A Brief Note on Ahmad Shamlu's Life by Iraj Bashiri Copyright, Bashiri, 2000 Amhad Shamlu was born on December 12, 1925, to the family of an army officer in Tehran. Like many children who grow up in army families, he received his early education in various towns including Khash and Zahedan in the southeast and Mashhad in the northeast. By 1941, his high school still incomplete, he left Birjand for Tehran. He intended to attend the Tehran Technicum and learn German. Finishing high school was relegated to the future. When, within a year, his father was transferred again, this time to Turkmen Sahra, Shamlu remained in Tehran to contribute to the war effort on the side of the Nazis. He was arrested by the Allied Armies in 1943 in Tehran and transferred to Rasht to serve a one-year prison term. When, at the end of his incarceration his father came to Azerbaijan to bring his son home, both father and son were arrested and placed before a firing squad. They were released, however, at the last moment, when new orders arrived. In 1945, Shamlu made one final attempt at completing his high school degree in Reza'iyeh but, again. he failed. This, however, for the last time. Shamlu was a nationalist and a staunch supporter of the Musaddiq government. After the fall of Mosaddiq, he went into hiding for six months. Thereafter, he was arrested and incarcerated for over a year. All along, he continued a rigorous program of writing, translating, and composing poetry in the tradition of Nima Yushij. Shamlu married three times. His first marriage (1947), even though it gave him four sons, did not last long. Neither did his second marriage (1957) that ended in divorce in 1963. His third wife (1964), however, proved to be very different. She became an incredibly instrumental figure in Shamlu's life and remained with him until his death in 1999. Her name, Ayda, appears in many of his later poems. Due to political unrest and oppression in Iran, Ayda and Shamlu left Iran temporarily in 1977. After living in Princeton, New Jersey, for a while, they left for England and lived there until 1979. When, supposedly, the Islamic revolution opened a new chapter in Iranian history, Shamlu returned to Iran as the editor of Ketab-e Jom'e. Shamlu has translated extensively from the works of French authors into Persian and his own works are translated into a number of major world languages. He also has written a number of plays for the stage, edited the works of major Iranian poets of the past, especially Hafiz, and contributed to the resolution of artistic and philosophical problems of modern societies. His six-volume Ketab-i Kucheh (Notes from the Alley) is a major contribution in understanding Iranian folklore. Shamlu's poetry is extremely complex. Yet his imagery, which contributes immensely to the intensity of his poems, is simple. For base, he uses the traditional imagery familiar to his Iranian audience through the works of Persian masters like Hafiz and Khayyam. For infrastructure and impact, he uses a kind of everyday imagery in which personified oxymoronic elements are spiked with an unreal combination of the abstract and the concrete thus far unprecedented in Persian poetry. To those familiar with the works of Nima, for instance, there is not a whole lot new, but those who adore the works of the masters find much that is distressful. It is still too early to pass judgment on either the pathfinder Nima Yushij or the settler Ahmad Shamlu. There is no doubt, however, that at the end both will be recognized as founders of modern Persian poetry (she'r-i now), each contributing to a different aspect of the nascent form. A list of Shamlu's major poetic works follows: 1948 Forgotten Melodies 1954 Steel and Emotion 1958 Fresh Air 1961 Garden of Mirrors 1965 Ayda in the Mirror 1966 Ayda, Tree, Dagger, and Memories 1967 Phoenix in the Rain 1970 Dust Elegies 1971 Blossoming in the Fog 1973 Ebrahim in the Fire 1977 Dagger in the Dish 1978 Tale of Mother Sea's Daughters -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Poetry That Is Life by Ahmad Shamlu (1925-1999) The theme of the yester poet was not of life. In the avid sky of his imagination, he would not converse with other than wine amd mistress. Night and day drowned in dreams Caught in the snare of a beloved's funny tresses, While others With one hand feeling wine-cup and the other a lass's hair Let loose intoxicated cries on God's earth! ..... Poetry's theme today is a different matter... Today poetry is the weapon of the masses For poets Themselves are branches from the forest of the masses Not jasmines or hyacinths of someone's hot house... -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Anthem (in memory of Jalal Al-e Ahmad) by Ahmad Shamlu (1925-1999) translated by Esma'il Kho'i Contentment-like, he was thin: slim and tall, like a difficult message in one word. And with eyes of question and honey; and with a face scorched by truth and wind. A man with the whirling of water: a laconic man who was his own resume. Beetles stare at your corpse with suspicion. ***** Before being turned to ashes by the wrath of the thunderbolt, he had forced the steer of the tempest to kneel before his might. To test the faith of old he had worn out his teeth on the locks of ancient gates. On the most out-of-the way paths he struggled, an unexpected passer-by whose voice every thicket and bridge recognized. ***** Roads remain wakeful with the memory of your steps; for you were going to welcome the day; although the dawn emitted you before the cocks heralded the morning. ***** A bird bloomed in its wings, a woman in her breasts, a garden in its trees. we bloom in your angry look, in your haste. We bloom in your brook, in defending your smile that is certitude and faith. ***** The sea envies you for the drop you have drank from the well. