دربزرگداشت شاملو و نادرپور
A Homage To My Favorite Persian Poets (Shamlu & Naderpour)

A Homage To My Favorite Persian Poets

احمد شاملو
ياران من بياييد
با دردهايتان
و بار دردتان را
در زخم قلب من بتكانيد.

من زنده ام به رنج...
ميسوزدم چراغ تن از درد...

ياران من بياييد
با دردهايتان
و زهر دردتان را
در زخم قلب من بچكانيد

Ahmad Shamlu

Ahmad Shamlu, the indisputable maestro of contemporary Farsi poetry, is prominent both as a great historical literary figure and a major poet. His historic contribution to the reform of Farsi poetry has been a subject of numerous books. But it is his eminence as a national poet that sets him apart as Iran’s offering to world literature. Shamlu’s poetic vision accords with both Western and modernist concepts as well as the modern transformation of classical Farsi poetry. As a humanist and a socially conscious intellectual, he has skilfully woven personal love and affection with social attitudes. His poetry exudes both hope and a passion for justice:

Dry path, all through life
Having been born with a cry
In a hatred
Turning on itself.
Thus was the
Great absence.
Thus was
The story of the ruin.
If only freedom
Could sing a song
Small, smaller even ...
Than the throat of a bird.

همچون زخمي

همه عُمر
خونابه چکنده
همچون زخمي
همه عُمر
به دردی خشک تپنده،
به نعره‌يي
چشم بر جهان گشوده
به نفرتي
از خود شونده، ــ

غياب ِبزرگ چنين بود
سرگذشت ِ ويرانه چنين بود

آه اگر آزادی سرودی مي‌خواند
کوچک‌تر حتا
از گلوگاه ِ يکي پرنده


شعری از بزرگ شاعر پارسی زبان

زنده یاداحمد شاملو

در اين بن بست

دهانت را می بویند

مبادا که گفته باشی دوستت می دارم

دلت را می بویند

روزگار غریبی است نازنین.

و عشق را

کنار تیرک راه بند

تازیانه می زنند
عشق را در پستوی خانه نهان باید کرد.
در این بن بست کج و پیچ سرما
آتش را
به سوخت بار سرود و شعر
فروزان می دارند.
به اندیشیدن خطر مکن
روزگار غریبی است نازنین.
آن که بر در می کوبد شباهنگام
به کشتن چراغ آمده است
نور را در پستوی خانه نهان باید کرد.
آنک قصابانند
بر گذرگاه ها مستقر
با کنده و ساتوری خون آلود
روزگار غریبی است نازنین.
و تبسم را بر لب ها جراحی می کنند
و ترانه را بر دهان
شوق را در پستوی خانه نهان باید کرد.
کباب قناری
بر آتش سوسن و یاس
روزگار غریبی است نازنین.
ابلیس پیروز مست
سور عزای ما را بر سفره نشسته است
خدا را در پستوی خانه نهان باید کرد.

Here is my favorite poem by Shamlu:

In This Dead End

They smell your breath.
You better not have said, "I love you."
They smell your heart.
These are strange times, darling...
And they flog love
at the roadblock.
We had better hide love in the closet...
In this crooked dead end and twisting chill,
they feed the fire
with the kindling of song and poetry.
Do not risk a thought.
These are strange times, darling...
He who knocks on the door at midnight
has come to kill the light.
We had better hide light in the closet...
Those there are butchers
stationed at the crossroads
with bloody clubs and cleavers.
These are strange times, darling...
And they excise smiles from lips
and songs from mouths.
We had better hide joy in the closet...
Canaries barbecued
on a fire of lilies and jasmine,
these are strange times, darling...
Satan drunk with victory
sits at our funeral feast.
We had better hide God in the closet.


Shamlu's hand-written poem in Farsi:


Selected English translated poems of Ahmad Shamlu

The Beginning

Untimely in a land unknown
at a time yet not arrived.
Thus, I was born within the forest of beast and rock. 
My heart in void started beating.
I abandoned the cradle of reiteration in a land with no bird, no spring.
My first journey was a return from
the hope-abrading vistas of thorn and sand,
without having gone far
on the inexperienced feet of the fledgling that was I.
My first journey was a return. The vast distance
taught no hope.
Trembling, I stood on the feet
of the novice that was I
facing the horizon ablaze.
I realized that there was no tidings
for in between stood a mirage.
The vast distance taught no hope.
I learned that there was no tidings:
This boundless was a prison so huge that the soul
hid in tears from shame of impotence.

