The Poetry That Is Life

The theme of the traditional poet Was not of life. In the barren expanse of his imagination He conversed with his mistress and wine Living in an imaginary world He was a captive Held by a beloved's funny tresses. As for others, They held, in one hand a cup In the other A mistress's tresses While they distressed The entire world With the intoxicating cries They let loose. Since the poet's subject amounted to nothing The influence of his verse amounted to even less. You could not use his poetry as a drill bit. In the course of a struggle Using the craft of poetry You could not eliminate The obstacles that confronted the masses Put differently, The poet's existence was immaterial His being and not being the same You could not use his poetry as gallows. Whereas I have personally, With my poems Fought alongside "Chen Chui" the Korean Even, at a point Several years ago, I strung up "Hamidi the poet" On the gallows of my verse. The situation with poetry Today Is different altogether… Today, Poetry is People's weapon Poets are branches from the forest of the masses They are not Jasmines and hyacinths Of so and so's hothouse. The poet Is not alien To people's common plight He smiles with peoples' lips His bones He grafts to the hopes and sufferings Of the people. Today's poet Must dress well He must wear properly polished shoes In the most crowded parts of town With a poet's inborn gift, He must One by one, from among the passersby, Pick and choose his topic, rhyme and rhythm. "Follow me, pilgrim! For three days now, I have been everywhere, seeking you out." "Seeking me out? I don't understand! Sir, you must be mistaken. Are you taking me for someone else?" "No, my dear fellow, That would be impossible I'd recognize the fresh rhythm of my poetry in any place." "What did you say? Poetic rhythm?" "Have patience, friend… I have always Scoured the alley, Looking for rhythm, words, and rhyme. In my verses, people form the units "Life" (i.e., the theme of the stanza), "Words," "rhythm," and "poetic rhyme;" I seek all of those among the people I prefer this method It enhances poetry, gives it life and soul…" Now comes the time When the poet Employing poetic logic, Must convince the passerby To willingly become engaged. All his efforts, otherwise, will be futile. Well, Now that rhythm is in place It is time to seek out the words Each word (as the name indicates) Is a witty and pretty girl… The poet must couple His desired rhythm with suitable words Although a tedious task, and trying, It must be done. There is no way out: Mr. Rhythm and his wife, Word: If not compatible If not on the same wavelength, The outcome will be most unpleasant Like the outcome For myself and my wife: I was rhythm, she was word: The theme of our poem, The permanent coming together Of the lips of love… Even though the smiles of our children (those pleasant beats) appeared with joy in our poem Some cold, black words Gave it an ominous and dark turn, It destroyed the rhythm And the pleasant beat. At the end, The poem became useless and banal And the master became tired Of a lack of purpose! In any event, More is said than intended A painful bloody blister is opened up… Life, We explained Is the model For the modern poet Following life's experiences The poet Employing the magic of poetry Creates an image That overlay an already existing plan He writes poetry That is, He touches the wounds of the old town Put differently, He tells the night Of an imminent pleasant morn. He writes poetry That is, He cries out the pains of his land That is, With his song, He revives the flagging spirits. He writes poetry That is, He fills the cold and empty hearts with joy That is to say, Facing the dawn He awakens the sleep-laden eyes. He writes poetry That is, He explains the honor roll of his fellow man He recites the victory notes of his Time… If poetry is life This barren talk, too, About semantics is absurd… From beneath Its darkest verses We feel the sunny warmth of hope and love Kayvan has composed The song of his life In blood. Vartan has composed The clamor of his In silence. But, even if The rhyme-life holds nothing But a prolonged accent of death. In each poem The meaning of each death Is life.