Woe On Me
O Lover Forlorn
An Old Owl
A Tale Not New
When its Recital of Weeping Begins
Upon the Plain
over The Smokes
In The Path Hid, over The Ville
In the Cold Winter Night.
Night It Is
of the Night Still..
My House is Cloud
On the river bank
My steel heart
The bat from nearby beach
Before my shack
Upon his boat
Late at night
Your sight I am a waiting
Night after night
The Rubaiyat ( Quatrain)
Celebrated as the founder of modern Iranian poetry, Nima Yushij (1897-1960) reformed both the form and content of classical Iranian poetry that had persisted into the 20th century. He made poetry more objective and dramatic, often changing the conventional first person speaker to the third person, or else using a poetic persona or dialogue, thereby moving toward polyphonic and pluralistic poetry. Avoiding clichés of classical Persian verse, he made poetry less subjective and less abstract, closer to nature and reality.
Meanwhile Nima revised the classical prosody, developing variable metrical patterns closer to the tone and rhythm of natural speech. A native of the mountainous northern region of Iran, he fused his verse with sounds and sights of the woods and seaside, often with onomatopoeia and Tabari dialect. Being himself a master of classical verse, Nima claimed that making new poems are far more demanding than treading the beaten path.
This bilingual edition contains choice poems of Nima from his youth on to his last lyrics in chronological order.
ققنوس مرغ خوشخوان آوازهی جهان
آواره مانده از ورزش بادها ی سرد
بر شاخ خیزان
بنشسته است فرد
بر گرد او به هر سر شاخی پرندگان
او ناله های گمشده ترکیب می کند
از رشته های پاره ی صدها صدای دور
در ابر های مثل خطی تیره روی کوه
دیوار یک بنای خیالی
از آن زمان که زردی خورشید روی موج
کمرنگ مانده است و به ساحل گرفته اوج
بانگ شغال و مرد دهاتی
کرده ست روشن آتش پنهان خانه را
In my notebook on many a page
There’s a line written in another script.
The line has no letter nor dots
Nor form to express its sense.
Has on it whatever it has within
Has within whatever it has upon
Often I behold it amazed.
Between it and I a veil at the eye
I see and cannot breathe a thing
I read it and no one knows how.
To one another a thousand intimations we bear
To me it bears a thousand uses and harms.
This curious line in my note-book indeed
Is but a vague memory, yet oh so sweet.