20.04.2016
Partaw Naderi and some of his Poems
Poems translated by Sarah Maguire and Yama Yari
the Poetry Translation Centre
Introduction
Born in 1952
in Badakhashan province ,
Partaw Naderi is widely regarded as one of the foremost modernist posts of
Afghanistan. Like many of his educated, Dari – speaking
compatriots, he is steeped in classical Persian literature and the depth of
this knowledge has had a marked impact on his poetry, notably his mastery of
free verse, which remains comparatively unusual in contemporary Afghan poetry
.Partaw has argued that it is this familiarity with classical poetry and
his meters’ that has allowed him to risk writing free verse; and his metrical
control, and the music of his poetry, is both daring and highly effective .
Outside observers of present-day Afghanistan, one of the most war-ravaged places on earth that is on the brink of becoming a failed state can have little awareness of the country’s extraordinary cultural heritage, since so little has been left intact. Universities, libraries, bookshops, publishers, magazines have all been systematically destroyed. Until the advent of internet (to which very few Afghans have access since most remain without electricity)it was virtually impossible to read contemporary poetry – or indeed any poetry ; for years, books could only be published and bought in Iran and Pakistan .Yet situated at the heart of the ancient silk Road, Afghanistan is the place where, over centuries, major civilizations met, exchanged ideas and flourished. The most famous poet in America’ (according to the BBC World Service) Mawlana Jalal-ad-Din Mohammad Rumi, was born in Balkh, and it is Rumi who has had the most profound influence on Partaw‘s development as a poet.
It is unsurprising that partaw’s life has partaken of the tragic events that have waylaid his country. His promising career as a poet was cut short when he was arrested and imprisoned in the notorious pul-e-Charkhi prison outside Kabul by the soviet-backed regime in 1975. Undeterred, he used his three years of imprisonment to read and write as much as he was able, and he emerged with a deepened sense of the significance of poetry, especially during times of extreme conflict. Apart from a few years during the worst excesses of the Taliban regime when he was forced to seek refuge in Pakistan, Partaw doggedly remained in his country and he continues , today, to play an active part, especially online, in stimulating his people to strengthen their culture against all odds. As he writes in The Mirror; this determination to fight for his culture is hard won: ‘l come from the unending conflicts of wisdom / I have grasped the meaning of nothingness.
Those of us lucky enough to live in comfort in the west can often think that poetry is irrelevant and pointless, a minority pursuit for the educated elite. Yet in many part of the world, including Afghanistan, poetry is the most important art form. Safe and cocooned in luxury, we forget how vital and essential the right to joy can be, how the first move of repressive regimes is to shut down its poets. Partaw once likened a poem to a spectrum formed by white light hitting a prism; the task of the poet being to fuse all the colours of the rainbow into a pure beam of light. Out of the darkness that is present-day Afghanistan, I hope that this small sample of Partaw’s poems will reveal the precision and power of his imagery, and the clarity and startling colours of his prismatic poems.
Sarah Maguire
The Mirror
I have spent a lifetime in the mirrors of exile
busy absorbing my reflection
Listen —
I come from the unending conflicts of wisdom
I have grasped the meaning of nothingness
Kabul
1989
آیینه
عمری ست در آیینه های غربت
سرگرم تماشای خویشم
های،
من از معرکه های دور معرفت م آیم
من مفهوم هیچ را دریافته ام
بهار 1368
شهر کابل
Lucky Men
When your star is unseen in this desolate sky,
your despair itself becomes a star.
My twin, the steadfast sun, and I
both grasp its far-flung brilliance.
* * * *
In a land where water is locked up
in the very depths of desiccated rocks,
the trees are ashamed of their wizened fruits.
The honest orchard is laid waste —
such a bloodied carpet
is spread before the future.
* * * *
Yesterday, leaning on my cane,
I returned from the trees’ cremation.
Today, I search the ashes
for my lost, homeless phoenix.
Perhaps it was you who shadowed me,
perhaps it was only my shadow.
Even though the lucky men in my land
lack stars in the heavens, lack shadows on the earth
they welcome any stars
that grace their devastated sky.
O, my friend, my only friend,
turn your anguish into constellations!
