Partaw Naderi
poems translated
by
Sarah Maguire
and
Yama Yari
the Poetry Translation Centre
Introduction
Born in 1952 in Badakhashan province a region bordering present-day
Tajikistan, 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 mimority 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 colors 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 colors of his
prismatic poems.
Sarah Maguir
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
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
Star Rise
I am the twin of light
I know the history of the sun
Stars
rise from the blisters on my hands
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
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
Original poems © Partaw Naderi
Translations © Sarah Maguire and Yama Yari
ادبی ـ هنری