The Mirror of My Heart

by Unknown

  *

  Sons of vile fathers, death is better than

  A life that’s lived unworthy of a man—

  A wasted life does not deserve life’s name,

  It’s a disgrace, synonymous with shame.

  Your bodies do not feel our pain—where then,

  Is all the manliness that makes you men?

  A wretched body without zeal is worth

  Less than an impure clod of senseless earth;

  What honorable heart would shake with fear

  As soon as Russian enemies appear?

  This is a time for man’s self-sacrifice,

  Not shilly-shallying and cowardice!

  To cower when danger threatens is to be

  A byword for disgrace and infamy,

  So let us fight like lions, like heroes wage

  This war, and be the wonders of the age!

  It’s time to show your fervor, to defend

  Our land with Islam as our faith and friend.

  Batul Adib Soltani

  1896–1993

  Batul Adib Soltani came from a wealthy middle-class family; her father was an amateur poet and an older brother wrote newspaper articles in support of the Constitutional Revolution of 1905–11. Her husband, who worked in the Ministry of Education, was a great lover of poetry and enthusiastically encouraged his wife’s poetic ambitions. She published three books of poetry, and continued to write verse into her eighties.

  *

  In this tumultuous world my hope was I

  Would not be one of those who cheat and lie,

  I hoped the jewelry I would wear would be

  The rings of virtue and sincerity,

  I hoped I’d rein my stubborn nature in

  By practice and by arduous discipline,

  I hoped I’d keep my page of Being clean

  From everything nefarious or mean,

  I hoped I’d use my gift of poetry

  Only for praising someone dear to me;

  But Fate had other things for me to do—

  I could not shun the things I wanted to.

  Parvin Etesami

  1907–41

  Parvin Etesami was born in Tabriz in northwestern Iran, but grew up in Tehran where she attended an American school for girls. After graduation she briefly taught at the school. While she was still an adolescent, her poetry attracted favorable attention, particularly from the poet laureate Malek al-Shoara Bahar. In 1934 she married a relative of her father’s, but the marriage lasted for only ten weeks, and after it ended she is said never to have mentioned it or her husband again. She was an intensely private person and had a reputation for extreme shyness; she was asked to become a tutor at the Pahlavi court but refused to do so, and when later in life she became relatively well known for her poetry she almost always refused to give interviews. She died of typhoid fever at the age of thirty-four. Parvin Etesami is the last major woman poet to write wholly within the conventions of pre-modern Persian poetry, and she is often referred to as the greatest of women poets to have written in that tradition.45

  *

  My rose, what did you see among flowers, in the garden,

  Apart from scolding, spiteful thorns, what did you see?

  In the bazaar, my ruby, shining with such radiance,

  Apart from that mean customer, what did you see?

  You went into the fields, your fate was to be caged,

  Apart from this cage, captured bird, what did you see?46

  *

  An Orphan’s Tears

  A king passed by, and cheering from the crowd

  On rooftops and in streets rang long and loud;

  A little orphan there asked, “What’s that thing

  That’s shining on the crown worn by the king?”

  And someone answered him, “What’s that? Who knows?

  A splendid priceless gemstone, I suppose.”

  A hunchbacked crone came forward and replied,

  “That stone is blood you’ve shed, and tears we’ve cried;

  For years this wolf has fleeced his flock, and look,

  We’re fobbed off with the shepherd’s rags and crook—

  The king who steals his subjects’ wealth’s no better

  Than some cruel cut-throat or a wretched beggar!

  Look at an orphan’s falling tears aright

  To see what makes that royal jewel so bright.”

  Parvin, what use are righteous words to those

  Whose thoughts are twisted and whose minds are

  closed?

  *

  White and Black47

  A white dove, as dawn broke, prepared to fly

  Up from her nest into the morning sky,

  An arrow struck her as she sought to rise . . .

  The aftermath of this was no surprise:

  Her wings were wounded, hope’s thread snapped, each vein

  Seemed split apart by an atrocious pain.

  A black crow passed her nest, and grew alarmed

  To see how grievously the dove was harmed.

  He stopped to care for her, and dexterously

  He built from thorns and straw a canopy

  To shield her from the sun’s glare, and did all

  He could to make his patient comfortable,

  Straining and struggling, weaving leaves to make

  A dense green curtain for the sufferer’s sake;

  He brought her water in his beak, and then

  Delicious fruit to make her well again—

  He was her parents, her brave adjutant,

  Her comfort, caretaker, and confidant.

  The dove had had a wretched time of it

  But now her pain relented, bit by bit.

  The dove asked, “What have black and white to do

  With one another? Who persuaded you

  To make friends with a stranger in this way?”

