Translations


Sadness

They smell your mouth

in case you said, ‘I love you.’

They smell your heart

in case there is a flame hidden in it.

It’s a strange time, beloved.

And they whip Love at the roadside post.

One must hide love in the pantry.[1]

In this twisted wintry cul-de-sac

the fire

is kept burning

with the fuel of anthems and poetry.

Do not risk thinking.

It’s a strange time, beloved,

He who pounds on the door at night time

has come to kill the lantern.

One must hide light in the pantry.

Now the butchers are stationed at every crossroads

with bloodied block and cleaver.

It’s a strange time, beloved.

And they carve a smile on the lips

and a song on the mouth.

One must hide joy in the pantry

The canary becomes a kebab

on the fires of rose and jasmine

It’s a strange time, beloved.

The drunken victorious demon

is feasting at the table of our death.

God too must be hidden in the pantry.

Ahmad Shamlou (1925-2000) tr. Martin and Farah Turner


[1] Pastou … hidden inner room or sanctum for food storage.

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Apple

 

 

He

 

When you laughed at me,

little did you know

the dread with which I had stolen

that apple from our neighbour’s garden.

 

The gardener angrily chased me away

and, seeing the bitten apple fall

to earth from your hand,

gave me such a look.

 

Off you went, but for years

your footsteps echoed gently, gently

in my mind as I wondered why our garden

didn’t have an apple tree like that.

 

Hamid Mossadegh (1939-1998)

 

She

 

I laughed at you because

I did know with what dread

you had stolen that apple

from the neighbour’s garden.

 

And when my old father chased you

and you didn’t know it was my father

I laughed at you in order to respond to your love

in a blameless way.

 

But the tears in your eyes

brought a tremor to my hands

and when the half-eaten apple fell,

my heart said: Go,

 

not wanting to carry your bitter cry.

Now for years your tears of choked

surprise have echoed gently, gently

in my mind, tormenting me

 

with doubt as to what

might have happened

if our garden had not had

that apple tree.

Forugh Farrokhzad (1935 – 1967)

Translated by Martin and Farah Turner, September 2009

Ever since my tender years I have paid assiduous attention to the other half of humanity and always I hear, between the dashes of love, the same speeches of claim, disappointment, incomprehension, reproach, apprehension…. This is the true basis surely for the ignorance of the other. That is why, through the means that are mine – the spectacle – I wanted to put forward the idea that I have subjectivity. Is this right? I cannot be sure. In any case it is a pretext to show the images which I have so much at heart to offer to spectators.

Gérard Chabert, tr. MT

1-Would you please fully introduce yourself to our readers?

 

I am a fifty-five year old English man, an educational psychologist and a poet. I work with children who have difficulty with learning and have been head of psychology at the Dyslexia Institute, a national charity, for the past twelve years. In 1992, Faber published a collection of my poems, Trespasses, which includes three shorter poems of Sohrab, translated with my Persian wife, Farah. A second collection, Where The Waves Come From, is being prepared for publication.

 

2-Have you spent all your life on cultural and literary works or is it just a hobby for you?

 

It is a passion. I wrote my first poem – an elegy to a dead sheepdog – at the age of eight.

 

3-How did you get familiar with Iran and Persian language? How did you learn Persian?

 

I know little Farsi. Though married to an Iranian, I have acquired an advanced knowledge of about six words! All my translations have been done in collaboration with others, first, Abbas Faiz, an Iranian journalist friend resident in Britain, then my wife. The best translations are done not by linguists but by poets. Even if I mastered the Farsi language, the childhood experiences that poems refer to would be forever denied me.

 

4-Tell us more about your translations and publications. How long did it take to accomplish the translations?

 

I worked on Persian poetry throughout the 1980s and only stopped when the pile of unpublished works began to mount up. Then I concentrated on getting them published which, eventually, they all were. We still translate bits and pieces now and then, but nothing very systematically.

 

5-Your wife (I suppose? or?) Farah, has a beautiful semi-Persian name, and I guess she must be Iranian and a good translator as well; what was the role of her in accomplishing this task?

 

Though not herself a writer, Farah is well-educated and has lots of specialist knowledge – of plants, herbs, textures – useful for Sohrab. She also knows some Arabic language and much classical Persian literature.

 

6-Why did you choose Modern Persian Poetry and why Sohrab in particular? Why not Nima? Why not other contemporary poets?

 

By chance, really. Sohrab was the particular passion of my friend, Abbas. I quickly got to like Sohrab’s character – quiet, humorous, imaginative – and felt an affinity with his spiritual intelligence.

 

7-Tell us more about Sohrab, the Sohrab you discovered through words and lines of poetry. How do you see him?

 

His paintings are quite a good guide to his poems; both achieve a large effect through colour and being in tune with nature. Sohrab writes about direct, everyday experience – he is not ‘difficult’ in the sense of metaphysical, at all – and all ingenuities can be matched, sooner or later, with something in one’s own experience. I made it a point never to translate something I did not understand … through some haphazard approximation – but always to build in the desired interpretation, so that the English reader would not need intrusive footnotes.

 

8-Which sources have you made use of?

 

There is Hasht Ketab [Eight Books] which is a well-edited, reliable text. There are few good written commentaries or critical writings in English about Sohrab, and there were even fewer in the 1980s. Instead I sought out people who actually knew Sohrab and got them to talk about him.

