Kitabı oku: «Solace of Lovers. Trost der Liebenden», sayfa 4
LIKE THE WIND IN THIS WORLD ...
Peter Leisch
“Where are we going?
Home, always home.”
Novalis (1772–1801)
TEHRAN
Shariati St. (opposite side of Arab Hosseini Blvd.), Molla Sadra St., Sharmad Dead End no. 11, fourth floor. When I wake up, I look through a large three-piece window topped by two rounded glass panes above into Tehran’s deep blue autumn sky. A crow croaks. From a distance the occasional sound of passing vehicles. A quiet quarter that falls almost silent in the evening, interrupted at times only by voices, slamming doors, sporadic noises and scraps of conversation from neighbouring buildings. On the windowsill a row of succulents and cacti, more potted plants on a wooden flower stand like a stool with long legs, a small palm tree beside the desk. On the wall hang Persian instruments, two baglamas, two Tanburs, a Kamancheh from Lorestan and a Setar. Amir’s music room, a small, intimate, light-filled room leading to a small south-facing balcony. From the fourth floor I have a good view of the quarter’s narrow alleys. When I stepped into the living room today my hosts had already gone to work, leaving the water for tea in the samovar simmering over the full flame of the gas stove. Basically very little has changed here. The scrap iron collector is still doing his rounds; the tinny sound of his constantly repeated calls reaches me from the loudspeaker mounted on the roof of his pickup. A dhikr, a prayer ritual of everyday life, which is part of the familiar soundscape of Persian cities, just like the smells of spices, wood, Sangak bread and uncertain origins, which all at once evoke so many memories in me. Sounds, scents, colours and long forgotten words in Farsi are raised from the depths of my forgetfulness so that I come to understand their meaning once more. Old faces, voices, stories of a hybrid dreamland, into which I can immerse myself again with a quite unexpected feeling of happiness, which everywhere else have long since faded beyond rescue.
“Just like the wind in this world – it blows and lifts the edge of the carpet,
and the rugs become restless and move. It whisks up waste and straws,
gives the surface of the pool the look of a coat of mail,
brings dance to trees, twigs and leaves, and extinguishes the lamps;
it brings a flare to the half-burned wood and a stir to the fire.
All these states seem diverse and different,
but from the standpoint of the object and the root and reality
they are but one as their movement comes from the wind.”
Molavi (1207–1273)
In the Tajrish Metro Station, the three extra-long, steeply rising escalators trigger a dizzying, surreal feeling of ascending into heaven: crowds of people floating upwards, all seemingly stiff as a poker. It reminds me of a scene in a science fiction film, the title of which escapes me. In the film, every human being is only allowed a certain amount of time to live, and when that time expires, an implanted crystal worn on the palm of the hand turns cloudy and dark. Then in a special, almost sacred ceremony, the candidates for death are “elevated” in a kind of coliseum; released from gravity, they float upwards into a cupola where – as if torched by a high voltage current – they are pulverised and fall away in a veritable shower of sparks.
Bombaste/Dead End, Tehran, 2019 / Bombaste/Dead End, Teheran, 2019
REND
In Persian the rend is an equivocal, ambiguous figure, for which there is no corresponding term in English. Hafez’ “Divan”, for example, includes the following passage: “If you want to visit me at my grave, you must be an impostor.” This suggests that the rend lives his life beyond the prevailing norms and obeys his own rules, which may well entail considerable risks – a free spirit, he operates between and often even against the conventions. The young Kurdish film artist Taher Saba strongly denies this interpretation; he sees the rend as someone “who is not sober, who finds the boundaries by pushing them back”. For Golzar the rend is someone who is neither clever nor wise, but both of these things at once. Afsoun says that Shams-e Tabrizi, Mowlana’s master and beloved soulmate, is a rend. “A kind of thief, but in a different, positive sense?” I ask. “Someone who has stolen Mowlana’s heart?” “Not just his heart,” Afsoun replies. It has to do with love. “A rend takes over your whole body, takes possession of you completely – in a way that is based on a higher respect.”
