Iranian women poets

Shadab Vajdi

WAIT FOR ME

And I become alive again
Outside the confines of my body,
Beyond the misery of want,
Among the fruit-laden branches
Within a moment,
Itself begotten by the sun;
And in the shelter of a bush
That carried the pure fragrance
of love
To the boundless plains;
And my eyes,
Not a pair of mute spheres,
But flames of quest;
And my hands,
Two guiding sails
Speeding towards the green land
of lovers;
And my soul, my heart
Singing,
singing.

Wait for me
Along the blue line of the horizon
That leads the silver path
of the moon
To the glittering fountains
of stars,
And by the waterfalls of dawn
At the moment when the sun rises
And draws the threads of light
From one branch to another,
Carrying them like grains
Deep inside the nests
Where the chicks,
With desire for light and sky,
Are cheeping,
cheeping.

Wait for me
At the bright end of my voice
That from above the mysteries
of the galaxies
Flows down to the earth
To be absorbed by the buds of growth
And to give the slumberers
of the gardens
Tidings of sunshine and life.

Wait for me;
I will become alive again.


Forough Farrokhzad

ANOTHER BIRTH

My entire soul is a murky verse
Reiterating you within itself
Carrying you to the dawn of eternal burstings and blossomings
In this verse, I sighed you, AH!
In this verse,
I grafted you to trees, water and fire

Perhaps life is
A long street along which a woman
With a basket passes every day
Perhaps life
Is a rope with which a man hangs himself from a branch
Perhaps life is a child returning home from school
Perhaps life is the lighting of a cigarette
Between the lethargic intervals of two lovemakings
Or the puzzled passage of a passerby
Tipping his hat
Saying good morning to another passerby with a vacant smile

Perhaps life is that blocked moment
When my look destroys itself in the pupils of your eyes
And in this there is a sense
Which I will mingle with the perception of the moon
And the reception of darkness

In a room the size of one solitude
My heart
The size of one love
Looks at the simple pretexts of its own happiness,

At the pretty withering of flowers in the flower pots
At the sapling you planted in our flowerbed
At the songs of the canaries
Who sing the size of one window.

Ah
This is my lot
This is my lot
My lot
Is a sky, which the dropping of a curtain seizes from me
My lot is going down an abandoned stairway
And joining with something in decay and nostalgia
My lot is a cheerless walk in the garden of memories
And dying in the sorrow of a voice that tells me:
"I love
Your hands"

I will plant my hands in the flowerbed
I will sprout, I know, I know, I know
And the sparrows will lay eggs
In the hollows of my inky fingers
I will hang a pair of earrings of red twin cherries
Round my ears
I will put dahlia petals on my nails
There is an alley
Where the boys who were once in love with me,
With those disheveled hairs, thin necks and gaunt legs
Still think of the innocent smiles of a little girl
Who was one night blown away by the wind
There is an alley which my heart
Has stolen from places of my childhood

The journey of a volume along the line of time
And impregnating the barren line of time with a volume
A volume conscious of an image
Returning from the feast of a mirror

This is the way
Someone dies
And someone remains
No fisherman will catch pearls
From a little stream flowing into a ditch

I
Know a sad little mermaid
Dwelling in the ocean
Softly, gently blowing
Her heart into a wooden flute
A sad little mermaid
Who dies with a kiss at night
And is born again with another kiss at dawn


Shahnaz A'lami

MAGIC SUITCASE

I took with me a suitcase,
light, very light,
Two or three sets of baby clothes,
A white georgette dress,
An indistinct photograph of my mother,
wearing a headdress,
And a complete list of traditional things
for the Noe-Rooz's celebrations, (1)
Lest a single thing should be forgotten;
These were what I had,
or rather, people thought I had,
in my suitcase
With which I left the land
of the generous sun.
My suitcase was,
or rather, people thought it was,
very, very light;
But what a big mistake!
You must have seen the shows
of professional magicians;
They put their fingers
up their sleeves,
And take out whatever you may name:
Birds, rabbits, kerchiefs of all colours,
Sometimes a crystal jug,
Sometimes a piece of stone,
Fire, water, soil,
Flowers, thorns and many other things;
So was my empty magic suitcase.

Now it has been almost a lifetime
That from inside the same suitcase
I have been taking out anything I want:
Wonderful springs of Isfahan
And its exhilarating groves
in the outskirts;
The colourful autumn of Shiraz
And the fragrance of its orange trees;
The ancient ruins of Persepolis; (2)
The Baghestan Mountain
with its historical inscriptions;
The Palace of Princess Shirin;
The poor village of Cham in Na'in; (3)
The tattered dress of Fatima,
a peasant little girl,
And a flock of other children like her,
Who are all in the same suitcase.

I take them out;
I sit and talk with them;
I live with them;
And the moment someone appears,
They all run back into the suitcase,
The very suitcase which people think
must be very light
and almost empty.

When I make my will
I will ask for my suitcase
to be buried with me.
No doubt they will say:
"Her life was madness;
And her will is foolish!
What sort of will is that!
Who needs a suitcase
in the other world?

Let them say whatever they like;
After all,
who does know the secret
of the professional magician of love?

Is it not true that love
is the astrolabe of God's mysteries?

Persian poets about woman

Omar Khayyam, Rubaiyat

How sad to be a woman--not to know
Aught of the glory of this breast of snow,
All unconcerned to comb this mighty hair;
To be a woman and yet never know!

Were I a woman, I would all day long
Sing my own beauty in some holy song,
Bend low before it, hushed and half afraid,
And say "I am a woman" all day long.

The Koran! well, come put me to the test--
Lovely old book in hideous error drest--
Believe me, I can quote the Koran too,
The unbeliever knows his Koran best.


Rumi, Masnavi-I Ma'navi' (spiritual couplets)

'She is not just the earthly beloved,
She is creative, not created.

Rumi

Every midwife knows
that not until a mother’s womb
softens from the pain of labour
will a way unfold
and the infant find that opening to be born.
Oh friend!

There is treasure in your heart, it is heavy with child.
Listen.
All the awakened ones, like trusted midwives are saying,
welcome this pain.
It opens the dark passage of Grace.

Ferdowsi, Shahnameh

“God’s religion is firmly established because of her (the woman), She guides the young on the path of virtue. What better praise can there be for woman than this?”