Dark Song

In the leaden backdrop of the dawn

the horseman stands in silence
the long mane of his horse disheveled by the wind. 
O, Lord ! O, Lord!
Horseman are not to stand still,
when the event is brewing.
Beside the burnt hedge
the girl stands in silence
her delicate skirt waving in the wind. 
O, Lord! O, Lord!
Girls should not to remain silent,
when weary and hopeless
men grow old.


Under the bloody tumbling of twilight

there stands a man of another kind,

who wanted the land to be green,
who wanted love to be worthy of the most beautiful of women;
For this to him
was not so worthless an offer
as to become dust and stone.
What a man! what a man!
who said,"better for the heart
to sink in blood by the seven swords of love;
and better for the lips to utter the most beautiful name.
And a mountain-like hero, thus in love
crossed the bloody battlefield of destiny
with the heels of Achilles
an invulnerable hero
the secret of whose death
was the sorrow of love
and the depth of solitude.
"Ay, sad Esfandiâr
your eyes
better closed.
"Was a NO,
just one NO
to make my fate.
I only cried NO
I refused to sink.
"I was
and I became
not as a bud becomes a flower
nor as a root becomes a shoot
nor as a seedling becomes a forest
but as a common man becomes a martyr,
for heavens to worship him.
"I was not a servile little slave
and my way to a heavenly paradise
was not the path of submission and servility.
I deserved a God of another kind,
worthy of a creature,
who does not humble himself
for the indispensable morsel.
"And a God
of another kind
I created."
Alas! mountain-like hero
that you were
and mountain-like,
formidable and firm
before falling on the ground
you were dead.
Yet neither God nor Satan
but an idol wrote your destiny
an idol whom others worshiped
an idol whom others worshiped.



The unknowing
are alike
only the tempest
bears peerless children.
Those alike
are as shadows
on the edges of sunshine
in the guise of the living
they are dead.
And these
staring danger in the face
are guardians of fire
the living
marching beside death
ahead of death
always alive even after traversing death
and always hearing the name
with which they lived
for decay
passes beneath the tall threshold of their memory
hunched and shamefaced.
Discoverers of the fountainhead
humble discoverers of the hemlock
pursuing joy
in the mouth of the volcanoes
magicians of smiles in the hats of pain
with footprints deeper than joy
on the paths of birds.
They face the thunder
enlighten the house and die.

On Night

At night,
when the silver moon stream makes a lake of limitless plain,
I spread the sails of my thoughts in the path of the wind.
At night,
when no sound rises from the reed beds deep in the ponds,
I joyously voice my bright hope like a sun shaft.
At night,
when songs are sung of hopelessness,
I await from far off the sun's lip scorching
warmly kissing the neighbor's rooftop.
At night, when a sorrow congeals in the cold of the garden, I listen for the death coughs in the groan-rattle of my decaying chain-hands.


Nader Naderpour


بت تراش

پيكر تراش پيرم و با تيشه خيال

يك شب تو را ز مرمر شعر آفريده ام
تا در نگين چشم تو نقش هوس نهم
ناز هزار چشم سيه را خريده ام
بر قامتت كه وسوسه شستشو در اوست
پاشيده ام شراب كف آلود ماه را
تا از گزند چشم بدت ايمني دهم
دزديده ام ز چشم حسودان، نگاه را
تا پيچ و تاب قد تو را دلنشين كنم
دست از سر نياز به هر سو گشوده ام
از هر زني، تراش تني وام كرده ام
از هر قدي، كرشمه رقصي ربوده ام
اما تو چون بتي كه به بت ساز ننگرد
در پيش پاي خويش به خاكم فكنده اي
مست از مي غروري و دور از غم مني
گويي دل از كسي كه تو را ساخت، كنده اي
هشدار زانكه در پس اين پرده نياز
آن بت تراش بلهوس چشم بسته ام
يك شب كه خشم عشق تو ديوانه ام كند
بينند سايه ها كه ترا هم شكسته ام!

