Ahmad Shamloo C. P. Cavafy

POETRY PLANET Spring 2013 - #01 Nazim Hikmet Anne Vegter Ahmad Shamloo C. P. Cavafy Amir Or Roque Dalton Rati Saxena Aj Bam Jack Hirschman A World Poetry Movement Edition

ANNE VEGTER JACK HIRSCHMAN C. P. CAVAFY NAZIM HIKMET AMIR OR AHMAD SHAMLOO AJ BAM ROQUE DALTON RATI SAXENA Satellite composition of the whole Earth's surface. - NASA Poetry Planet #01 Spring 2013 E-edition of World Poetry Movement www.wpm2011.org Editor: Dinos Siotis, Athens, Greece Designed by Nektarios Lambropoulos - info@haramada.com Looking at this map of the world, we see a combination of earth, water, ice, desert and space. Some of us try to find the place we live, others just have glimpses of countries they ve visited. Here, at World Poetry Movement, we can see something beyond that: people EDITO from all over the world writing and reading poetry in hundrends of languages. With words and images. Some practice poetry. With voices and movements. With spirit in place. This map isn t another geography tool but a guide for the reader and poetry lover. Every place asks for a poet s name. Poetry Flash will give you some names in every issue. Reading is always a voyage to different places and time zones. Let us travel together. Poetically. And in every other way. Because we want to be ahead of the news.

EL SALVADOR The Assassination of a Poet Memories of Roque Dalton by Nina Serrano Ifirst met Roque Dalton in Havana in July of 1968. He claimed he was a descendant of an outlaw, and he turned me into a writer and a poet. I was in Havana working on a documentary film about Fidel with my thenhusband, Saul Landau, and our two children, Greg, age 13 and Valerie, age 10. It was our second trip there as a family. I researched Cuban photo and film archives and filled in as the sound person. Making a film about Fidel involved a tremendous amount of waiting and therefore free time. Living in a hotel with maid and laundry service, as well as restaurant meals, liberated my life from domestic duties. I met remarkable people including Estella Bravo who worked at Casa de Las Americas, the hub of Cuban and international leftist life with publications, exhibits, and conferences. Estella recruited me as a volunteer to help her catalogue American folk and protest music at "Casa." I was walking down the hall of Casa de Las Americas, when a man popped out of one of the rooms, following me and quickly catching up. He introduced himself and said his name was Roque Dalton, a Salvadoran poet. He d been in a meeting of male poets and they noticed me go by. So, he was sent to see who I was. Until then, I thought of poets as a very serious bunch. Now, I saw that clearly they indulged in the favorite Cuban pastime of the era- girl watching. I commented that in my country, the United States, the Dalton Gang members were legendary folk heroes, like Jesse James. "Yes," he said." I am related to them." We walked back to my hotel for lunch, He was very witty, and we laughed with every step under hot sun and palms trees, passing the Caribbean splashing against the malecon, dodging cars, and entering the limply air-conditioned Habana Libre Hotel. It was the year when the entire island was gearing up for a campaign to produce a record-breaking ten million tons of sugar cane harvest. The previous year had been the year of the "Heroic Guerrilla." referring to recently killed Che Guevara, whose picture hung every where. Sacrifice abounded. Schools, work centers, and whole families dedicated themselves to volunteer sugar cane cutting. The "Diez miliones van" campaign ultimately reaped only six million tons. However, it set new norms in socialist participation and volunteerism and promoted the Guevara concept of the "New human being," one who worked enthusiastically for the common good. Roque joined my family for lunch and immediately we were all laughing. He told us that he and his wife, and three boys had only recently moved from this hotel and were now installed in a Havana apartment, mentioning that his sons missed the use of the pool. As we moved down the cafeteria line, we continued talking about his connections to the Dalton gang. I was enthralled and suggested we write a television play of the story together using Brechtian theater ideas. "Television?" he scoffed, "As a poet and polemicist, I worship at the altar of the novel."

EL SALVADOR "But television reaches the masses," I countered. "And Cubans with only two dull channels to watch deserve better. It will set a model for intellectuals to bring their skills and talents to the people." He agreed and after lunch, we went across the street to ICR, the Cuban broadcasting system and arranged with Abraham Masiques, that we would come back in ten days with a completed script for "The Daltons Ride South." If it passed muster with the political assessor, it would be videoed in their studio. Every morning, Roque arrived with his sons, Roque, Juan Jose, and Jorge, carrying their bathing suits. The kids would go down to the pool and then come up to play Monopoly, while we worked. We sat at a big table that we periodically cleared throughout the day for room service family meals and snacks. Roque sat at my Olivetti typewriter, since the script had to be in Spanish, while I handed him precious sheets of carbon paper. Cuba had severe shortages of everything. We often resorted to the dictionary and pantomime to work out linguistic problems between us, as we were neither totally fluent in the other s language. On the appointed day, we arrived with a completed script at the TV station. There were a few annoying rewrites demanded by the assessor, but we were too thrilled to protest. A production team hastily formed; slides produced, music composed, shots plotted, costumes assembled, and rehearsals scheduled. One night after a rehearsal, Roque and I were walking back to the hotel around the lively La Rampa night-life, when plain-clothes police surrounded the crowd. He grabbed my arm: "Follow me, I am expert in escaping police." He deftly led us back to safety, although several people were arrested that night. We thought the raid was part of the campaign against homosexuals. Roque said he had escaped from Salvadoran jails five times, once through the divine intervention of an earthquake. When the prison wall collapsed, he walked out on to a waiting municipal bus and then out its side door onto another bus. He told me he d written a prose piece about being threatened by the CIA saying that they would kill him, and then spread the word that he was a CIA agent. He would die disgraced, as a traitor. As I listened deeply, I vowed to myself that if such a terrible event were to happen, I would help tell the world that Roque was honest and good. We mounted our television drama in four days. The rehearsal time was so short that when the camera went into a close-up of a talking decapitated head, the actress froze. She d forgotten her lines because of the quick turn-around time to learn them. She stared out on the screen in real terror- which was quite effective really- but Roque and I were dying because our precious words were lost. The program was very well received, though at the reception party, we sat in a corner on the floor with tears of disapointment. We had anticipated the production like a Hollywood cowboy movie, quick moving with lively action. But, the Cuban TV acting at that time was exaggerated, and the editing style was very slow. Immediately after, I rushed into the filming of Fidel and his entourage on a jeep caravan across the island. Roque too had pressing deadlines to meet from Cuban publishers. He was to write an answer to the Regis Debray s book on Cuba at Fidel s personal request. He was also proof reading the printer s copy for his new poetry anthology. When I left for California, we arranged to stay in touch through letters and invented a code for collect calls. My children loved a TV animation program called "Rocky and Bullwinkle." He would phone and say his call was from "The Flying Squirrel," which was the cartoon character "Rocky s " persona. A year later in 1969, our family returned to Cuba to screen the Fidel film and begin researching for a fiction film about the Salvador Allende election in Chile. If Allende won, it would be a nonviolent democratic revolution. This fostered even more discussions between Roque and me, about armed struggle and if it was the only path to revolution. The "Fidel" documentary was lauded. We watched the first human being land on the moon. Our Cuba stay was short, only two weeks. Roque was frequently tied up with mysterious meetings. I worried about him, because it was rumored that he was involved with a Salvadoran guerrilla grouping. When I asked him about it, he said he could not discuss it, which I respected. We began a continuous dialogue about violence and terrorism. I was afraid of them. He felt it was unfortunate, but that sometimes for the sake of a greater good, they were necessary. Some people described his group to me as "adventurist" and "Maoist." Those were frequent charges in Havana in those days, against any non-communist Party leftist group. The Mao influence was popular that year world-wide. Even the Black Panthers at a San Francisco rally had waved Mao s little "Red Book." I visited Roque s apartment and was happy to finally meet his wife, Aida. On one of his visits to our hotel, he saw a copy of a San Francisco alternative newspaper, "The San Francisco Good Times" with its flamboyant graphics and high spirits. The only words in it he could readily understand were the headlines: Los Siete De La Raza." "Who are they?" he asked. "They are a group of Salvadoran immigrant youth, who are accused of killing a San Francisco policeman. Their defense has become a rallying point for organizing