Calligraphy, Kharaqan/Semnan, November 2019 / Kalligrafie, Kharaqan/Semnan, November 2019
“The depth is outside. This can shake the foundations. Psychology, where are your terrors? The depth is outside. Only once we have devoured the entire contents of this esoteric bowl do we recognise the starting point of all art: drawing warmth from the object; recognising ourselves as a card dealt in a Tarock game of objects. With this, the by no means bottomless inner depth is exhausted. To the outside! Not as a completely incomprehensible process of letting it stand near; let it push in! Whether it is houses or stubborn opinions that seek to conceal their true origins – the eye sees, and at the same time it sees itself as part of the perceived image for the first time.”
Heimito von Doderer, Commentarii (1951–1956)
BASTAM/KHARAQAN
“Yek chand be koodaki be ostad shodim
Yek chand be ostadi e khod shad shodim
Payan e sokhan sheno ke ma ra che resid
Az khak bar amadim o bar bad shodim
Pour me a glass of red wine!
It will carry me there,
where I long to go –
even if only for less
than a moment.”
Omar Khayyam (1048–1131)
Roar of the oil-fired stove, outside our shoes on the icy concrete floor of the veranda, guarded by an old black-and-white watchdog that has curled up next to it. Quiet but constant scraping of Afsoun’s calligraphy reed pen as, in wide sweeping arcs, she bellies out the letters in a poem by Saadi. Ever since we left in the morning, she and Amir have been engaged in a poetic contest (Farsi: moshå éré). In a reciprocal poetic exchange, a poem is recited freely; the last letter of which must be the first letter of the following poem, which is the opponent’s response. Beginnings alternate with endings for hours, and the two pass on endings as new beginnings with playful ease. Hafez. Saadi. Mowlana. Khayyam. Bidel. Fazel Nazari. Arash Azarpek. Akhavan Sales. Forough Farrokhzad. Waw. Alif. Lam. Dal. Mim. Nun. Waw. One last word, always followed by another that is new. Mem. Re. Alif. Sefr. Hic. Alif.
ALAMUT
“We don’t master the ways, we are impostors,
we are not the game, we are the pack;
we are the brush in the painter’s hand,
we ourselves know not what we are.”
Molavi (1207–1273)
A light fall of wind-blown snow has set in; my gaze wanders over rocky ridges to small groups of poplars on the mountain slopes opposite, which are covered by patches of field. On the right the bluish-black rock face, partly overhanging, on whose narrow, elongated plateau Alamut is situated. Scree, sharp-edged fragments of stone and muddy, black earth; now and again, sparse vegetation consisting of thistles, mosses and a strange plant with thick, fleshy leaves. Several times on the way back, I start to pull off one of the leaves so that I can take it with me. But something makes me hesitate, holds me back. Is it this tenacious shape, which feels like a child’s clumsy hand, that makes it impossible for me to pull hard and pinch the leaf off with my fingernails? I have a strange feeling of wounding a living being. Would blood then flow from these strange leaves, whose shape reminds me of a tongue? I feel the same about the small shrubby willows, which are better protected with thorns. Here, too, I soon abandon what were never anything more than half-hearted attempts. The track ascends in a long arc. All is silence. A majestic calm that tolerates no interruption; even the minor gusts of wind that sweep across my face seem silent. The contours blur in the driving snow. Patches of mist and vague outlines. The world meanders and glows cold in all the slate-grey, snow-white colours of rock, leaden grounded nuances and watery highlights. In slow steps, groping carefully forward, I circle the black block of the fortress, which lingers constantly above my head. A dark ship, towering up into the grey snow cloudy sky. Then we reach the entrance, a wooden gate above which, in calligraphic ornamentation, a sign announces: “This is a house of God.”
KHORRAMABAD
“From your perspective, I’m mad,
from mine you are all sane.
So I pray that my madness increases
and your reason multiplies.
My madness comes from the power of love, your sound reason from the power of ignorance.”
