Nima

Up Nima Shamlou Sepehri Forough Akhavan Good Poems

nima.jpg (4395 bytes)Nima Youshij (1895 - 1969)

Hey, People

Hey, you over there
who are sitting on the shore, happy and laughing,
someone is dying in the water,
someone is constantly struggling
on this angry, heavy, dark, familiar sea.
When you are drunk
with the thought of getting your hands on your enemy,
when you think in vain
that you've given a hand to a weak person
to produce a better weak person,
when you tighten your belts, when,
when shall I tell you
that someone in the water
is sacrificing in vain?

Hey, you over there
who are sitting pleasantly on the shore,
bread on your tablecloths, clothes on your bodies,
someone is calling you from the water.
He beats the heavy wave with his tired hand,
his mouth agape, eyes torn wide with terror,
he has seen your shadows from afar,
has swallowed water in the dark blue deep,
each moment his impatience grows.
He raises from these waters
a foot, at times,
at times, his head...
Hey you there,
he still has his eyes on this old world from afar,
he's shouting and hopes for help.
Hey you there
who are calmly watching from the shore,
the wave beats on the silent shore, spreads
like a drunk fallen on his bed unconscious,
recedes with a roar, and this call comes from afar again:
Hey, you over there...

And the sound of the wind
more heart-rending by the moment,
and his voice weaker in the sound of the wind;
from waters near and far
again this call is heard:
Hey, you over there...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Article by Farhad Erfani pdf.gif (218 bytes)

Articles by Ahmad Seif

(from: www.roshangari.com)

My House is Cloudy

My House is Cloudy
the entire earth is cloudy.

Above the narrow pass, the shattered and desolate and drunken
wind whirls downward.
The entire world is desolated by it
so are my senses!

Oh, piper who has lost the road entranced by the melody of the flute,
where are you?

My house is cloudy but
the cloud is on the verge of weeping.
In the memory of my bright days that slipped through my fingers,

I cast a look upon my sun on the threshold of the ocean
and the entire world is desolated and shattered by the wind
and on the road, the piper continues to play his flute,

in this cloud-filled world

his own path stretching out before him.

 

Along the Riverbank

Along the riverbank wanders the old turtle
the day's a sunny day.
The rice-paddy scene is warm.

The old turtle basks in the warm lap of its sun,

sleep at ease
along the riverbank.

Along the riverbank there's only me
tired from the pain of desire,
awaiting my sun.
But my eyes
cannot see it for an instant.

My sun
has hidden its face from me in the distant waters.
For me everything is clear everywhere
in my standing,
in my hurrying,
only my sun is not clear
along the riverbank.

Snow

Yellow hasn't become red for no reason
the red hasn't cast its color
upon the wall for no reason.

Morning has come from that side of the Azakoo mountains but
Vazna Mountain is not clear.
The power of the dimly-lit snow works all its chaos
on every window-pane it settles.

Vazna is not clear
from this, I have a heavy heart;
the guest-killing guesthouse's day is dark
every soul jumbled together aimlessly:
some sleepy people
some uncouth people
some simple people.

Provided by to Iraj Bashiri

My Heart of Steel

Leave me alone,
- Me, the babbler-
And do not take away my horse,
My saddle-cover and my provision,
Because a restive thought
Has drawn me out of my house.

I have returned from a land
Where no happiness is found.
I have seen lands
Which are the bases of vicious rebels
Who occupy themselves with massacres;
Lands, with spring planted in every corner,
Not flowers, but the wounds of men slain.

On my way, I thought in vain
That any traveller could pass
Through this desert of death
If he had a heart of steel
And could nonchalantly observe good and evil,
Taking all problems easily,
Knowing this world
As the place of hatred and murder,
The place of destruction and wretchedness.

But now I see that my return,
With all the wisdom I put to use,
Has been to the same desert of death,
And the horrible nightmares which have been
My memories from my journey
And still alive before my eyes,
Burning my existence
In their annihilating fire.

For me, a ruined man of travel,
There is not a moment of time to stay;
Now I am more plundered than anyone else;
I have lost whatever I had,
My heart of steel is no longer with me;
I was nothing but my heart,
And now I see
That my heart of steel is left behind on the way;
There is no doubt
That my heart has been thrown
By those malicious people
Into the arms of a spring
Whose flowers, as I said,
Are of blood and wounds.
And now I am thinking that my heart of steel
Would change,
Rusting in the blood of my brothers
So innocently, so unjustly slain.

(from http://www.art-arena.com/book.htm)

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