EL SALVADOR the Latino barrio, in the way the Black Panthers have done in nearby Oakland and the Young Lords in New York City. "When you go home," he said, "you work with them." I promised I would, and I did. That is how I became a poet. Returning to San Francisco, I continued to worry about Roque. Our conversations replayed in my head. Emboldened by having written the video play, I wrote a poem about my concern for his safety and his life, The editors of the "Good Times" splashed it on the front page, and it was published as "To R. Before leaving to Fight in Unknown Terrain." Thus I became a poet. To R. Before Going to Fight in Unknown Terrain 1969 Mass media I adore you. With a whisper in the microphone I touch the mass belly against mine like on a rush hour bus but with no sweat and no embarrassment. "Don t die," I whispered, in person. Only the air and revolutionary slogans hung between us. "When I die I ll wear a big smile." And with his finger drew a clown s smile on his Indian face. "Don t die!" the whisper beneath the call to battle. My love of man in conflict with my love for this man. Women die too. They let go their tight grip on breath and sigh, and sigh to die They say that Tanya died before Che. I saw her die in a Hollywood movie. Her blood floated in the river. I stand in the street in Havana. There are puddles here but few consumer goods to float in them. Here the blood is stirred by the sacrifice of smiles to armed struggle A phrase and an act. They leave one day and they are dead. "Death to the known order. Birth to the unknown." Blood. Blood. Blood. The warmth of it between the thighs soothes the channel The baby fights and tears. I stand by a puddle in Havana a woman full of blood not yet spilled. Can I spill blood by my own volition? Now, it flows from me by a call of the moon. The moon A woman mopping her balcony spills water from her bucket On my hair, my breasts and into the puddle. The question is answered. When I contacted the Los Siete de La Raza Defense Committee in San Francisco, they dismissed me as an "artist type." They sent me to work with Roberto Vargas, a Nicaraguan born poet living in the Mission District, San Francisco s barrio. "Roberto Vargas has a crazy idea about organizing a fundraising poetry reading." Scribbling poems on café napkins and backs of envelopes, I was by now, obsessed with words. But, I had never participated in a poetry reading, though I had heard many Cuban poets like Pablo Armando Fernandez and Nicolas Guillen read in Havana. I d even heard the great Welsh poet Dylan Thomas, when I was a teenager in New York City. In San Francisco, in the 60 s, I d listened to Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Michael McClure, and Alan Ginzburg read, as well as the Soviet poet, Yevtechenko. Roberto invited me to participate in the poetry reading, and I read my poem to Roque. Writing poems and reading in community poetry readings became a vital part of my life. I met the other poets and joined Editorial Pocho Che, a Latino poetry publishing collective, that used stapled mimeographed or Xerox, or any means necessary, to publish broadsides and booklets. I reported regularly on the "Los Siete" trials for the San Francisco Good times. When I returned to Havana in 1974 with my daughter Valerie, now 16, we met Roque Jr. by chance, the first night at the hotel. He told me that his father was in Viet Nam and was expected back in May. That May, Roque jr. came to our new house by the Havana Zoo to deliver a letter for me from Roque Sr. and perhaps in hopes of finding Valerie. Roque s handwritten letter said that he was a war correspondent in Vietnam and told of the perils of warfare in a very humorous way. He included his funny little cartoon drawing. It reminded me of one I had received from a friend, in my teens, who had been forced into the navy during the Korean/US war. A few days after I received the letter from Korea, my friend s parents phoned to tell me he had been killed. Roque s letter reassured me he would see me soon in Havana. What I did not know then was that Roque was not in Viet Nam as a war correspondent, but rather was in El Salvador as a guerrilla fighter, as a murdered guerrilla fighter. I looked forward to seeing him, but he was already dead when I read the letter, written months earlier.

EL SALVADOR INDIA Rati Saxena च ख Wail म र गल स न कल च ख नह प त ह जगह, जम न पर, अम बर पर त द बक ज त ह म र छ त य म, म र उदर और ज घ ओ म म र गर भ शय म My wail does not find a place on earth nor in the sky but tries to seek shelter in my chest, in my abdomen and thighs, in my womb. We left Havana in the fall of 1975. Soon after, in San Francisco, I read of his death in the international edition of the Cuban newspaper, "Gramna". Though deeply grieved, I took the article as a signal to honor Roque s name, so that the infamous CIA threat of smearing him would not happen. I told my friends, Daniel del Solar, and Alejandro Murguia, who had been co-editing the new bi-lingual literary magazine "Tin Tan" published by Editorial Pocho Che in San Francisco. We created a flyer and poster, which included the Gramna obituary. Countless community people helped to post it on every corner of the Mission district. Of special help were the Sandinistas who by then had their newspaper, La Gaceta Sandinista, headquarters on 22nd and Valencia Streets. We dedicated community events to Roque s memory and created a small insert about him for our magazine A few years later, Alejandro Murguia and other San Francisco poets, like Jack Hirschman formed the Roque Dalton Cultural Brigade. Today, over thirty years after his death, we still do not know the whole story of his death.. I join with his family, friends, and supporters in asking for the daylighting of the terrible and treacherous truth about horrible events leading to his murder by some of his fellow comrades in arms. I hope that day comes in my life time. Roque was a great friend, co-worker, father, and renown writer and poet. I still miss him. _ व डर ज त ह म र च ख स न ख न स उध ड़ द त ह ख ल और न क ल म र गर भ शय क ग ड़ द त ह अब म र गर भशय इस जम न पर खड़ ह ग बन ज य ग दरख त उग य ग कर ड़ च ख क नकल सभ यत क क ल क च ल ह ल न क ल य एक च ख म कम म ल ह They are afraid of my wail and try to tear out my skin with nails while wishing to remove my womb. So I bury now my womb in the earth and stand there till I turn into a tree which grows with thousands cries to remove all the nails of artificial civilization. For that one wail is enough.

