Sohrab Sepehri - Poetry

Poetry

MORNING GLORY
Translated by Ismail Salami
Past the border of my dream
The shadow of a morning glory
Had darkened all these ruins
What intrepid wind
Transported the morning glory seed to the land of my Nod?

Beyond glass gates of dream
In the bottomless marsh of mirrors
Wherever I had taken a piece of myself
A morning glory had sprouted
Forever pouring into the void of my soul
And in the sound of its blossoming
I was forever dying in myself

The veranda roof caves in
And the morning glory twines about all columns
What intrepid wind
Transports this morning glory seed to the land of my Nod?

The morning glory germinates
Its stem rising out of my transparent sleep
I was in a dream
Flood of wakefulness overflowed.
To the view of my dream ruins I opened eyes:
The morning glory had twined all about my life.
I was flowing in its veins
It rooted in me
It was all of me
What intrepid wind
Transported this morning glory seed to the land of my Nod?

NEAR A DISTANT REALM

There was a woman at the door
Standing with a body as ever
I approached her:
Her image flooded my eyes.
Speech turned into wings of passion and knowledge.
Shadow turned into sun.

I walk out in the sun
I was carried away by pleasing signs:
I went as far as childhood and sands
As far as delightful mistakes
As far as abstract objects
I neared picturesque waters
And trees laden with pears
With an ever-present trunk
I breathed with the wet truth.
My feeling of wonder mingled with the tree.
I perceived I abutted on the throne of God
I felt a bit distraught.
Man goes to seek solace
When he feels crestfallen.
I did too.

I went as far as the table
The yogurt’s taste, the fresh green plants
There was bread to eat with a cup and saucer:
My throat pined for a goblet of vodka.

I returned:
The woman was there at the door
Standing with a body of deadly wounds.
An empty can
Kept paring away
The water's throat.

THE FLOW OF WATER

When knowledge
Still nestled by springs,
Man
Indulged himself in his azure philosophy
In the delicate indolence of a meadow.
His thoughts flew with the bird.
He breathed with trees.
He was submissive to the poppy's conditions.
Intrepid meanings of the waters
Roared in the depths of his speech.
Man
Slept
In the context of the elements
And woke up
In dawning fear.

But sometimes
The strange music of growth
Echoed
In the frail joints of his joys
And dust settled
On his struggling knees.
Then
His creative fingers,
Idled and got lost
In precisely geometrical grief.

THE OLD TALE OF NIGHT

O you lost in the stellar green wonders!
The fig of ignorance
Epitomizes the virgin rocks
The heart of water is pining
For the reflection of a garden
The everyday apple tastes of illusion in the mouth.
O old fear!
My fingers went numb when you came to me.
Tonight
My hands know no fear:
Tonight they pluck fruits
From the branches of myths.
Tonight
Each tree bears
As many leaves as my fears.
Audacious speech thawed in the burning meeting of eyes
O colorful beginnings!
Protect my eyes from the evil magic:
I am still
Dreaming of
Unknown nocturnal blessings.
I am still
Thirsting for
Wavy waters.
My buttons
Look like ancient magic words.
On the meadows
We had our last carnal feast before words began.

In this feast, the music of stars
Fell upon my ears from inside the potteries.
And my eyes reflected the swarms of migrating magicians.

O ancient mirror of narcissus in sorrow!
Ecstasy carried me away.
- To the realm of growth?
- Perhaps

Let us drink water of wisdom when we thirst for speech.

The pure modesty of speech
Flows under the strewn legacy of night:
Before syllables came into being,
The living had their resurrection.
From among the rivals
Arrogant speech cracked my jaws.
Then I, wading knee-high
In pure vegetable silence,
Bathed my hands and face in the sight of objects.
Then, in another season,
My shoes got wet
With the word of dew
Then, I sat down on a rock
And listened to the pebbles migrating past my feet.
Then I perceived
That each branch Escaped the season of my hands.

O counterfeit night!
My kerchief filled with unripe clusters of prudence.

From behind the wall of a deep sleep,
A bird flew out of intimate darkness
And took my kerchief away.
The first pebble of inspiration echoed under my feet.
My blood tenderly hosted the space.
My pulse swam over the elements.

O night...!
No, what am I saying?
The illumination of window warmed up the listener's cold body,
My fingers traveled in the direction of love.


A boat I will shape
Translation: Morteza Heydari Araghi

A boat I will shape,

and will let free into sea,

will go farther away from this bizarre land,

where nobody, in this land of love,

pulls the heroes out of sleep.

A boat, free of sail,
and will shape away heart from the dream of pearl.
Neither I lie with blues,
Nor seas- water fairies, whose heads on surface,
who enchant from the spring of their hairs
on fisherman's sunlight of lonely dares.

will run so
will sing so:
shall go far, farther away.
Men? no tales.
Women? not as cheerful as a cluster of grapes.

No chamber of mirrors doubled the drinking spree.
Even water didn't let a torch fire-free.
shall go far, farther away.
night sang its song, it's the windows' day.

will run so.
will sing so.

Beyond the sea, there is a city,
where the windows are open to expressions.
and the roofs are places for pigeons who watch the fountain of the human mind.
In the hands of each 1o year old child, is a flower of knowledge.
People of the city see a bait, like a flame, a soft dream.
The earth hears the music of your feeling,
and calls in wind, story-telling birds' wing.

Beyond the sea, there is a city,
where sun extents to the size of daybreakers' eyes.
Poets heir water, wisdom and light.

Beyond the sea, there is a city,
A boat I must shape.

The Address Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani

At the first light of the dawn
Asked the pilgrim:
"Do you happen to know
the abode of The Beloved?"

The skies went silent
save their mourning clouds,
save their falling stars.

The passer gave up his glowing twig
to the gloom of the sands
and replied:

“Don’t you see that poplar tree?
Well, right before the tree,
There is lane that you’ll reckon, I deem.
For it is greener than a heavenly dream.
For it is generously shaded with the deep blues of love.
Well, If you See.

So walk down that lane
You’ll arrive to the garden of sense
Turn to the direction of the loner lake
Listen to the genuine hymn of leaves
Watch the eternal fountain
that flows from the spring of ancient myths
till you faint away in a plain fear.

And when a rigid noise clatter into the fluid intimacy of space
you'll find a child
on the top of a tree,
next to the nest of awls
in hope of a golden egg.
Well, if you See.

You may be sure; the child'll show you the way.
Well, If you just ask about
the abode of The Beloved.”