Al-Shibli (8th cent. AD)
With tea and fresh dates, time passes unnoticed. At the same time, the continuous presence of a television, which, on countless channels and not unlike western media, delivers a galloping sequence of oriental imagery into my hosts’ living room. I see Turkish soaps with smart tough guys and blonde It girls, Kurdish pop channels with smiling PYD women’s battalions in combat training and fearless looking fighters with Kalashnikov rifles targeting an invisible enemy. And the stirring music that I had learned to love so much in Kermanshah. A deformed propaganda soundtrack of Middle Eastern killing fields, I now find it crude and oppressive, even in the knowledge that the Kurds are merely pawns to be sacrificed in a cynical proxy war, whose string-pullers are in turn manipulated by other puppet masters. Then, no less intolerable, advertising clips with a religious grounding from Saudi Arabia and the Emirates: a young man with black curls, rolling his eyes upward and reciting verses from the Quran to sugary synth-pop sounds and Café Mimi beats. White mountains of cloud pile up bombastically in time lapse, waterfalls plunge through jelly-green nature parks, pious hands open for prayer. Pilgrim masses move in an eerie, mesmerising circular motion around the Kaaba. An empty eye whose iris reflects a black cube. A maelstrom of millions upon millions of bodies around an impenetrable centre that startles me with an abrupt recognition of its significance – less from the everyday political context of the dissolution of old orders and borders, and more from the blatant exaggeration of religious symbolism I find revealed in these media spectacles. An obscene ride through hell that allows a vacuum, a non-place, a zombie spirituality of death to take shape, dissolving all signs of individual humanity until they disappear without a trace. The end of all stories. Chronicle of the void. Ashes of an extinguished fireplace in the icy glare of the screens. Only afterimage, empty gesture, parody. Cathode flicker. All trains terminate at the border. Ghabol nist.
How comforting it is when, later, I see an old man in a shabby suit passing by outside. He has his back turned to me and his hands clasped behind his back; gliding through his wrinkled hands are the clay beads of an old prayer chain.
ESFAHAN
“Afsus ke anche borde am bakhtanist
Beshnakhte ha tamam nashnakhtanist
Bardashte am har anche bayad bogzasht
Bogzashte am har anche bardashtanist
What misfortune that everything that befalls me
must be lost again.
Everything I thought I knew about my life
was not suitable to be taught.
I’m leaving everything behind that I should be taking on.
I accept everything that I should have left behind.”
Abu Said Abol Kheir (967–1049)
On Maydan-e Naqsh-e Jahan (Half of the World Square), the first thing you notice is a silence you would never expect in a square of this size in the middle of the city: you hear the quiet jingle of the horse-drawn carriages and see the spray of fountains raining on the surface of the pond in the middle of the square. Approaching the two-storey arcades of little shops and boutiques all around the square, you hear the gentle hammering of the coppersmiths. An atmosphere of timeless tranquillity and expansiveness makes this a place to pause, to let your gaze wander, to capture details, to savour the spaciousness and serene beauty of this architecture. None of what the traveller perceives is overbearing, shrill and obtrusive; one element combines naturally with the next to form an incomparably harmonious whole. Shah Abbas employed a succession of no fewer than five architects to create the square, one of whom made himself scarce after he had doubts about the feasibility of the structural design of the Great Mosque and the Sheikh Lotfollah Mosque. The two buildings were to support domes weighing about 60 and 30 tons respectively, and the architect’s courage failed him shortly after the foundations were laid. And yet: it all looks as if it were made in one piece; everything is consistent, nothing needs to be added; no lines, projections, extensions or superfluous decorations irritate the eye. Everything is balanced in sensitive and harmonious proportions, and even the position of the mosque at the southern end of the square, angled toward Mecca and gently retracted, forms a perfect conclusion.
Esfahan, Azadegan Teahouse, Chah Haj Mirza, 2017 / Esfahan, Azadegan Teehaus, Chah Haj Mirza, 2017
At the opposite end is the Qeysarriyeh Gate, the entrance to the Grand Bazaar, which meanders along as a dense labyrinth of twisting alleys, backyards, crossways, entrances and exits without any recognisable end. Moped riders suddenly emerge from crooked side alleys that open up to the outside, then weave their elastic way past passers-by, traders and loads transported on small handcarts, disappearing with a splutter behind lengths of fabric and wooden frames. On bales of cloth at the edge of the alley, an old man dozes under female mannequins dressed in chadors; in a tiny cage above a spice shop, a canary sings. The voices of the muezzins respond, starting up one after the other as they call to late afternoon prayer. A wave of smells from cook-shops, herbal scents and musty spice aromas, smoke from a charcoal fire, with a sooty teapot quietly simmering in the embers. With nowhere for tired feet to rest on the bumpy cobblestones, you balance between the flotsam of things that treacherously seek to block your path and unpredictable encounters from the half-light that make you miss your step. And yet it is a joyful stumbling, a stagger and forward swoop, which comes from a restlessness, a desire to reach and recognise the goal.