IRAN Ahmad Shamloo (1925-2000) by Mahnaz Badihian With a bouquet of fresh spring flowers and a few magazines in my left hand, I pushed the button for the intercom on house #555 on Fardis street in Karaj, Iran. Seconds later, a very gentle kind voice of a woman asked, Who is it? I briefly introduced myself. The voice replied, I am Ayda. Welcome. Please find your way inside. When the door opened and I stepped into the yard, I saw a yard that had been transformed into a flower garden and I knew instantly that this was the garden that Shamloo had watered every day. I found myself upstairs a few minutes later and Ayda embraced me. She was as gentle as her voice. Please have a seat. Ahmad is in his office upstairs. He will join you in a moment. Indeed, moments later, along with the tears of joy flowing down from eyes came Shamloo down the stairs. He was wellgroomed, well-dressed a handsome man. He too embraced me and welcomed me as if he had known me for years. The room we found ourselves meeting in was decorated with numerous framed calligraphies of his poems, done by different artists, and in the center was a large bronze statue of the poet Nima Yushijj. Ahmad Shamloo was born on December 12, 1925, in Tehran, in House #134 Safi Ali Shah Street, on an ordinary street in the capital of Iran, framed on both sides with an abundance of old poplar trees. Shamloo had this to say about his birth: The winter was slowly starting when I and destitution were born together. The Shamloo family descended from one of the seven original and most powerful tribes in Iran. The family lived in many cities and villages during Shamloo s childhood. Due to my father s job, our life was like a gypsy life, moving from town to town, Shamloo wrote. One of those towns was Mashhad, in northeastern Iran. In Shamloo s neighborhood there lived a very rich Armenian family with two teenage girls. Every day, both of them practiced the piano. That music had a profound effect on me, enough that I decided to go on the rooftop every day so I could relax and listen to them playing without interruption. For days and days I submerged myself in that tune, not noticing that day by day an unknown feeling was growing in me. He found out that it was Chopin s etudes that were affecting him so deeply. I remember one day I fell asleep on the rooftop and when I finally woke up and went down to the house, my father began beating me very hard saying we looked everywhere for you! But I did not mind that beating; it only intensified my love for music. After that summer the first unknown feelings of puberty, a blend of pleasure and pain, death and rebirth, and God knows what else, grew in me. I could not be a good student anymore and the love of music stayed in me forever. If it had not been for the way my life progressed, and my two unsuccessful marriages, I

IRAN would definitely have become a musician. But I know that when I was young I replaced music with poetry. My poetry, I think, originates from my suppressed longing for music in the same way that the dance-like patterns of Persian rugs have their origin in a national desire for dance and music which Islam had suppressed. 2 In 1942, at the age of seventeen, his father took him to the north of Iran, which at the time was occupied by the Soviet Army. Shamloo and his father were arrested by the Red Army for political reasons they were pro-german and therefore not with the allied forces and were sent to the city of Rasht. He was released from jail less than a year later. In 1945, he and his family moved to the Iranian state of Azerbaijan, but they were sent back to Tehran again due to the elder Shamloo s job. That same year Shamloo decided to leave school for good and instead join the avant-garde movement of poets and writers. In a poem to his father at this time, Shamloo writes: You teach me to be a coward, father? To register repentance at my enemy s will, To enchain my soul in order to free my body? To seat deceit higher than truth, To turn away from the rising dawn, oh, To accompany a passing night on its death-journey? Take your soul to safety, father, and I my body To the battlefield.3 It is clear even from his earliest poems that Shamloo fought for the truth. He married for the first time in 1947, and in that same year he released his first collection of poems, Forgotten Songs. From 1948, Shamloo took his poetry seriously and started to contribute to a literary monthly called Sokhan. Two years later, his first short story was published, The Woman Behind the Brass Door. His second collection of poems, Manifesto, was published in 1951. In this collection, he expressed his vision of a classless society based on justice, equality, and brotherhood -- this was the shining ideal that motivated Shamloo to choose Socialist ideology. Shamloo is now known as a humanist and a socially minded intellectual and not identified with any specific political party. In 1952, he took a position in the Hungarian embassy as Cultural Advisor. That same year his third collection of poems, Metals and Sense, was banned and destroyed by the police. In addition, a translation of Sigmund Motritz s Gold in Dirt and Mario Kai s The Sons of a Man Whose Heart Was Made of Stone, together with all of the data he had gathered for a project on the colloquial culture of urban Iranian life (later published as Book of the Alley) were also confiscated and destroyed by authorities. Following this event, he escaped and went into hiding. Two years later he was arrested and imprisoned for 14 months. His crime was that he knew the real criminal was the government, and he expressed this in his poems and his writings. Shamloo released his masterpiece collection, Fresh Air, (Havaye Tazeh) in 1957 a collection of poems that would influence Persian poetry profoundly and confirm him as the leading voice of his era. At this time, he also published a few studies on classic Iranian poetry, and married for a second time. All of his four children are only from his first marriage with Ashraf Isslamiya (d. 1978) and include, Siavash Shamloo, (1948-2009), Sirous Shamloo, Saman Shamloo, Saghi Shamloo. In addition to writing poetry and undertaking studies of Iranian culture and literary traditions, it was at this time that Shamloo established himself as a translator, children s writer, and filmmaker. Shamloo has translated extensively from German and French to Persian. A translation of the semi-autobiographical novel Barefoot by Romanian writer Zaharia Stancu, that explored peasant realism by portraying both the bygone village world and its contemporary influx of modernity confirmed Shamloo s authority as a translator. A new collection of his poems, the Garden of Mirrors, was released in 1960. In 1961 Shamloo suffered a bitter separation from his second wife, Haeri Toosi. By this time, he believed that marriage was nothing but disaster. Below is an excerpt of the poem Sleeping Woman, written during his second marriage: Next to me Attached to me With longest distance Her chest gently rises With bubbles of each breath In the same year, 1961, he became editor-in-chief of Ketab-e-Hafte or Weekly Book, a magazine which transformed the tradition and language of literary journalism in Iran. After the separation from his second wife, he moved in with his mother and two sisters. There he met an Armenian girl named Ayda who lived in the same neighborhood. With Ayda he began a loving relationship that lasted until his death and was immortalized in some of his best and most popular poems. Shamloo and Ayda were married in 1964. That same year, he published two collections