نادر نادرپور

هان، اى ستيغ دور!
آيا بر آستان بهارى كه مى‏رسد
تنهاترين صداى جهان را، سكوت تو
امكانِ انعكاس تواند داد؟
آيا صداى گمشده من ـ نفس زنان ـ
راهى به ارتفاع تو خواهد بُرد؟
آيا دهان سرد ترا، لحن گرم من‏
آتشفشان تازه تواند كرد؟
آه‏اى خموشِ پاك،
اى چهره عبوس زمستانى،
اى شير خشمگين!
آيا من از دريچه اين غربت شگفت‏
بار دگر، برآمدن آفتاب را
از گرده فراخ تو خواهيم ديد؟
آيا ترا دوباره توانم ديد؟

You, O, far summit!
In the beginning of the upcoming spring,
will the loneliest voice in the world
be allowed to echo in your quietness?
Will my lost voice, panting,
be able to find a path to your height?
Will your cold mouth, by my warm tune,
be able to erupt again?
Ah, O, the tranquil and the virtuous!
O, the dour wintry face!
O, the angry lion!
Will I, from the small door of this strange exile,
again see the rising of the sun
from your summit peak?
Will I be able to see you again?


شعرِ انگور

سروده يی از نادر نادرپور

چه ميگوييد؟
کجا شهد است اين آبی که در هر دانهء شيرين انگور است؟
کجا شهد است؟
اين اشک است،
اشکِ باغبانِ پيرِ رنجور است،
که شبها راه پيموده،
همه شب تا سحر بيدار بوده،
تاکها را آب داده،
پشت را چو چفته های مو دوتا کرده،
دلِ هر دانه را از اشک چشمانِ نور بخشيده،
تنِ هر خوشه را با خون دل شاداب پرورده.
چه ميگوييد؟
کجا شهد است اين آبی که در هر دانهء شيرين انگوراست؟
کجا شهد است؟
اين خون است!
خونِ باغبانِ پيرِ رنجور است!
چنين آسان مگيريدش،
چنين آسان منوشيديش!
شما هم، ای خريدارانِ شعرِ من!
اگر در دانه های نازکِ لفظم،
و يا در خوشه های روشنِ شعرم،
شراب و شهد ميبينيد، غير از اشک و خونم نيست.
کجا شهد است؟
اين اشک است! اين خون است!
شرابش از کجا خوانديد؟
اين مستی، نه آن مستيست.
شما از خونِ من مستيد.
از خونی که مينوشيد،
از خونِ دلم مينوشيد،
از خونِ دلم مستيد.
مرا هر لفظ فرياديست که از دل ميکشم بيرون،
مرا هر شعر درياييست،
درياييست لبريز از شراب و خون.
کجا شهد است، اين اشکی که در هر دانهء لفظ است؟
کجا شهد است، اين خونی که در هر خوشهء شعر است؟
چنين آسان ميفشاريد بر هر دانه لبها را و بر هر خوشه دندان را!
مرا اين کاسهء خون است.
مرا اين ساغرِ اشک است.
چنين آسان مگيريدش،
چنين آسان منوشيدش!


The Grape Poem

What are you saying?
How can there be nectar in the juice
of every sweet grape?
Where is the nectar? These are tears,
tears of the old, suffering gardener
who walked nights,
stayed awake until dawn,
watered the vines,
bent his back like vines over trellises,
bestowed light on each grape with his tears,
and nurtured each cluster with his heart’s blood.
What are you saying?
Where is the nectar in the juice
of every sweet grape?
Where is the nectar? This is blood,
the blood of the old, suffering gardener.
Do not take it so lightly,
do not quaff it so cavalierly!
You too, o patrons of my poetry,
if you see wine and nectar
in the tender grapes of my words
or in the bright clusters of my verse,
it is no other than my own blood and tears.
Where is the nectar?
These are tears, this is blood.
How did you come to think it wine?
This is not that intoxication.
You are intoxicated with my blood,
with the blood which you imbibe,
with my heart’s blood you are intoxicated!
My every word is a scream squeezed from my heart.
My every poem is a sea,
a sea overflowing with the wine of the blood.
Where is the nectar in these tears,
which are in every poetic cluster?
Do not press your lips so easily
on every grape and your teeth
on every cluster !
This is a bowl of blood to me….
To me this is a vessel of tears….
Do not take it so lightly,
Do not quaff it so cavalierly !



