“Don -e- Araam” translated by Ahmad Shamlu is published. Jan 13, , New set of of Shamlu CD’s such as “Bagh Ayneh”, and “Qoqnus dar Baran” and some . Amhad Shamlu was born on December 12, , to the family of an army officer in Tehran. Like many children who grow up in army families, he received his. The Persian poet, also known by the surname Shamloo, or in his homeland as Ahmad Šāmlū, occasionally used the pen name A. Bamdad when writing poetry.
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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.
You could not use his poetry as a drill bit.
Today’s poet Must dress well He must ahmadd 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. For three days now, I have been everywhere, seeking you out.
Sir, you must be mistaken. Are you taking me for someone else? In my verses, people form the units “Life” i. All his efforts, otherwise, will be futile.
There is no way out: 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: At the end, The poem became useless and banal And the master became tired Of a lack of purpose! 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. Click on photo to see larger image. Then click “Back” on your Browser to return to this page.
Ahmad Shamlu | Iranian poet |
They even smell your heart Trying times are these, my darling. They flog love Tied to the post of the cul-de-sac We must hide love in the closet. Those who, late at night, knock on the door, Are there to kill the lamp. We must hide the light in the closet.
Then there are the butchers Stationed at all cross-roads, Armed with a block and a bloody cleaver. Trying times these are, my darling. Surgically, They plant smiles on lips, And songs in the mouths.
We must hide joy in the closet. On lilies and lilacs, They roast the canaries.
The Love Poems Of Ahmad Shamlu
Drunk with victory, the Devil, Celebrates our wake. We must hide God in the closet. I dread, however, to die In a land where The grave digger’s wages Exceed the price of human freedom. Looking for, Ahmd, Choosing freely, And transforming one’s essence Into a fortress.
If the price of death is higher than all that, I deny, in absolute terms, To have ever feared death.