IRAN of poetry, Ayda in the Mirror and Moment and Eternity. His last wife Ayda was the love of his life and the object of many love poems that will forever remain an important part of Iran s tradition of love poetry. Below is an excerpt of the poem Rhapsody of Meeting, which he wrote for Ayda after meeting her: Who are you? That like this, With confidence, I tell you my name And in your hands I leave The key to my house, And I share the bread of my happiness With you I sit next to you And fall asleep on your lap, So tranquil Who are you? That in the land of my dreams I pause with you so willingly From this poem it is clear that in this new relationship he feels unity and oneness, which are new feelings for him. In 1965 he published a new collection of poems, Ayda, Trees, Memories. He also began his third attempt to compile the Book of the Alley. Another new collection of poems was published in 1966 Qoqnus in the Rain. In 1968, he began his serious study of Hafiz, the classical grand poet of the Persian language. He also translated Garcia Lorca s poetry and organized a poetry festival for established and new Iranian poets. In 1970, he directed several documentary films for television. He also published several short stories for children which have now become classics of Iranian childhood literature such as Rain and Stories of the Gates to Chance. The Iranian Academy of Language inducted him as a member in 1971, and he began teaching Persian literature at the prestigious Tehran University. At this time his audio recordings of literature readings were first produced. Several audiocassettes of Shamloo reciting other classical and modern poets work were recorded and sold. In 1973, two new collections, Abraham on Fire and The Great China Wall were released along with several new translations of international literature. Two years later, in 1975, he finally published his significant work on the poetry of Hafiz, Shamloo s Hafiz. Shamloo traveled to the United States in 1976 and gave poetry readings in many cities, which included his reading at the San Francisco Poetry Festival. The first and second volumes of Book of the Alley went to print in 1979, and he was re-elected as leader of the Writer s Union. In 1980, with the harsh political situation in Iran, he began to lead a rather secluded life that would last for the next eight years, working with Ayda on another volume of Book of the Alley (1979 Present). Even after his death, his wife Ayda continues to work on this project, publishing new volumes of Book of the Alley, which is a multi-volume, multi-disciplinary work that looks at thousands of years of Persian folklore and written and oral traditions. One example from Book of the Alley: In the Persian language there is a saying, If I could walk I would go home. This saying comes from a story in one of Rumi s poems. The story in the poem is: A drunken man at night was sleeping in the alley. The police held him by the collar and said, Get up. We must go to the police station. The drunken man laughed and said, May God grant you wisdom; if I could walk, I d go home to bed! In 1988 Shamloo was invited by the World Literary Congress to give readings and lectures throughout Europe. A complete collection of his poems was printed in Germany. In 1990 he toured the United States again. The Fund for Free Expression presented him with their annual award. In 1995 a collection of his poetry, titled Aurora, was published in Spanish. Following this period, his physical condition began to deteriorate. He underwent several operations, and in 1997 his right foot was amputated due to complications caused by severe diabetes. In 1999 the Swedish Foundation presented him with the prestigious Stig Dagerman Award for his lifelong literary achievement. He died at 9 p.m. on Sunday July 23, 2000, at the age of 74. He was buried in Tehran, and since his death his epitaph and grave site have been rebuilt numerous times, after having been vandalized or damaged by agents loyal to the Islamic Republic government. Shamloo on Poetry Poetry is freedom and becoming free. But who can describe poetry or other forms of art? Because any definition is like limiting something so immense in a small space or as Rumi said, It is like pouring the ocean into a vase. Shamloo s love for poetry began in childhood and endured till the end of his life. He philosophized over his passion for poetry and the idea of poetry itself, always trying to connect the dots of his literary adventure: I started my journey with the poetry of Nima Yushij. Before reading Nima, I hated poetry. After entering the poetry world I read Mayakovski, Lorca, Élouard, Neruda and Langston Hughes which affected me deeply. Then at the end Hafiz replaced them all. Lorca and Mayakovski heavily influenced Shamloo along with the poet T.S. Eliot. T.S. Eliot s influence is seen when comparing the lines of a poem by Eliot, titled The Hollow Men and a line from Shamloo: We are the hollow men We are the stuffed men Leaning together Shamloo references this poem of Eliot s in his book Fresh Air, where he writes, shadow who spoke of hollow men. After WWII, many of the poets in

IRAN Iran became fascinated with the work of Yushij, the father of Iran s freeverse or non-traditional poetic form. Yushij believed that without drifting from works of such traditional Iranian poets as Hafiz, Rumi, Sa adi or others, the new poets needed to move parallel to world literature. Yushij created a new style of poetry which did not have the style and form of the ghazal or ghaseedeh, two ancient poetic forms in Iranian literature. His poetry gave rise to many amazing and good poets. Other voices within the last 50 years of Iran s poetry include Forough Farrokhzad, Sohrab Sepehri, Mehdi Akhavan-Sales, Fereidoon Moshiri, Manouchehr Atashi and more. But Shamloo had a stronger, more effective, voice. Shamloo is credited for employing the style and words of the man in the street. He developed a simple, free poetic style, known in Iran as Sepid Poetry, or verse blanc (literally meaning white), which is a free verse that departs from the tightly balanced rhythm and rhymes of classical Persian poetry such as ghazal. According to Pouran Farrokhzad, poet and writer (as well as sister of the famous poet Forough Farrokhzad), Shamloo is not only a master poet of liberty, and a poet of love, he is also a poet of women -- women such as Galia, Shamloo s first love at the age of nineteen, as well as the three women he married, his mother, and the women in his beloved country, such as those he encountered every day in the streets and on the bus: Oh the girls of the plains! The girls of anticipation! The girls of narrow hopes in the vast plains With vast dreams and depressed moods Oh the girls of the long days Running tirelessly And defeated at nights The breast of which one of you Has blossomed into the spring of its puberty? The lips of which one of you, Tell me, the lips of which one of you In its dream has hidden the aroma of a kiss? He uses beauty and love and humanis- tic elements to address the young girls who suffer hardship and loveless lives. This poem portrays Shamloo s views and feelings toward society s mistreatment and degradation of women and girls. His poetry is a tool for illuminating the depth of his society and the hidden corners of human suffering: From the porch I bend toward the dark alley And I cry on behalf of All the hopeless people There is no bigger dream left for me Than rising to search for a lost cry With or without the help of a small lantern Everywhere on this earth or Every corner of this sky A cry that arose from my soul one night From an unknown need Oh, all the gates of this universe! Help me find your lost cry. Shamloo, like other known poets of liberty such as Aref Ghazvini, Dehkhoda, Pushkin, Byron and Whitman, wrote about freedom. Unlike them, however, Shamloo did not merely hope for freedom, but, like Lorca and Mayakovski, was actually fighting for it. Oh, if freedom Could sing a small anthem, Small as the throat of a bird, Then there would not be any fallen walls Anywhere Shamloo has left behind a long literary history. He was one of the most hardworking poets in Iran s last one hundred years. He was a serious poet, a translator, a playwright, a literary researcher, a shortstory writer, and an avid reader of world literature. He wrote more than twenty volumes of poetry, several novels, and translated many novels and poems from world literature into Farsi. Some of these include works from Victor Alba, Federico Garcia Lorca, Andre Gide, and Antoine de Saint Exupery. One of his famous books of translation is an anthology of world poetry, including many poems from Neruda, Langston Hughes, and Paul Eluard. In addition to all of that, Shamloo wrote many books for children, both in prose and poetry forms. Shamloo did the same thing Garcia Lorca did with gypsy songs in Spanish, by collecting all the verbal sayings and poetry of the street people or people who live in small towns in Iran, and putting them in over six volumes of books called Ketab-e Koocheh (Book of the Alley). He finished the first few volumes himself, but the rest was done in collaboration with his third wife Ayda. His poetry collection, Havaye Tazeh (Fresh Air) was an important literary event in Iran and confirmed Shamloo as a serious poet. The two main poems in this book are Roxana and Ayda in the Mirror, with his main focus on love, the beloved and the lover. The long poem Roxana is a short love story written in poetic form. In the poem Ayda in the Mirror, readers experience an intense love story