 

9-The best line you remember from Sohrab? Any poem you like best? Any comments on his paintings? How do you see Nature in Sohrab’s works? Is there any difference in it with other works about Nature by other poets? As an English scholar, whom do you see in English Literature closest to Sohrab? Is there any?

 

One of the main attractions in translating Sohrab is the sense of something new, something absent from English and American literature. My favourite (I think) is Mosafehr [The Traveller] but the whole slow movement of Seday-e pay-e ab [Water’s Footfall] is very compelling also. Long poems in English do not feed one quite as these poems do. The same can be said of Forugh’s Iman beyavarim [Let us rejoice at the coming of winter]. In Sohrab’s art, nature is almost – not quite – God; but the eye in the midst of everything does not quite close.

 

10-I have noticed a distinct diction and a deliberate choice of words in your translations, some really good and new, that shows lots of contemplations on each. I just want to know how did you find the words you wanted?

 

This is the case with the writing of poetry, perhaps, not just the special case of translation. Cliché and formula are to be avoided. And the spirit of the age – journalism! A bigger challenge that lies behind the choosing of words is that of providing a transition from one culture to another. This provoked much the most thought!

 

11-Have you seen the UNESCO translations of Sohrab’s poems, if yes, what’s your comments on that?

 

I have seen a UNESCO cultural heritage series of translations – of different works by different hands. These represent a laudable and ambitious attempt to bring these excellent works before a wider, international audience. People are always somewhat ethnocentric – content with their own national ways – and many will never take an interest in ‘foreign’ literature. But there is also an important minority of more adventurous and courageous readers, willing to make friends with the new.

 

12-Let’s turn to Forugh, what was interesting for you, as a translator, in Forugh’s poetry? Do you believe she has been a Feminist poet?

 

Forugh was more difficult for me, as a man, to approach, especially as she writes about her torn marriage and the loss of her son. She is certainly an important figure for the history of her times from a feminist point of view, but perhaps this ‘pigeon-hole’ is ultimately too limiting for her, as she herself eloquently said. Pigeon-holes are for pigeons.

 

13-Some say Sohrab is little difficult for common readers, mainly because of his farfetched metaphors, but Forugh is simpler, and more favoured; whom do you favour more?

 

They much respected each other, as I’m sure you know. I hope this comment is not true, because if Forugh is ‘easier’ now, then she may have less to offer in the future. I like to think of both these colourful boats sailing down the centuries.

 

14-Any line from Forugh you like best?

 

She is hard to excerpt from, since the sense carries on from sentence to sentence like prose, leaving thoughts unfinished, but I always like:

 

Ah those dark pupils of mine,

Sufis settled to solitude,

were lost in the chanting of his eyes,

and closed

 

from ‘Connection’.

 

15-Let us talk a little about the audience. How much is modern Persian poetry, especially Sohrab’s, known among English readers and literature fans? How much do they know about it?

 

Next to nothing, I’m afraid. But as with Omar’s Ruba’iyat in the Edward Fitzgerald translation, which surfaced quite by accident in a Suffolk bookshop, it could have a very large appeal because of its simplicity, immediacy and ‘otherness’.

 

16-Regarding your own books, how do you see the reaction of English audience toward your books? Was it a success?

 

There is such a small audience for poetry here, it’s hard to tell. Publishing Trespasses certainly didn’t change my life, as Wendy Cope told me it would, but the book sold its thousand copies, is consulted over the internet (for which I receive fees) and studied by school children – older ones.

 

17-What are your plans for future? Any other poet or book for translation?

 

It’s bad luck to talk about one’s plans. I would have to give away secrets (children’s fiction? a novel?).

 

18-Any plan of visiting Iran? By the way, how you ever been in Iran? If yes, when and how? How many times? Have you visited Kashan, Sohrab’s hometown?

 

I’ve actually never visited Iran, though I have family there, and would love to come to Kashan as well as Shiraz, Tabriz, Isfahan and Tehran – such romantic names. I’ve often made plans but so far they have never materialised. Perhaps soon!

 

19-In your opinion, how could we introduce our poets, especially Sohrab and his prophet-like messages to the entire world? What are the necessary steps toward making a universal picture of poet and at the same time remaining loyal to his message?

 

I shouldn’t worry too much about the “entire world”, but a film about his life, made for television, would certainly help. Then readily available, good quality translations.

 

20-The last question, what is your definition of ART?

 

I suppose for me all art has to do with what lifts us out of ourselves. Great art is a glimpse of the permanent, hence is a form of worship, relieving us of the confining cage of our petty, selfish concerns and fixed points of view. Art breathes the air of freedom, the air that greets the chick as it steps out of the egg.

 

21-At the end, do you have any words for Iranian readers? Say whatever you like, any quote, and anything?

 

I greet you, Iranian readers! Your imagined youth fills me with dangerous optimism. Let my last words be about your literary tradition. A tradition that cannot accommodate the new is in a bad way. Equally, the idea of revolution – as in ‘modernism’ – is a short-term excitement. Nothing looks more old-fashioned, now, than such literary modernism. The aims and achievements of poetry, of all literature, are forever the same, always concerned with nature and history, with the world and the human predicament. In art creation and innovation occur as renewals in the tradition which is essential for their existence. So let me enjoin you to study your enormously rich tradition with sure love, while expanding and encountering new tracts of experience and new modes of voicing. Your confidence will grow from combining the past with the present.

 

 28th August 2003