FIVE REALMS OF BEING1 A discourse on the Persian poetical world
Dariush Shayegan
Of the hundreds of poets in the history of Persian literature, Iranians consider five (by some counts six) poets to be the ideal representatives of Persian poeticness. These five poets are not merely distinguished by their unique characteristics, but also because, in their own way, each of them is a manifestation of an intellectual genealogy that expresses a particular cosmology in a distinct style.
Ferdowsi is the embodiment of epic poetry manifested in the “Shahnameh”, which was influenced by myths from the “Avesta” as well as Parthian and Sasanid tales revitalised after the Arab conquest of Persia led to a reawakening of Persian national identity.
Omar Khayyam – even though some questions remain about the true authorship of the Rubaiyat (quatrains) attributed to him – represents a type of disparity in Persian creativity where opposing concepts such as faith and doubt, submission and defiance, moment and eternity, etc. are brought together. He is the embodiment of an irreducible individual soul that is neither completely faithful nor faithless, believes neither in this world nor the next, obeys neither forced convictions nor prescribed agnosticism; a soul that sees this world as a series of images that appear in the light of the illusional “Magic Lantern”2 and disappear into a “Grave of Nothingness”3. With his unique intellect, which is capable of demythologising, he is a symbol of an aspect of a Persian worldview.
Mowlana Jalal ad-Din Muhammad Rumi is the apex of a mystical tradition whose genealogy can be traced back to Al-Hallaj, Bayazid Bastami, Sanai and Attar. It is not surprising that Iranians consider his masterpiece, “Masnavi-ye Ma’navi”, to be almost holy. Mowlana is a poet of love. His other masterpiece, “Diwan-e Shams-e Tabrizi”, speaks of the soul’s internal journey in search of the beloved. In this work Mowlana abandons himself with a maddening, internal rhythm, sometimes going to such extremes that, like fireworks in the sky, the concepts lose clarity and become unfathomable. Diwan-e Shams is a separation from one’s self in an ecstatic trance of whirling and dancing to the magical rhythm of words and images; it creates such a sense of joyful ecstasy that it can only speak of the poet’s deeply emotional spirit or his holy madness. For Mowlana the place for love is a “placeless place”, because the beloved is everywhere and nowhere at once:
“I am not made of earth, nor water, nor of wind, nor fire;
nor of the Divine Throne, nor the carpet,
nor the cosmos, nor mineral.”4
Saadi may be considered an Iranian version of what ancient Greek culture termed “paideia”, the ideal representative of social norms. He is not just a prime example of humanitas, or Persian customs and culture; his logical thought process and sense of balance has turned his poems into golden rules for social interaction. In other words, Saadi represents a type of practical ethics that is rooted in the Sassanid era as well as in proverbs, aphorisms and political manifestos. However, it is unfair to reduce this great poet to his practical propositions, since he is also a master of lyric poetry. The clarity, lucidity, coherence and deceptive effortlessness of Saadi’s words make him deserving of the title of “master of speech”. He “creates” a type of speech that has turned his ethical teachings into timeless models for every Iranian with a taste for literature. There are also important aesthetic and cultural aspects to Saadi’s works. Even when he provides advice, he manages to avoid the bitter tone of an advisor, presenting his views in a most beautiful manner:
“[...] it is however, not concealed from enlightened men, who are able to discern the tendency of words, that pearls of curative admonition are strung upon the thread of explanation, and that the bitter medicine of advice is co-mingled with the honey of wit, in order that the reader’s mind should not be fatigued, and thereby excluded from the benefit of acceptance [...].”5
Hafez is known as “the revealer of secrets” in Persian literature. He is a unique poet whose poetry inextricably combines form and content. The lines of Hafez’s poetry are symmetrical in nature but lacking in chronology or a logical connection to one another. Instead, they act like intertwined, concentric circles, vibrating and communicating different layers of meaning, just like the vibrating waves on the surface of a pond in which a stone has been thrown. The foundations of mysticism combine with the miracle of speech and a magnificent aesthetic in Hafez’s poetry to create some of the most invaluable gems of the Iranian spirit. Perhaps influenced by a remonstrative point of view, Hafez uses powerful words even in his seemingly blasphemous utterings, and his poetry is filled with instances in which the devout and the heretic are brought face to face. With great audacity, he tears the “mask of hypocrisy” away from the devout, taking this conflict, which is as old as history itself, to its extremes. For him, the truth is too contradictory to be able to fit into the simplistic, super ficial sermons of preachers, its spirit too wild to be tamed by the dry proscriptions of the close-minded pious. In other words, Hafez is the revealer of the tirelessness of Persian literature.
