As the drumbeats of war with Iran get louder...

Just a few words from three great Iranian women to ponder.

It is only through literature that one can put oneself in someone else’s shoes and understand the other’s different and contradictory sides and refrain from becoming too ruthless. Outside the sphere of literature only one aspect of individuals is revealed. But if you understand their different dimensions you cannot easily murder them. . .

Azar Nafisi - From Reading Lolita in Tehran

The idea of cultural relativism is nothing but an excuse to violate human rights.


Shirin Ebadi

It's time to mow the flowers,
don't procrastinate.
Fetch the sickles, come,
don't spare a single tulip in the fields.
The meadows are in bloom:
who has ever seen such insolence?
The grass is growing again:
step nowhere else but on its head.
Blossoms are opening on every branch,
exposing the happiness in their hearts:
such colorful exhibitions must be stopped.
Bring your scalpels to the meadow
to cut out the eyes of flowers.
So that none may see or desire,
let not a seeing eye remain.
I fear the narcissus is spreading corruption:
stop its displays in a golden bowl
on a six-sided tray.
What is the use of your ax,
if not to chop down the elm tree?
In the maple's branches
allow not a single bird a moment's rest.
My poems and the wild mint
bear messages and perfumes.
Don't let them create a riot with their wild singing.
My heart is greener than green,
flowers sprout from the mud and water of my being.
Don't let me stand, if you are the enemies of Spring.
 
Simin Behbahani, the Lioness of Iran

Translation. by Farzaneh Milani and Kaveh Safa, Strange Times, My Dear: The PEN Anthology of Contemporary Iranian Lit (Arcade). THis poem was found here


As much as I loathe the mullahs, Ahmadinejad and his lackeys, the Waffen SS-alikes that are the Revolutionary Guards and the Einsatzgrupen in being that are the Baseej militia units (I hope to see each and every one of these bastards crushed, but by the people of Iran), any pre-emptive strike on Iran would be a disaster. It legitimise each and every one of these scumbags and as the people fall in behind leaders it would destroy the opposition movement at a stroke.


Perhaps it is time for the hawks to take a step back and stop swinging their tiny little dicks for a moment. Perhaps it would allow time for the addled little brains to engage.

A must read interview with the Lioness!

Simin Behbahani is known as the Lioness of Iran (or Persia if you prefer). She is truly one of the greatest poets alive today

Guernica Magazine has an excellent interview with the great lady herself. If you have even a remote interest in Iranian affairs Simin Behbahani is someone who is to be listened to.

Photo from Iran Chamber

Imagery of the Iran-Iraq War

Touched and deranged,

downcast and sad;

with veilless face,

and no chador;

heedless of arrest,

careless of the Guards.

For eyes she has

two red grapes

fallen off the bunch.

She's mad,

stark staring mad;

she's lost,

lost to herself,

lost to the world.

A straw in the wind,

she's drifting around.

A graveless body,

she's deadened to the world.

Round her neck she has

a pair of teardrops, a curse:

of a dead soldier boots

with laces tied together.

"What's that?", I said.

"My son", she said,

"sitting on my shoulders

with his boots on."

I have posted the painting and the poem before but never together. THe painting is by Minoo Emami. It is inspired by her husband's experience in the war. He was seriously injured fighting the Iraqis. One of his legs was amputated.

The poem is The Necklace by Simin Behbahani, the Lioness of Iran. The last time I posted the poem in 2008 one of the comments made was "Jesus, that was DARK!!". I agree, In my mind it is as powerful as any of the works of Wilfred Owen.

I wanted to see how these two powerful indictments of war went together. I think they work together, others may not of course!

It's time to mow the flowers... again

It’s time to mow the flowers,
don’t procrastinate.
Fetch the sickles, come,
don’t spare a single tulip in the fields.
The meadows are in bloom:
who has ever seen such insolence?
The grass is growing again:
step nowhere else but on its head.
Blossoms are opening on every branch,
exposing the happiness in their hearts:
such colorful exhibitions must be stopped.
Bring your scalpels to the meadow
to cut out the eyes of flowers.
So that none may see or desire,
let not a seeing eye remain.
I fear the narcissus is spreading its corruption:
stop its displays in a golden bowl
on a six-sided tray.
What is the use of your ax,
if not to chop down the elm tree?
In the maple’s branches
allow not a single bird a moment’s rest.
My poems and the wild mint
bear messages and perfumes.
Don’t let them create a riot with their wild singing.
My heart is greener than green,
flowers sprout from the mud and water of my being.
Don’t let me stand, if you are the enemies of Spring.

--Translated by Farzaneh Milani and Kaveh Safa

From Logos Journal

One year ago today, Ahmadinejad retained his position as President of Iran in what was clearly a rigged ballot... The rest is a matter of record sadly...

Simin Behbahani - Tik...tak, tik...tak

A poem by Simin Behbahani, the Lioness of Iran

Tik...tak and tik...tak, O how the moment flies?
Compelled, humble and obedient it flies.
- Stay, stay my life! give a respite... O God!
Without farewell, wordless and even a look it flies.
Drop by drop like the spring, it drops by moments,
Month turns to year, year turns to month and flies.
At the golden twilight the sun rises,
With the last bloody setting, sinks in well and flies.
When I lay the silvery sleep over my dream,
A black sleep arrives, a white dream flies;
My life like the curtain from alternate white and black
Has become stripped and still stripped it flies.
She who goes is me, I won't return,
Ah me, tell time that untimely it flies!
My pulse is tired, tired from counting ,
The moments of my life, ah... ah time flies!

