The Poetry That Is Life

The theme of the traditional poet

Was not of life.

In the barren expanse of his imagination

He conversed with his mistress and wine

Living in an imaginary world

He was a captive

Held by a beloved’s funny tresses.

As for others,

They held, in one hand a cup

In the other

A mistress’s tresses

While they distressed

The entire world

With the intoxicating cries

They let loose.

Since the poet’s subject

amounted to nothing

The influence of his verse

amounted to even less.

You could not use his poetry as a drill bit.

In the course of a struggle

Using the craft of poetry

You could not eliminate

The obstacles that confronted the masses

Put differently,

The poet’s existence was immaterial

His being and not being the same

You could not use his poetry as gallows.

Whereas

I have personally,

With my poems

Fought alongside “Chen Chui” the Korean

Even, at a point

Several years ago,

I strung up “Hamidi the poet”

On the gallows of my verse.

The situation with poetry

Today

Is different altogether…

Today,

Poetry is

People’s weapon

Poets are branches

from the forest of the masses

They are not

Jasmines and hyacinths

Of so and so’s hothouse.

The poet

Is not alien

To people’s common plight

He smiles with peoples’ lips

His bones

He grafts to the hopes and sufferings

Of the people.

Today’s poet

Must dress well

He must wear properly polished shoes

In the most crowded parts of town

With a poet’s inborn gift,

He must

One by one, from among the passersby,

Pick and choose his topic, rhyme and

rhythm.

“Follow me, pilgrim!

For three days now,

I have been everywhere, seeking you out.”

“Seeking me out?

I don’t understand!

Sir, you must be mistaken.

Are you taking me for someone else?”

“No, my dear fellow,

That would be impossible

I’d recognize the fresh rhythm of my poetry

in any place.”

“What did you say?

Poetic rhythm?”

“Have patience, friend…

I have always

Scoured the alley,

Looking for rhythm, words, and rhyme.

In my verses, people form the units

“Life” (i.e., the theme of the stanza),

“Words,” “rhythm,” and “poetic rhyme;”

I seek all of those among the people

I prefer this method

It enhances poetry, gives it life and soul…”

Now comes the time

When the poet

Employing poetic logic,

Must convince the passerby

To willingly become engaged.

All his efforts, otherwise, will be futile.

Well,

Now that rhythm is in place

It is time to seek out the words

Each word (as the name indicates)

Is a witty and pretty girl…

The poet must couple

His desired rhythm with suitable words

Although a tedious task, and trying,

It must be done.

There is no way out:

Mr. Rhythm and his wife, Word:

If not compatible

If not on the same wavelength,

The outcome will be most unpleasant

Like the outcome

For myself and my wife:

I was rhythm, she was word:

The theme of our poem,

The permanent coming together

Of the lips of love…

Even though the smiles of our children

(those pleasant beats)

appeared with joy in our poem

Some cold, black words

Gave it an ominous and dark turn,

It destroyed the rhythm

And the pleasant beat.

At the end,

The poem became useless and banal

And the master became tired

Of a lack of purpose!

In any event,

More is said than intended

A painful bloody blister is opened up…

Life,

We explained

Is the model

For the modern poet

Following life’s experiences

The poet

Employing the magic of poetry

Creates an image

That overlay an already existing plan

He writes poetry

That is,

He touches the wounds of the old town

Put differently,

He tells the night

Of an imminent pleasant morn.

He writes poetry

That is,

He cries out the pains of his land

That is,

With his song,

He revives the flagging spirits.

He writes poetry

That is,

He fills the cold and empty hearts with joy

That is to say,

Facing the dawn

He awakens the sleep-laden eyes.

He writes poetry

That is,

He explains the honor roll of his fellow man

He recites the victory notes of his Time…

If poetry is life

This barren talk, too,

About semantics

is absurd…

From beneath

Its darkest verses

We feel the sunny warmth

of hope and love

Kayvan has composed

The song of his life

In blood.

Vartan has composed

The clamor of his

In silence.

But, even if

The rhyme-life holds nothing

But a prolonged accent of death.

In each poem

The meaning of each death

Is life.