Peshawar City
November, 2002
مردان خوشبخت
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وقتی ستاره ات در اين آسمان تنگ نمی تابد دلتنگی تو خود ستاره ييست که مفهوم بلند روشنايي اش را من می دانم و همزاد جاودانه ء من خورشيد
* درسر زمينی که آب را در عمق صخره های تشنه گی زندانی کرده اند درختان ، شرمسار ميوه های بی آبی خودند و باغ صميميت سبزش را چنان پای اندازخون آلودی گسترده در رهگذارحادثه هايي که شايد هنوز پای در رکاب نکرده اند * ديروز با عصای نا توانی خويش از مراسم فاتحه خوانی درختان بر می گشتم و امروز در گورستان خاکستر ققنوس بی سر پناهی خود را جستجو می کنم شايد آن کی به دنبال من می آمد تو بودی شايد سايه ء من بود هر چند مردان خوشبخت در سرزمين من ستاره يي در آسمان و سايه ء در زمين ندارند مردان خوشبخت در آسمان دلتنگی خويش با ستاره های هم آغوش می شوند که نام ديگر شان فرياد است
های ! اي يار اي يگانه ترين يار دلتنگيت را آسمانی برافراز |
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شهر پشاور
نوامبر 2002
Star Rise
I am the twin of light
I know the history of the sun
Stars
rise from the blisters on my hands
Kabul
February, 1994
طلوع آبله
من همزاد روشنایی ام
از تاریخ آفتاب خبر دارم
ستاره گان
آز آبلهء دستان من طلوع کرده اند
شهر کابل
حوت 1373 خورشید
Relative
I know the language of the mirror —
its perplexities and mine
spring from one race
our roots can be traced
to the ancient tribe of truth
Kabul
February, 1994
خویشاوند
من زبان آیینه را می فهمم
حیرت من و حیرت آیینه
از یک نژا اند
و ریشه در قبیلهء دور حقیقت دارند
شهر کابل
حوت 1373 خورشید
The Bloody Epitaph
This palm tree has no hope of spring
This palm tree blossoms
with a hundred wounds
— the daily wounds of a thousand tragedies
— the nightly wounds of a thousand calamities
This palm tree is a bloody epitaph
at the crossroads of the century
*
Here, by the river,
— a river of blood and tears —
the roots of this palm tree
are congealed with disaster
are knotted with the blind roots of time
*
Here, the sky
unwinds its bloody cloth
from barren red clouds
to shroud the shattered lid of a coffin
— a broken mirror of rain
This palm tree has no hope of spring
*
This palm tree has no hope of spring
This palm tree is starred
with a hundred bruises
from the whip of the north wind
My palm!
My only tree!
My spring!
Many years have passed
since the bird of blossoms
flew away from your desiccated branches
Butterflies abandon you
My heart is broken
Kabul
November, 1989
کتیبهءخونین
این نخل را هوای بهاران نمانده است
این نخل را تمامی اندام
بشگفته ازشگوفته ء صد زخم
- زخم هزار فاجعه در روز-
- زخم هزاران حادثه درشب –
خونین کتیبه ییست
در چارسوی قرن
این جا کنار رود
- رودی ز اشک و خون -
این نخل ریشه هاش
در انجماد فاجعه
در انجماد خون
با ریشه های کور زمان می خورد گره
این جا که آسمان
از ابر های سرخ سترون
افگنده این قطیفهء خونین
بر سینهء شکسته ء تابوت
- تابوت آبگینهء باران -
این نخل را هوای بهاران نمانده است
این نخل را هوای بهاران نمانده است
این نخل تمامی اندام
شلاق باد های شب ازدشت های قطب
صد جا شکسته است
ای نخل من !
یگانهء من !
ای بهار من !