From Caroun.com. Translated by M Alexandrian

Simin Behbahani on NPR

Simin Behbahani on a telephone interview on NPR on 26 June

Stop Throwing My Country To The Wind

If the flames of anger rise any higher in this land Your name on your tombstone will be covered with dirt.

You have become a babbling loudmouth. Your insolent ranting, something to joke about.

The lies you have found, you have woven together. The rope you have crafted, you will find around your neck.

Pride has swollen your head, your faith has grown blind. The elephant that falls will not rise.

Stop this extravagance, this reckless throwing of my country to the wind. The grim-faced rising cloud, will grovel at the swamp's feet.

Stop this screaming, mayhem, and blood shed. Stop doing what makes God's creatures mourn with tears.

My curses will not be upon you, as in their fulfillment. My enemies' afflictions also cause me pain.

You may wish to have me burned , or decide to stone me. But in your hand match or stone will lose their power to harm me.

Simin Behbahani

June 2009

Translated by Kaveh Safa and Farzaneh Milani. From NPR

Simin Behbahani - A poem for Neda

For Neda Agha-Soltan

You are neither dead, nor will you die.

You will always remain alive.

You have an eternal existence.

You are the voice of the people of Iran.

Simin Behbahani "The Lioness of Iran" is Iran's greatest living poet and human rights advocate. If like me you do not read or speak Farsi. I would strongly recommend purchasing A Cup of Sin Selected Poems. Her works is extremely powerful in English. In Farsi it must be breathtaking. The poem was published on the NPR website

It’s Time to Mow the Flowers - Simin Behbahani

It’s time to mow the flowers,
don’t procrastinate.
Fetch the sickles, come,
don’t spare a single tulip in the fields.
The meadows are in bloom:
who has ever seen such insolence?
The grass is growing again:
step nowhere else but on its head.
Blossoms are opening on every branch,
exposing the happiness in their hearts:
such colorful exhibitions must be stopped.
Bring your scalpels to the meadow
to cut out the eyes of flowers.
So that none may see or desire,
let not a seeing eye remain.
I fear the narcissus is spreading its corruption:
stop its displays in a golden bowl
on a six-sided tray.
What is the use of your ax,
if not to chop down the elm tree?
In the maple’s branches
allow not a single bird a moment’s rest.
My poems and the wild mint
bear messages and perfumes.
Don’t let them create a riot with their wild singing.
My heart is greener than green,
flowers sprout from the mud and water of my being.
Don’t let me stand, if you are the enemies of Spring.

--Translated by Farzaneh Milani and Kaveh Safa

From Logos Journal

Twelve Fountains of Blood - Simin Bebhahani

(For what sin was she slain?)

On her shirt flowed the blood from twelve fountains of blood.
In the dust of madness laid her twin jasmine braids.
streams of blood ran down her body as if not from wounds.
her mouth was open, as if an angel had made her smile.
It was as if her clothes were not sprinkled by a tyrant’s lead,
but the sky had sprinkled starts in the cup of her body.
She who sat in my class, politely, for a year, has fallen.
She does not mind me anymore.
What would Ahriman want from an angel so pure?
His kiss and death have branded her breast,
even though the two buds there had not yet blossomed.
Who has the heart to surrender to a shroud
a body like porcelain, once accustomed to wearing silk?
Her presence will never again light up her father's eyes.
Brothers, what happened to her shirt in the thick of the night?

What was her sin? Tell me. It must be asked.
Don't keep it a secret, if you hear anything about it.

From a Cup of Sin - Selected Poems.

Written in 1985 the poem was inspired by the death of one of her students during a crack down of dissidents. The 12 fountains refers to the number of bullets in a clips used by semi automatic weapons used by Iranian armed forces at the time. The quote at the top is from the Qoran (The Sura of Darkening) "When the seas shall be boiling, when the souls shall be paired with bodies, and when the girl who was buried alive shall be asked for what sin was she slain"

The Blog Opium and Saffron has a superb post on Simin Bebhahani. It is well worth a read

Banu, Our lady - Simin Behbahani

Banu, Our Lady,

this is my gift to you. Accept it.

This said, he raised his offering

and threw it down the stairs.

On the ground, the sacrificial victim

twisted with pain.

A stream of blood followed his fall.

Silence followed his screams.

A demon had made an offering,

and a person had ceased to exist.

Oh . . . for the child lost so young!

A hundred times Oh . . . for the old mother.

Banu, Our Lady, I dreamt I saw you

in the halo of the moon,

your face pale, your eyes red with sorrow.

In your arms you held two sons,

one perfect like the full moon,

the other radiant like the sun.

You sat beside the corpse,

with the road-dust still on your face,

your soul scalded by sorrow,

your heart tired of arrows.

You complained: O Justice! O Faith!

O, the shamelessness of the brute –

offering me a corpse

and asking me to accept it!

Banu, Our Lady, you shed a deluge of tears

over the man murdered by such ignorance.

You turned your silken coat to a shroud

to cover his body.

O, Banu, our guide! O, Banu, our savior,

O, Banu, unblemished! O, Banu, full of light!

From Archipelago.org Click on the link to find out the inspiration for this poem.

The Necklace - Simin Behbahani

Touched and deranged,

downcast and sad;

with veilless face,

and no chador;

heedless of arrest,

careless of the Guards.

For eyes she has

two red grapes

fallen off the bunch.

She's mad,

stark staring mad;

she's lost,

lost to herself,

lost to the world.

A straw in the wind,

she's drifting around.

A graveless body,

she's deadened to the world.

Round her neck she has

a pair of teardrops, a curse:

of a dead soldier boots

with laces tied together.

"What's that?", I said.

"My son", she said,

"sitting on my shoulders

with his boots on."