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Somber Song by Ahmad Shamlu (1925-1999) In a leaden dawn the horseman stands silent, and the long mane of his horse is disheveled in the wind. Oh God, God, horsemen should not stand still when things are imminent. By the burnt hedge the girl stands silent, and her thin skirt moves in the wind. Oh God, God, girls should not remain silent when the men, hopeless and weary, grow old. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Tablet by Ahmad Shamlu translated by Ahmad Karimi-Hakkak As the dark cloud passed, I in the crimson shadow of the moon viewed the square and the streets an octopus stretching a languid leg in every direction toward a black swamp. And on the cold cobblestones a crowd stood, so many and in the midst a prolonged aticipation bordering on despair and weariness. And every time the restlessness of the waiting crept over them, it was as if the animal shivered under his hide from the chill of a running water or else an itching sensation. I descended the dark stairway holding the dust-covered tablet in my hands and stood upon the dais a half-spear higher than the multitude. And I saw the crowd, so many filling the cells all around the square all over the space it extended shaped by every passageway leading to the field up to the borders of shade and gloom like wet ink spreading into the dark And with them was anticipation and silence. Then I held up the clay tablet crying unto them: "This is all there is, and sealed it's an old inscrition, aged and worn, lo! behold! however tainted with the blood of many a wound mercy it preaches, friendship and honesty." The crowd, however, lent no ear or heart to me it seemed as if in the waiting itself was pleasure and profit I yelled out to them: "You, devoid of courage in vain you wait, this is the very last Coming." And I cried out: "Gone are the days of mourning some crucified Christ for today every woman is another Mary and every Mary has a Jesus upon the cross albeit with no Crown of Thorns, no Cruciform and no Golgotha no Pilate, no judges and no court of justice Christs all of a destiny, clad similarly uniform Christs, with boots and leggings alike alike in everything, with the same share of bread and gruel (for sameness is indeed the dear heritage of the human race) and if not a crown of thorn, there is a helmet to wear upon the head and if not a cross there is a rifle to bear on the shoulder means of greatness all at hand every supper may well be The Last and every glance perchance that of a Judas. "But beware, weary not your steps in search of the orchard for with the tree you shall meet upon your cross when humanity and compassion misty as a dream, gentle and fast will rise before your eyes, and the savage fangs of the truth sharp as the rays of the desert sun will pierce your eyes. "And you shall know how ill-starred you are how ill-starred you are! for the least in you would suffice to make you most happy a sincere salaam, a warm hand, an honset smile And this little you had not. "Nay, weary not your steps in search of the orchard for there is no time neither for a blessing or for a curse neither for forgiveness nor for revenge. "And no more, alas, does the pathway to the Cross lead to an ascent onto the heavens but downward to hell and a perpetual wandering of the soul." In my delirious fever I kept on crying but the crowd had no ear or heart for my words I knew that they were awaiting not a clay tablet but a Gospel a sword and some constables to ambush them with whips and maces to drop them to their knees before the heavy steps of the one who will descend the dark stairway with a sword and a Gospel. Then I wept long and hard and my teardrops were truths although truth is indeed no more than a word as if with my tears I was recounting a desperate truth. Ah! this crowd, seeking the horrid truth only in legends, worships the sword as the weapon of eternal justice for in our time the sword is a legendary tool. And thus is called the true martyr only he who shields his bare chest before the sword as though suffering, agony and martyrdom are too ancient to happen with modern warfare. But what of all the souls burnt in the flames of gunpowder and what of all the souls bereft of everything but a vague shadow of a figure in the horrifying order of millions and millions. Ah! this crowd seeks the horrid truth only in legends, or else considers truth nothing but a legend. My words the crowd ignored for I had said the last word about the heavens without even mentioning the word heaven. http://www.angelfire.com/rnb/bashiri/Poets/Shamlu.html