IRAN and see the impacts of this love on the lover. A few lines from Ayda in the Mirror follow in Farsi: تنابل رعش تفارظ هب هب ار اه هسوب نیرت یناوهش دنک یم لدبم نانچ یمرش دوس نآ زا نیشن راغ رادناج هک دیوج یم دیآرد ناسنا تروص هب ات تیاه هنوگ و برو م رایش ود اب و دننک یم تیاده ارت رورغ هک ارم تشونرس Below is a transliteration of the Farsi in order for an English reader to get a sense of the music in the original form. Labanat be zarafate sher shahavanitarin boseha ra be sharmi chenon mobadal mekonad ke jaandare gharneshin az on sood mejoyad And this is the entire poem in English: Your lips, as a delicacy of poem, Turn the most desirable kisses To a prudency such that The cave animal benefits from it to become human And your cheeks with two oblique lines Guide your pride And my destiny for tolerating the night Without being armed, waiting for dawn And I guarded a proud chastity From the brothel houses of this world Never has anyone been raised for self killing As much as sitting for life And your eyes are the mystery of fire And your love is a triumph of mankind Challenging towards destiny And your bosom A place to live A place to die And the escape from the city The city which shamelessly accuses The purity of the sky, The mountains which begin With a few first stones And the human with its first pain In me there was a captive tyrant Who never got used to the chains I have started with your first gaze And the tornados in your amazing dance As glorified as the flute playing In your splendid dance A flute is playing And the song of your veins Awakens the forever lasting sun Let me wake up in a way that The city comprehends my presence Your hands are peace, and a friend that helps To forget animosity Your forehead Is a long, glowing mirror Letting the seven sisters look into it To reach their beauty Two restless birds are singing on your chest Summer will arrive from which direction To make me thirstier for waters? For you to arrive in the frame of a mirror For a long time I waited for it I have cried the oceans, the creeks You were the angel Arriving in the flesh of a human being Immune from any deceit Your presence is heavenly That defines the escape from hell An ocean that drowns me in it To be washed off from all the lies and sins And dawn flies from the palm of your hands Shamloo used any resources he could to connect with people. For the young population, he translated the works of many international poets and writers, and for the older generation he translated Gilgamesh and The Songs of Solomon. For everyone else, he had his Book of the Alley. As with all poems by Shamloo, even his love poems, there is some kind of social message. The same goes for Paria (The Fairies) which is the story of people wanting to get rid of tyrants and devils and collectively they succeed. Shamloo s knowledge of the folkloric literature of Iran and his significant work Book of the Alley developed in him an expertise and awareness of the colloquial language. When he was asked why he uses colloquial language in some of his work he said, The people are the father of language, not scholars. They have more rights on language... In 1957, when he published The Fairies, he said it had been made with street language. This very long poem became one of the most popular Persian poems of the century. Below is a small excerpt of the poem. Fairies ایرپ Once upon a time, Under the gray dome of the sky Three naked fairies sat Fairies boo-hoo crying Heavy like spring rains Their hair as long as a bow And as dark as night Longer than a bow Darker than night Facing them, upon the dusk A city with enslaved boys Behind them, dark and cold was The castle of old tales From the dusk one could hear The chirping of the chains From behind, one could hear The nightly moans Oh Fairies, aren t you hungry? Aren t you thirsty? Aren t you tired? Have you become broken winged birds? What is this boo-hoo What is this crying like the rain?

IRAN The fairies said nothing The fairies were boo-hoo crying Crying like a spring rain Oh dear fairies why are you crying? In this far plain In this tight dusk Don t you think it may rain? Don t you think it may snow? Don t you think the wolf may come eat you? Don t you think the devil will come and swallow you? Aren t you scared? Won t you come to our city? You can hear the sound of our city s chirping chains Oh you Fairies! Look at my tall body Look at my white horse with silver hoops His tail and mane honey colored who Can run as fast as the wind Our city is decorated with light tonight Our city is celebrating tonight the devil s house will be ruined tonight All the villages are our guest tonight People are our guests tonight Dancing, singing towards our city tonight His language connected with people everywhere. As Shamloo explained, We may not be able to pour oceans in a tea cup but we can fill this cup with drops of water that represent the depths of the ocean. Ahmad Shamloo did exactly that with his poetry and other creative expressions. Shamloo, known to have read both the Koran and the Bible as poetry, was a thinker with no limitation in learning and knowing new things. He was thirsty for world literature and without question his work was not only affected by the ideas of Yushij and Iran s ancient poets such as Rumi and Hafiz but also by powerful international literary voices. He knew the map of Iran s literature very well and with what he knew about literature he could suggest many needed projects and works that Iranian poets and writers needed to do for their country s literature. He is famous for saying, Poetry is an effective national weapon. And he gave more power to the spoken word in the last 30 years during which time severe censorship prevented people from freely writing or speaking their mind, let alone easily publishing it. One specific trait in Shamloo s poetry is the language of rebellion or revolution. He rebels against old ideas and social injustice. He wishes for a world with healthy human relationships and freedom. He worships human beings and condemns a world that has tolerance for oppression. In the example below, he questions religious. I am the biggest rebellion of creation Satan knows God does not The following excerpt demonstrates Shamloo s understanding of poetry as an integral part of class solidarity: Poetry is the people s weapon; For the poet is one branch From the forest of the people, Not the jasmines of someone s Greenhouse Mojabi, the poet and scholar, was once asked, Many poets of the seventies wishing to create a new poetry style believe that Shamloo s style is not the language of today, what do you think? Mojabi replied, Shamloo s language is his own language. It is normal that poets coming after him would search for their own language and circuit of thoughts. Every generation has their own experience and it is normal, but we should remember that denying the experiences of previous generations does not help us to solidify our position as a poet. Poet is the name others give to us. You don t give that name to yourself. To show an example of the musicality in Shamloo s poetry, first listen to the words in Farsi transliteration in the poem Look (Negah Kon): zendegi daam neest eshgh daam neest hata marg daam neest chera ke yarane gomshodeh azaadand azaad va paak English translation: Life is not a trap Love is not a trap Even death is not a trap Because our lost comrades are free Free and pure Shamloo wrote more eulogies than any other poet. One of his famous eulogies was for Iran s famous poet, Forough Farrokhzad, who died at age 35 in a car accident. This poem is both happy and sad. The Eulogy For Forough Farrokhzad In the quest for you I cry at the knees of the mountain In the vicinity of the sea and the turf In the quest for you I cried with the blow of the wind. At the crossroad of four seasons Over a broken frame of a window Which frames the cloudy sky? In its old frame In the hope for your image For how long wills this notebook Turn its pages? Acceptance of the reality of wind And love, which is the sister of death Eternity has shared its secret with you And you turned into the shape of a treasure A treasure that made this land And the earth from now on a pleasant one Your name is a moment of dawn Shining over the vast front of the skies, Be hallowed your name! And we are still reviewing the nights and days, And the yet In 1979, at the time of the Iranian Revolution, he left the country for only a few