بس سالها گذشت
مرغ شگوفه ها
ازشاخه های زرد تو پرواز کرده اند
ای خاک بر سرم
پروانه گان زدور و برت کوچ می کنند
شهر کابل
قوس 1368
Earth
The earth opens her warm arms
to embrace me
The earth is my mother
She understands the sorrow
of my wandering
My wandering
is an old crow
that conquers
the very top of an aspen
a thousand times a day
Perhaps life is a crow
that each dawn
dips its blackened beak
in the holy well of the sun
Perhaps life is a crow
that takes flight with Satan’s wings
Perhaps life is Satan himself
awakening a wicked man to murder
Perhaps life is the grief-stricken earth
who has opened up her bloodied arms to me
And here I give thanks
on the brink of ‘victory’
Peshawar City
July, 2002
زمین
زمین آغوش گرم خویش را
به روی من گشوده است
زمین مادر من است
اندوه سرگردانی مرا می فهمد
سرگردانی من کلاغ پیریست
که شاخه های بلند سپیدار هیچ را
روزی هزار بار فتح کرده است
زنده گی شاید کلاغیست
که هر بامداد
منقار سیاه خویش را
در زمزم مقدس آفتاب می شوید
زنده گی شاید کلاغیست
که با بال شیطان پرواز می کند
زنده گی شاید خود شیطانیست
که معاویه را از خواب بیدار کرده است
زنده گی شاید
زمین زخم خوردهء غمناکیست
که آغوش خونینش را به روی من گشوده است
و من
در چند قدمی پیروزی بزرگ خویش
نماز شکرانه می گذارم
جولای دو هزار و دو
شهر پشاور
I Still Have Time
It’s well past midnight
I should get up to pray
The mirrors of my honesty
have long been filmed with dust
I should get up
I still have time
My hands can yet discern
a jug of water from a jug of wine
as time’s wheeled chariot
hurtles down the slope of my life
Perhaps tomorrow
the poisonous arrows aimed at me
will hunt down my eyes
two speckled birds startled into flight
Perhaps tomorrow
my children
will grow old
awaiting my return
Peshawar City
August, 2000
هنوز فرصتی دارم
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شب از نيمه گذشته است بايد بر خيزم و نمازی ادا کنم روزگاريست که آيينه های خلوص من غبار گرفته است
بايد بر خيزم هنوز فرصتی دارم هنوز دستانم کوزه ء شراب را تا کوزه آب می شناسد و لحظه ها با گردونه ء شتابناکی در سراشيب هستی من می تازند شايد فردا تير های زهر آگينی که برای من آماده شده است کبوتران ابلق چشمانم را در نخستين لحظه های پرواز شکار کند
شايد فردا کودکانم در انتظار برگشت من پير شوند
اگست دوهزار شهرپشاور |
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Desolation
In the lines on your palms
they have written the fate of the sun
Arise,
lift up your hand —
the long night is stifling me
Kabul
June, 1994
دلتنگی
بر خطوط قرمز دستانت
سرنوشت آفتاب را نوشته اند
بر خیز و دستی بر افشان
که حضور شب نفسم را تنگ ساخته است
شهر کابل
تابستان 1374
My Voice
I come from a distant land
with a foreign knapsack on my back
with a silenced song on my lips
As I travelled down the river of my life
I saw my voice
(like Jonah)
swallowed by a whale
And my very life lived in my voice
Kabul
December, 1989
صدا
من از سرزمین غریب می آیم
با کوله بار بیگانه گیم بر دوش
و سرود خاموشیم بر لب
من یونس صدایم را
آن گاه که از رود بار حادثه می گذشتم
دیدم،
در کام نهنگی فرو رفت
و تمام هستی من در صدایم بود
زمستان 1367
شهر کابل
Beauty
Your voice is like a girl
from the farthest green village
whose tall and graceful frame
is known to the pine trees on the mountains
Your voice is like a girl
who, at dusk,
will bathe in the clear springs of heaven
beneath the parasol of the moon
who, at dawn,
bears home a jar of pure light
who will drink sip by sip
from the river of the sun
Your voice is like a girl
from the farthest green village
who wears an anklet
forged from the songs of a brook
who wears an earring
spun from the whispering rain
who wears a necklace
woven from the silk of a waterfall
all of which grace the garden of the sun
with their many-coloured blossoms of love —
and you
are as beautiful as your voice
Kabul
1994
زیبایی
صدایت به دختری می ماند
در سبز ترین دهکدهء دور
که آزادی قامتش را
تنها کاجهای بلند کوه می دانند
صدایت به دختری می ماند
که شامگاهان
در زیر چتر ماه
در شفافترین چشمهء بهشت
آب تنی می کند
و بامدان از دریچه های فلق
کوزهء از نور خلوص به خانه می آورد
و از زمزم آفتاب جرعه جرعه می نوشد
صدایت به دختری می ماند
در سبز ترین دهکدهء دور
که از ترانهء جویبار
پای زیبی به پا می کند
و از نجوای باران گوشواره یی در گوش
و از رشتهء آبشار
گلوبندی بر گردن
تا گلخانهء خورشید را
با رنگینترین گلهای عشق بیاراید
و تو به اندازهء صدای خویش زیبایی
خزان 1373
شهر کابل
On a Colourful Morning
I kissed her —
her whole body shivered
Like a branch of almond blossom in the wind
Like the moon, like a star
trembling on the water
I kissed her —
her whole body shivered
Her cheeks showed one colour
her gaze revealed another
And the sun rose from her tender heart
And the thousand-and-one nights of waiting
ended
And on a colourful morning
I shared a bed
with the meaning of love
July 2002,
Peshawar City
در یک بادمداد رنگین
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بوسيدمش
جولای دوهزار و دو شهر پشاور |
Original poems © Partaw Naderi
Translations © Sarah Maguire and Yama Yari