شعريست در دلم
شعري كه لفظ نيست
هوس نيست
ناله نيست
شعري كه آتش است
شعري كه مي گدازد و مي سوزدم مدام
شعري كه كينه است و خروش است و انتقام
شعري كه آشنا ننمايد به هيچ گوش
شعري كه بستگي نپذيرد به هيچ نام
شعريست در دلم
شعري كه دوست دارم و نتوانمش سرود
مي خواهمش سرود و نمي خواهمش سرود
شعري كه چون نگاه نگنجد به قالبي
شعري كه چون سكوت فرو مانده بر لبي
شعري كه شوق زندگي و ، بيم مردن است
شعري كه نعره لست و نهيب است و شيون است
شعري كه چون غرور بلند است و سركش است
شعري كه آتش است
شعريست در دلم
شعري كه دوست دارم و نتوانمش سرود
شعري از آنچه هست
از آنچه بود


Here is my favorite poem by Naderpour:


There is a poem in my heart
A poem which is not words,
not desire, not lament
A poem which is fire
A poem which melts and burns
me continuously
A poem which is rancor and
is roaring and revenge
A poem which is familiar to no ear
A poem which does not accept
being tied to any name
There is a poem in my heart
A poem which I love and I cannot sing it
I want to sing it and I don't want to sing it
A poem like glance will not fit into a frame
A poem which like silence has settled on the lip
A poem which is the zeal for life and the dread of dying
A poem which is crying out and is dread and is wailing
A poem which like pride, is tall and rebellious
A poem which is fire
There is a poem in my heart
A poem which I love and I cannot sing it
A poem of that which is
A poem of that which was.


Nader Naderpour

Nader Naderpour, the extraordinary and passionate contemporary Iranian poet, was born on June 6, 1929, to an upper-class Iranian family. Naderpour's first book of poems, Eyes and Hands, published in 1953, is indicative of the impact of the French school on his work. Before he traveled to Italy in the mid-1960s, Naderpour published three other volumes of poetry. These were Daughter of the Cup (1955), The Grapes (1958), and Collyrium of the Sun (1960). In Italy, he learned the Italian language, studied the works of the Italian masters and translated a series of poems from Italian into Persian. The three-volume work that resulted was entitled The Seven Faces of Italian Poets.

In the introduction to his tenth and last collection of poems, Earth and Time (Zamin va Zaman), Naderpour wrote: " Poems come from “Heaven” and remain alien on “Earth”; instead of “Place” they deal with “Nature” and instead of “Time” they deal with “History". Nader Naderpour passed away in California on February 19, 2000 at the age of 70.

Nader Naderpour's last poem:

Conversation in the dark

In the middle of the night when I am sick and awake

there is no familiar light from any opening
the calm sound of your deep breathing
and the continuous ticking of the clock
harmonize with the rhythm of my heartbeat.
Then I realize that even though my thoughts are lonesome
my heart is no longer lonesome in my chest.
Slowly I bend my head over your bed
I kiss your sleep-filled eyelashes softly
You feel the weight of the kiss on your eye
You smile and I patiently kiss your cheek
Even though your laughter spreads in my ears.
But in the dark waves of the night
your smiling face is not obvious.
I calmly light a match
to light up your face from its illumination
But very soon that red sparking phosphor
falling and rising on my two burning fingers
dies in kinks and twists of dancing.
Once again the space of our small bedroom
is overcome with darkness.
I tell myself except for a short time,
at the moment of seeing your dear face:
my eyes don't have a chance of seeing you.
Just like a child frightened by darkness.
I find my way to your arms.
Terrified by something unknown.
I whisper this secret in your ears:
O! Kinder than the world's kindest!
O fellow-traveler! O friend! O sweetheart! O mother!
Scream so loudly that even the heavy death of the heart
Won't be able to separate us at the moment of farewell
Because we both know, in the chaos of the world
from the crowded population
from what exists in the endless horizon
our lot is just our solitude
This house smaller than a boat
We its distressed passengers
Moving forward in the wide sea of exile
But in the frightening horizon of this sea
Night is overwhelming,
From every vicious side there is no path to tomorrow.

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Thank you for visiting Maulana Rumi Online, a blog dedicated entirely to the life, works and teachings of Maulana Jalaluddin Muhammad Balkhi better known simply as Rumi here in our beloved America. Just as a memory refresher, all articles, e-books, images, links and reading materials listed in this Blog are solely for Educational purposes. This Blog is designed and maintained by yours truly, your comments, critiques or suggestions are quite welcome and greatly appreciated. As for my own Rumi Translations, you are welcome to copy and use them as long as it's not for commercial purposes. For best viewing, please try this Blog on Google Chrome Browser. This is a very long Blog though, so please make sure to use the Scroll To Top or Bottom Buttons at the left side, or Back To Top Button at the bottom right corner of your screen for smooth navigation. If you have any question, comment, critique or suggestion, please contact me by clicking the Contact Box embedded at the right middle corner. As Rumi would say, "Come, come, whoever you are, come back again.."!

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