The forty-one year old poet and playwright was arrested by the security forces of the Islamic Republic of Iran in spring of 1981. Charged with leading an illegal Marxist organization, he was executed by firing squad on June 21st of the same year.
Roya Zarrin is from Lorestan province. Her work has won a number of awards, including the Nima Prize. Her first book, The Earth Needs the Lover’s Incantation, was a finalist for the Karnameh Prize. Her third book, I Want to Swallow My Children (the source for these translations), won the 2008 Khorshid Prize, an annual award for the best poetry book by a female author. This book has already been translated into Swedish.
Sa‘id Soltanpur (1940-1981) was celebrated in the 1970s and early 1980s for his unabashedly radical poems and plays. In the decades since, Soltanpur’s legacy of political activism has survived among at least some members of the Iranian opposition, while his contributions to Persian drama and poetics have received much less attention. However, Soltanpur’s writings reveal an artist who constantly reflects upon and refines the aesthetic dimensions of his work. In the translations presented here, we encounter Soltanpur’s serious engagement with poetic images and forms. While the poetic voice never wavers from its revolutionary devotion, the poems also speak in an imaginative and lyrical language rooted firmly in the classical Persian canon in general and the ghazal tradition in particular. These aesthetic and ideological commitments in many ways culminate in “Communist Victor.” The poem on one hand echoes a ghazal’s rhythm and pacing with its steady refrain. At the same time, “Communist Victor” breaks from the rigid metrical and rhyming constraints of the classical form 123
ABOUT SHAHADAT Shahadat is a quarterly online series designed to provide a platform for short-form writing and experimentation in writing by young and underexposed writers from the MENA region (Middle East and North Africa). The series features stories, vignettes, reflections, and chronicles in translation and the original language of Arabic, Farsi, Turkish, or Kurdish. It makes up one quarter of Arte East's online programming, the AE Quartely. For past issues of Shahadat click here.
ABOUT THIS SERIES Shahadat is proud to run two alternating series, and releases four issues a year. The issue you've just perused is part of the "contemporary Literature in Translation" series which presents contemporary authors in Works are presented in their original language and in translation. Our other series, "Exploring Popular Literature" challenges traditional understandings of "literature" emerging from the Middle East and North Africa by presenting genres of creative production that rely on words and language but which have not typically been studied as literature. In each issue, we gather texts from a spectrum of writers to challenge the singular status of the artist/author and to encourage a more complex presentation of the middle Eastern and North African "street" for English-speaking audiences.
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