IRAN ISRAEL years and then said as a poet and as a writer, you need to be in your motherland to be able to write, and he decided he needed to go back to Iran. In response to the question, Are you able to write poetry in the U.S.? Shamloo replied, Hardly at all. In these ten or twelve months I ve written one poem and I m not very happy with it. The new Islamic regime was not favorable to him, considering him an anti-islamist, a nationalist poet and thinker, a traitor and a Westernized writer. Due to the extent of his popularity, the ruling clerics did not dare arrest him but at the same time they did not allow publication of his works for many years. Today more than thirty books and countless articles have been written about Ahmad Shamloo and this is just the beginning of the long road. In an Instance I touch your body with short strokes And I comprehend the world I think of you And I can touch the moments Weightless, endless, naked I blow, I rain, I shine I am the sky I am the earth I am scented wheat Turning into a cluster of seeds While dancing in my green Joyously I traverse you Like a thunder at night I shine Then I fall apart The Day of Rising I was all the corpses The corpses of all the singing birds Which are silent now The corpse of the prettiest animals In the water On the earth The corpse of humans Good Or bad I was there in the past time With no song There was no misery within me No smile No sorrow Kindly Untimely You saw me in your dream And I arose with you One of the great poets of our time, Ahmad Shamloo published more than seventy books: Sixteen volumes of poetry, five anthologies of poetry, five volumes including novels, short stories & screenplays, nine volumes of children s literature, nine translations of poetry into Persian, 21 novels translated into Persian, five collections of essays, lectures and interviews, and thirteen volumes (to date) of Book of the Alley, University Press, 1997. _ Amir Or Translated by Vivian Eden The Barbarians (Round Two) It was not in vain that we awaited the barbarians, it was not in vain that we gathered in the city square. It was not in vain that our great ones put on their official robes and rehearsed their speeches for the event. It was not in vain that we smashed our temples and erected new ones to their gods; as proper we burnt our books that have nothing in them for people like that. As the prophesy foretold the barbarians came, and took the keys to the city from the king s hand. But when they came they wore the garments of the land, and their customs were the customs of the state; and when they commanded us in our own tongue we no longer knew when the barbarians had come to us. d

MAYAS Aj Bam Two poems from the Songs of Dzitbalche Translated from Yucatec Maya by John Curl U YAYAJ K AY J OTSIL X MA NA X PAM OK OOT CHE Jach chiichanen kaa kim in na kaa kim in yum. Ay ay in yumen! Kaa t p at en tu k ab t yiknal in laak Miix maak yan t en way yok ol k ab. Ay ay in yumilen! Ku man kappel k in ku kimil ten in laak tin t uluch k p at ken tin t uluch jum. Ay ay! Ts u man lail k in tin jun p at ken kaa tu jan ch ajen u bisen t nin u p el ts ul tu k ab. Ay ay in yumilen! J loobil jach yaab yayab loob tin mansiik way yok ol kab. Miix wa bik in bin jawk in wok ol. Miix in wonel yan, jach chen tin jum chen bey in man, way tin lum j k in yetel ak ab; chen ok ol ok ol xuupsik in wich lail xuupsik ool. Yam loob jach chich. Ay in yum! Ch aten otsilil ts a u tibitil leil yaj muuk yaa. Ts aten u ts ok kimilil wa ts aten toj olal, in Kiichkelem Yumil! Otsil otsil, baai tu jun yook lum wa yan ka u k aat tu t uluch jum k aat men k aat tu jol naj najil tulakal maak ilik jeleil i u ts iik yakunail. Inan yotoch inam u nok, inan k aak. Ay in yum! Chaten otsilil! Ts aten tojolal utial kaapaatak in muuk yajtik. THE MOURNING SONG OF THE POOR MOTHERLESS ORPHAN DANCE TO DRUMBEATS I was very small when my mother died, when my father died. Ay ay, my father! Left in the hands and company of friends, I have no family here on earth. Ay ay, my lord! Two days ago my friends died, and left me insecure, vulnerable, alone. Ay ay! That day I was left alone and put myself in a stranger s hand. Ay ay, my lord! Evil, much evil passes here on earth. Perhaps I will never stop crying. Without family, alone, very lonely I walk here in my land, crying day and night; only cries consume my eyes and soul. Under evil so hard. Ay, my father! Take pity on me, put an end to this suffering. Give me death, or give my soul transcendence,

MAYAS my Beautiful Lord! Poor, poor, thus alone on earth, pleading insecure lonely, imploring door to door asking every person I see to give me love. I who have no home, no clothes, no fire. Ay my father! Have pity on my! Give my soul transcendence to endure. J WAYAJ YAAB T K AAL K IN EEK U k inil t ok ol u k inil k asiil baal. Chak aab kisin jek aab miitnal, innan utsil, chen yaan lobil aj wat yete1ok ol. Ts ook u maan jun p el tulis jaab, lail jabil j k aban jelae. Ku taibil xan jun k al k in x ma k aba u yail k in u k inil loob j eek k ino ob. Inan x kiichpan sasilil t yiich Junaab K u utial u palil way yok ol kab, tumen ti lei k in k inooba tum p isil u k eban yok ol kab tulakal winik: xiib yetel x chuup chichan yetel nojoch otsil yetel ayik al, miats yetel j num Aj Jaukan, Akulel Batab, Nakon, chako ob Chumtjano ob, Tupilo ob. Tu lakal winik jellae ku p isil u k eban tiail lail k in; tumen bin k uuchok u k inil lai ti el k ina u ts ook yok ol kab. Tumem tu bisik u xokxokil tulakal u k k eban winko ob u way t lume. Tumen ti u ts ik jun p eel x nuk joma betan yetel u k aat j k amas tu lakal u yalil yich lei max ku yok tikoo loob ku mental ti o ob way t lum. Lai kan j tulnaak lail x nuk joma ku ts o. THE APPARITIONS OF THE TWENTY DARK DAYS The days of crying, the days of evil. The demon is free, the infernos open, there is no goodness, only evil, laments and cries. An entire year has passed, the year named here. Come is a month of days without name, painful days, days of evil, black days. The beautiful light of the eyes of Hunabku, the Only Nest for his earthly sons, has not yet come, because during these days are measured the transgressions on earth of all people: men and women, children and adults, poor and rich, wise and fools; Ah Haucanes, Ah Kuleles, Batabs, Nacoms, Chacs, Chanthanes, Tupiles. All people s transgressions are measured in these days; because the time will come when these days will end the world. For this there will be a careful count of all the transgressions of people here on earth. Into a great glass made from the clay of tree termites, He puts all the tears from those who cry over the evils done on earth. When the great glass is filled to the brim it will end. About Aj Bam: The Mayas secretly retained much of their traditional culture after the Spanish invasion; ancient rituals continued to be performed in private gatherings where the old culture was kept alive. Aj Bam s book, known as Songs of Dzitbalché, contains his transcriptions of these old songs and poems that he must have heard in those secret gatherings, recited aloud, probably accompanied by a drum. The title page of his book reads The Book of the Dances of the Ancients that it was the custom to perform here in the towns when the whites had not yet arrived. This book was made by the honorable Mr. Bam, great-grandson of the great Aj Kulel of the town of Dzitbalché in the year 1440. His name Bam is probably a shortened form of Balam, meaning jaguar. The only copy of the book that has survived was probably transcribed in the 1740s. The reference to the year 1440 probably means that his ancestor held that high political position in that year, but it also could mean that Aj Bam wrote the book in that year in hieroglyphs, and it was later translated into alphabetic Mayan. About John Curl John Curl is the author of Ancient American Poets (2007), containing his translations and biographies of Maya, Aztec, and Inca poets. He has published seven books of poetry, including Scorched Birth (2004), Columbus in the Bay of Pigs (1991), Decade (1987), and Tidal News (1982). He represented the USA at the World Poetry Festival 2010 in Caracas, Venezuela. His most recent book is a history of radical American social movements, For All The People: Uncovering the Hidden History of Cooperation, Cooperative Movements, and Communalism in America (2009). His memoir of the radical counterculture of the 1960s is Memories of Drop City (2008). His play The Trial of Christopher Columbus was produced by the Writers Theater in Berkeley (2009). He is vice president of PEN Oakland and a member of the Revolutionary Poets Brigade. _