  The crow replied, “Well yes, it’s as you say,

  We’re different colors, but we’re one inside—

  Between your needs and mine there’s no divide.

  Like me, you have a heart in you, and love,

  Like you, I’ve veins and blood in me, dear dove.

  We should be honest, of one heart, and true,

  Friendship is always friendship, old or new.”

  When we see others suffering we should stay

  And do what must be done, not walk away;

  Good will’s the key to happiness, we’re told,

  Whether it’s made of iron or of gold.

  *

  A preacher asked his son once if he knew

  What Islam is, what Moslems ought to do—

  “It’s truthfulness, my child, it’s being kind,

  It’s helping others, it’s a gentle mind,

  It’s prayerfulness, sincere humility—

  To all of life, my child, it is the key.”

  The boy replied, “By this criterion,

  In our town, father, there is only one

  True Moslem here—he’s an Armenian.”48

  *

  Once women in Iran were not Iranians you’d say;49

  They lived bewildered and in darkness then from day to day,

  Their lives and deaths took place in corners, in obscurity.

  What were they in those days, but prisoners held perpetually?

  No one has lived through such dark centuries as women have

  Or been betrayed by faith’s hypocrisies as women have—

  In law courts women had no witnesses to state their case,

  In schools of excellence and knowledge women had no place,

  Women who wanted justice then could wait their whole life thro
ugh

  Unanswered . . . this was obvious, not something no one knew;

  Many there were who wore the kindly shepherd’s cloak, but they

  Weren’t kindly shepherds, they were wolves that saw us as their prey.

  For women, life’s wide, splendid playing field was nothing more

  Than that small corner of the field that they were fated for,

  Men made sure knowledge was a light that women didn’t see,

  Their ignorance was not from dullness or stupidity—

  How can a woman stitch if she’s denied the thread to sew?

  How can she reap a harvest when she has no fields to sow?

  The fruits of knowledge overflow the vendor’s piled-high stall

  But women’s share of them has always been no fruit at all.

  This bird has lived her life out in a cage, and there she dies

  And gardens never hear of her, for there she never flies,

  Her fate’s obedience, which is a desert and a pit,

  Because what way can she pursue and not be hurt by it?

  It is the glow and hue of knowledge that we need—they are

  Finer than ruby red or emerald necklaces by far,

  A hundred silks cannot compare with one plain simple dress—

  Honor derives from worth, not self-indulgent silliness,

  The wearer gives her clothes and shoes their worth; price is no guide

  To how corrupt or principled the wearer is inside.

  Simplicity and purity are jewels, so let them shine—

  Their glorious luster shouldn’t skulk unnoticed in a mine,

  What use are gold and jewelry when a woman has no sense,

  Since ignorance can’t hide behind her tawdry ornaments?

  Faults should be clothed in chastity, and in no other dress—

  Flamboyant and flirtatious clothes are just like nakedness,

  But if a woman’s chaste and serious, she can be sure

  No kind of dress can harm the reputation of the pure.

  A woman’s like a treasury whose thieves are lust and greed

  And woe to her if she is not the sentinel they need;

  The devil’s not a guest who dines with virtue—he’s aware

  That if he turned up for a meal he’d be unwelcome there.

  The road of righteousness must be our road, since if we stray

  Regret’s the only food we’ll find to eat along the way;

  The eyes and heart must be kept back, but Islam doesn’t mean

  That piety’s a wretched veil ensuring we’re not seen.

  *

  Empty-Handed

  A little girl went to a party where

  She tried to join some girls already there;

  One frowned at her, and one was quick to snatch

  Her own skirt back, one pointed out a patch

  Sewn on the new girl’s knee, one mocked her dress,

  One said her hair was an atrocious mess,

  One said she was too pale . . . their victim heard

  What they were saying, every whispered word.

  She said, “You laugh at me; the heavens too

  Have sniggered at my poverty, like you;

  My heart’s been hurt, but this is how I live,

  And I put up with what the heavens give.

  Why should I care what other people say

  When life has treated me in this cruel way?

  You’ve no idea of what I struggle through—

  The snake of bad luck hasn’t bitten you.

  The rich have dressmakers, but poverty,

  Who is my seamstress, cut these clothes for me.

  My mother washed her hands of life, she’s gone;

  Without her hand to bless me I live on.

  My fingers comb my hair, no one at home

  Has ever thought of buying me a comb;

  This morning brushwood scratched my hands, the red50

  Blotch on my dress is where the scratches bled.

  I’ve had a bitter time of it, but we

  Must drink the wine fate hands to you and me.