NETHERLANDS Photo: Roger Cremers A Poetic Art by Anne Vegter This morning a literary critic wrote on Facebook,... the chaotically extensive and aimless machination of the imagination, which I shall call the open space, makes me suspect more and more that it is I who connects areas otherwise far apart... In his explanation of this open space the critic cites the philosopher Deleuze, that what flows between things is desire I never read Deleuze s exposition and unhindered by any contextual knowledge would be more than happy to inscribe those words on one of my walls at home. It is as if the philosopher is describing a world that I try to create with my words: That what flows between things is desire. Sic. But what does that mean, exactly? What desire are we talking about? The kind of primordial desire for fusion (the end of loneliness), for lust (the end of chastity), for beauty (the end of the obscene), or are we talking here about the good old death wish (the end of immortality)? Desire is the operative word. A place, a moment, an object, a thought; the imagination has the power to enlarge and to enrich. Desire is the wish for enrichment. It is an ever-present wish: the imagination is a relentless beast. It is what I ask of the words that flow into me like a stream of plankton into a puddle. Representations Ask how it happened that the summer lost its way in the man, couldn t find its way out and the man disappeared like rising dough, he lit up red and sparked, fell off. Ask how it happened that the poet said the ambition of the mother is the abolition of desire, but her child tuned the back of the father like a speckled instrument. Ask how it happened that the child fell down the stairs holding the book, lay at the bottom like a what's done is done, whoever unrolled him cracked, cracked: the book didn t say that. Ask how it happened that desire curbed width, her aftertaste a memory and the not so self-evident glimpsing at a pole dance for hungry intestines. Ask how it happened the earth existed as an explosion, a colour wash, a breach, as an emulsion. As polymers. Look: Earth as hallmark. Earth as hall mark. No subject, that is, nothing, is beyond the reach of poetry. A tower of single words smirks down at me. I m one of those poets who likes knocking it over. My g/a(i)m/(e) is to create a cryptogram that kicks into action when seemingly arbitrarily chosen words become connected. Does the intention behind the poem become more important as a result? No. Is the choice of words important? Sometimes. But what it does do is to initiate a flow rich in emotion, words as language and language as music, and sound as another world that nestles in the other s being. The subject in and of itself isn t an imperative. In actual fact, when push comes to shove that is what the solution to my cryptograms inevitably boil

NETHERLANDS down to. My desire lies in the finding and presenting values that connect unknown worlds in my poems. For example, what happens when I situate two people at a table in the middle of a restaurant? They have something important to tell each other, while the snake of truth and betrayal writhes under the table at their feet. In another poem a mother calls a father to account: what did you do to our child? A connection between situational stanzas within a single poem might develop, but equally, a connection between scenes from separate poems might spring up. I want to imitate the world: to juggle the interconnectedness of words and the images they conjure up. My poems evoke disparate situations that become connected through the almost-simultaneousness of events. It is a matter of breadth over depth. The desire to connect is my mainspring. What is taking place simultaneously in a thousand different places, even when we are not aware of it? What do simultaneous lives look like? How insane is it to want to connect horizontally through time? Pretty insane. Impossible. That s why I try. My characters are archetypical. Characters I can project my own happiness, sadness, loathing or lust onto. My poetry is slowly turning into a training ground for theatre scripts. Stanzas are turning into vignettes that could evolve into scenes for the stage. But I restrict myself to circumlocutory stanzas. No time for lingering or dwelling. Too much going on in the world. Everything going on in the world. Sometimes I will write a monologue, giving expression to a solid voice. Again, the character will be based on an archetype: one of Noah s children for example. This creates a context and perspective from which to comment freely on power-tensions between people in the here and now. I don t always know where a monologue will take me when I start. Every word, every part of speech can lead me in a new direction and to new material. Material becomes apparatus. I use it to operate my thoughts. I thank the future for giving me ambition. I also curse the future. Because it promises mortality. The mortality inherent in language (just think of the tenses) should be challenged. Another reason for me to desire a new language is to undo it of its mortality. To fly with invisible wings of living words, keeping death at bay. Sputtering and fluttering. Getting out of here. Into the open spaces. From 12.15 to 13.00 o clock Today there was during lunch break s break someone who wanted to know how I work, where I get my ideas from. Tch I said, problem with ideas is that problems begin where they got started, take this conversation here. From underneath the leaves sounded a suppressed protest or call it cheerful, but with hands clasped to the mouth. Splutter-laughing like a class of eleven year olds trying (not) to imagine what Miss does on the loo and if it would be possible to peep. It could be I said, that something skims past (a magpie). Come evening I knew what the correct answer sounded like, flying from the window: shrill and pure. *** SPANISH VERSION ( traducción española: Diego J. Puls, 2012 (para el XXIII Festival Internacional de Poesía de Medellín) UNA POETICA Por Anne Vegter (Países Bajos) Esta mañana, un crítico escribió en Facebook: «(...) el funcionamiento caótico, comprehensivo y fortuito de la imaginación, a la que vengo llamando el espacio abierto, me lleva a pensar una y otra vez que puedo unir territorios muy apartados entre sí (...)». En su explicación de ese espacio abierto, el crítico remite al filósofo Deleuze: «(...) Deleuze afirma que lo que fluye entre los elementos es el deseo (...)». Como no he leído la disertación de Deleuze, podría pintar alegremente ese texto en una pared de mi casa sin que me lo impidiera ningún conocimiento del contexto. Es algo que hago de preferencia con textos que no son de producción propia. En este caso, es como si ese adagio expresara algo sobre el mundo que yo también por pura casualidad intento evocar con mis palabras: «Lo que fluye entre los elementos es el deseo». Sic. Todavía no he dicho nada. Porque vamos a ver: de qué deseo se trata? De esa cosa atávica llamada deseo de fusión (se acabó la soledad), el impulso amoroso (se acabó la castidad), la belleza (se acabó la obscenidad) y por qué no? una pizca de impulso mortal (se acabó la infinidad)? Sigo sin decir nada. Deseo es la palabra clave. Un lugar, un momento, un objeto, un pensamiento, todo puede ser más grande, más abundante y más rico gracias a la imaginación. El deseo es el ansia de enriquecimiento. Y esa ansia está siempre presente. Eso es lo que pretendo de las palabras que fluyen hacia mí como si nada, como agua rica en plancton que desemboca en un estanque. REPRESENTACIONES Pregunta cómo pudo pasar que el verano se extraviara en un hombre, no supiera cómo salir y el hombre se largó como el pan que fermenta, despidió luz roja y chispas, falló. Pregunta cómo pudo pasar que el poeta dijera el objetivo de la madre es abolir la seducción, pero su vástago afinaba la espalda del padre cual instrumento manchado. Pregunta cómo pudo pasar que el vástago rodara por la escalera con el libro, caído yaciera al pie cual asunto zanjado, quien lo desenrolló quebró, quebró: ahí no decía lo que leía. Pregunta cómo pudo pasar que el

NETHERLANDS deseo restara amplitud, su regusto recuerdo y lo no evidente contemplara «un baile del caño para intestino hambriento». Pregunta cómo pudo pasar que la Tierra fuera cual explosión, cual tintura para el pelo, fractura, cual emulsión. Cual polímeros. Di: La Tierra como marca. La Tierra como marca. No hay tema que no se preste para la poesía. Una torre elevada de palabras sueltas me sonríe con descaro. La derribo gustosa. Mi juego consiste en hacer un criptograma que se crea al vincular entre sí palabras elegidas aparentemente al azar. Adquiere importancia de pronto el pensamiento detrás del poema? No. Es importante el léxico? A veces. Pero lo que busco es poner en marcha un flujo rico en emociones, palabras como lengua, lengua como música, y sonido como un mundo distinto que se instala en la esencia del otro. En el fondo, el tema no es tan importante. Esa es en realidad la solución invariable de mi criptograma. Aspiro a encontrar y enseñar valores relacionadores en unos mundos desconocidos. Tantearlos. Ejemplo: qué ocurre si en un poema siento a una mesa a dos personas en medio de un restaurante? Tienen algo importante que decirse. Mientras, bajo la mesa serpentea la culebra de la verdad y la traición. En otro poema, una madre llama a capítulo a un padre: qué has hecho con nuestra criatura? Puede generarse un vínculo entre las escenas, insinúo relaciones entre distintos poemas o, cuando el poema se presta, entre estrofas situacionales dentro de un poema. Busco imitar al mundo. Tantear valores. En un poema intento evocar situaciones muy diferentes que se relacionen entre sí a través de la casi simultaneidad de la acción. El móvil es el deseo de un vínculo. Prefiero pensar a lo ancho en vez de en profundidad. Qué sucede en miles de lugares al mismo tiempo aunque no seamos conscientes de la diferencia? Qué aspecto presentan las vidas simultáneas? Cuán descabellado es querer establecer relaciones horizontales en el tiempo? Bastante. No se puede. Por eso lo intento. Para mis personajes elijo arquetipos. Figuras en las que pueda proyectar parte de mi alegría personal, mi tristeza, repulsión o libido. Mi poesía va siendo cada vez más un campo de pruebas para textos teatrales. Las estrofas se vuelven situaciones que en el escenario podrían convertirse en drama. Pero no voy más allá de las estrofas ampulosas. No tengo tiempo para detenerme demasiado en una situación. En el mundo hay tantas cosas para nombrar. Hay todo. A veces escribo un monólogo. Para que suene una voz sólida. Para mi actor elijo otro arquetipo por ejemplo, una hija de Noé y así creo una perspectiva que me permite referirme sin más ni más a las relaciones de poder entre personas de la actualidad. Confieso que no sé adónde esto conduce. Cada palabra, cada clase de palabra, puede ser útil a la hora de plasmar material nuevo, por ejemplo lengua de nuevo cuño. El material se convierte en una herramienta con la que opero mis pensamientos. Por eso quisiera agradecer al futuro por regalarme las ambiciones. También quisiera maldecirlo. Por prometer la mortalidad, lo que en realidad no debería estar permitido. También por eso quiero lengua nueva. Para apartar un poco a esa muerte con alas invisibles de palabras vivas. Resistiendo. Revoloteando. Partiendo. En pos del espacio abierto. DE LAS 12.15 A LAS 13.00 En el día de la fecha en la pausa de la pausa del mediodía alguien quiso saber cómo trabajo, de dónde saco las ideas. Bueno le dije, el problema de la idea es que los problemas empiezan justo allí donde ella nace, para muestra basta esta conversación. Desde abajo de las hojas se oyó una protesta sofocada o llamémosla jovial, pero tapándose la boca con las manos. Estallando de risa como una clase de niños de once años que prefieren no imaginarse (o sí) lo que hace la maestra en el baño y si habría algo para ver. Puede le dije, que por casualidad algo me pase por delante (una urraca). Por la noche supe al salir volando por la ventana cómo sonaba la respuesta correcta: estridente y afinada. _ d

TURKEY Nazim Hikmet, A World Poet* by Ataol Behramoglu Nazim Hikmet is the poet responsible for the most significant revolution in Turkish poetry. This revolution was a groundbreaking act, known technically as free verse. The origin of this revolution can be identified in the development of Turkish poetry in the late 19th century, the French free verse movement and Russian modernism; all of which were synthesised into the foundation of Turkish language by Nazim Hikmet. This revolution led to the enrichment of the language of poetry with words never used before; which in turn introduced a brand new harmony and sound elements. Nazim Hikmet s poetry can also be considered innovative with regard to its contents; he was concerned with subjects, themes and, so to speak, all aspects of human life not previously considered. At the beginning of his grand journey, the foundations of Nazim Hikmet s world view as a young poet were shaped by the concepts of civilization, contemporariness and liberty, which began with the administrative reforms of 1839-1876 in Ottoman history, and reached a peak with the poet Tevfik Fikret. The feelings of patriotism and humanism Nazim Hikmet experienced within his family circle during his early childhood years also shaped his world view. To the above mentioned may also be added the sensitivity transmitted through the rooted tradition of Turkish lyrical poetry. Overall, these qualities would have been sufficient to make him a grand poet, but perhaps would not have taken him to a universal level. He possessed a number of characteristics which, when merged with the above traits, resulted in a world class poet being bestowed upon 20th century Turkish poetry. One of these characteristics was, at a very early stage, his ability to learn and absorb scientific and socialist world concepts. Another equally important characteristic was Nazim Hikmet s highlevel exposure to the creative atmosphere of 1920s Russian modernism; to every branch of the arts, from poetry to cinema, art, music and theatre. This hitherto before unparalleled, great synthesis was the reason for his protests against dogmas everywhere and in every era; from the We are tearing down the idols! campaign in his own country, to being the initiator for the defence of individualism and freedom of artistic creativity against every kind of idolatry and banality in post 1950s Russia. In the early years of his creative life, his political views gave rise to negative reactions from political administrations, although he nevertheless became very popular among artistic circles. He was the poet who won the interest and admiration of the era s writers and poets from every generation. In this period he was arrested and imprisoned on a number of occasions. However, during the reactionary political atmosphere in Turkey which was created by the tense conditions gripping the world in the 1930s, Nazim Hikmet started to be seen as a threat by administrative circles. As a result of being subject to a conspiracy attempt for libel and deception he was arrested and sentenced to penal servitude; in those days it was even forbidden to mention his name. After he was freed by the Pardon Law in 1950, he became subject to another conspiracy which threatened his life, and he conse-