  Games children play are pleasant, but my name

  Was never chosen for a children’s game—

  What is a childhood when the child can’t run

  Or laugh or leap or join in any fun?

  The wind of poverty is cold and raw

  And always leaves me trembling like a straw—

  In every task I thought that I’d complete

  The thread snapped, and lay tangled at my feet.51

  Luck’s stream is milk, they say; when I went there

  To drink from it, blood was my scalding share;52

  There are a hundred ways, with every breath,

  A poor unhappy person meets with death,

  And yet she can’t escape from being here,

  Her life, that’s made of misery and fear.

  The eyes see things, and no one said to me

  That there are some things that I shouldn’t see . . .

  My red shoes faded, my green bracelet broke,

  When New Year comes it’s usual for folk

  To have new clothes, but I have none to show,53

  On New Year’s Eve it’s usual to go

  To bath-houses with friends, but I have none,

  I can’t afford it and have never gone.

  My life is like a branch that storms assail,

  That lightning blasts, that’s beaten down by hail;

  The pages of my life are black as night

  And not a single one of them is white.

  The farmer of the stars has sown the field

  That is our life, we reap what it will yield

  Of thorns or flowers; as heaven has done before

  It makes one rich and strong, another poor;

  You haven’t run from me, and I’m surprised—

  Poor folk like me are usually despised.

  Children are fond of songs and novelties

  But I can’t offer you delights like these—

  The door of happiness stays shut for me,

  Whoever locked it threw away the key,

  And since to me Good Fortune’s veiled her face,

  I don’t belong here with you, in this place.

  Oh I was rich last night, before I slept,

  My wealth was all the glistening pearls I wept;

  Would that I’d stored my mother’s kisses when

  She used to kiss me, to be felt again

  Upon my face that’s now kissed only by

  The trickling of my teardrops when I cry.

  Lucky the child whose mother’s here to bless

  Her little girl with constant happiness;

  My mother was my only jewel, but she

  Was stolen by the world’s black crow from me.”54

  *

  Night

  Evening approaches, and the stars’ faint light

  Above the garden glitters in the night.

  Night’s leopard leaves its ambush and draws near,

  And day’s gazelle conceals herself in fear.

  As he turns homeward, tired in every limb,

  The woodman’s load weighs heavily on him;

  Exhausted by his work of dragging seeds

  The tired ant too seeks out the rest he needs,

  And as has happened since the days of old

  The shepherd leads his flock back to its fold;

  Doves fill their dovecots now, to sleep and rest,

  Kites leave off scavenging to seek their nest.

  The world’s in mourning . . . like a mourner’s cry

  An owl’s call echoes in the evening s
ky;

  The hens are roosting, millet seeds lie round,

  Unpecked yet, scattered on the trampled ground.

  A laborer lays his tools down, since it’s late

  And his unfinished task will have to wait.

  The snake-charmer’s asleep, as is his snake,

  And neither smith nor smithy are awake.

  An old dear’s blanket’s torn, but her weak sight

  Can’t see to thread her needle now it’s night.

  Even trapped prey’s at rest, as if the day

  Had dawned, and it could simply slip away.

  The reaper props his idle scythe upon

  His shoulder now his daily work is done,

  The forester at home in bed pulls all

  His covers round him to be comfortable.

  But the appointed watchman stays awake—

  It’s good he does so, for the sleepers’ sake!

  On rooftops thieves are moving now it’s late,

  On highways hidden robbers watch and wait;

  A sick man grumbles he can’t sleep, his dread

  Is that a painful, sleepless night’s ahead.

  The sheep have all been milked, and resting now

  The oxen lie unyoked beside their plough;

  Shouts ring out from a bar, and there’s the sound

  Of glasses smashing as the drinks go round.

  The dark is like the earth’s shield, as if black

  Could be chainmail against the stars’ attack;

  There in the east, Venus begins to shine,

  A jewel translucent in a pitch-black mine,

  A shooting star streaks briefly through the dark

  As though a slingshot’s pebble struck its mark.

  Like oozing blood, the stars of the Great Bear

  Turn red, as though a mourner tore her hair,

  The still stars seem to stare, as convicts hear

  Their sentence, and remain transfixed with fear.

  Through chinks, in shanties of the poor, the pale

  Moon’s light grows dim, and as it starts to fail

  Dawn breaks . . . the sun’s now like a houri who

  Escapes from Ahriman, and shines anew.55

  Dews wash the hyacinth’s tight curls, and clean

  The dirt from lily-of-the-valley’s sheen;

  Once more the ant’s long labors are renewed,

  And sparrows start to peck about for food.

  Some days are like a placid horse; some rear

  And buck and plunge, this way and that they veer;