Together, these five poets compose a system that remains alive and present for every Iranian critical thinker. For Iranians, these poets do not belong to a forgone era; they are ever-present. They each reflect an aspect of the Persian soul, and together they cover the entirety of Persian life and cosmology, creating a mysterious connection between individual Iranians and the realms of being created by each poet.
For instance, one can be absorbed in the gallantry and heroic epic of Ferdowsi, reach an ecstatic trance with Mowlana, refer to the wise advice of Saadi in day-to-day life, traverse the delicate mysticism of Hafez to see the universe at the Cup of Jamshid in a thousand shades and contemplate the dizzying dance of particles in the universe through Khayyam’s demystified lens. Passing from one phase to the next, from one realm to another makes every strand of one’s being vibrate, bringing it to life; sometimes it is in harmony with all the other voices; sometimes the voices merge and drown as one. Occasionally the tone turns heroic, sometimes the poet loses himself and other times he becomes intensely aware to the point of intoxication. But never does he become alienated from himself like contemporary men. These poets are like the multifaceted surfaces of Iranian art. Just like the Ardebil carpets from the Safavid era, where each section has its own particular order and geometric and floral patterns, giving it a unique sense of movement and focal point; or like unparalleled Iranian miniatures, where the viewer can experience a variety of different events and spatial qualities in a single work of art; here in the world of poetry, each of these five poets also narrates a particular emotional focal point, and together they create a chorus of the Iranian soul, a soul that is intimate with these different dimensions. In other words, different states of being, from total stillness to moments of amazement, as well as the rhythm of different seasons are simultaneously present here, in a single garden which is composed of the works of these poets.
Floating in the fleeting moment of one of Khayyam’s quatrains, picking a flower from Saadi’s “Gulistan” and “Bustan”, getting drunk on the variable rhythms of Mowlana and following the ups and downs of the heroes in the “Shahnameh”: these are like voyages that an Iranian can partake in based on his interests and capacities. Each of these poets is in tune with the existential dimensions of his own particular point in time, whether that be a time of epic narratives, a mystical time of returning to one’s self, a time of losing one’s self in ecstasy and joy or a kind of presence in the moment, as in the work of Khayyam.
For Iranians, it does not matter how many centuries Khayyam predated Hafez by, or that Hafez came before Saadi, and Ferdowsi before them all. These poets are not categorised chronologically as they are in the West, where Classic poets precede Romantic poets, who are then followed by the Symbolists and later still by the Surrealists. For Iranians, these poets are part of their eternal wisdom, giving them a sense of holiness, as if they are the rays of a central sun within the Persian spirit. Since each of these poets defines a particular realm that leads to the poeticness of Iranians, one can think of them as a kind of planetary system in which each poet is a moon traversing the Persian cosmos. This is why Iranians understand everything based on an internal image and rhythm; it is the reason why they think through poetry. This interconnectedness of thought and poetry is a characteristic that, in my opinion, is unparalleled in other cultures.
The aim of this essay is to present a phenomenological analysis of the poetic awareness of Iranians in relation to these five poets. Philosophical references, be they Greek (Peripatetic) or Islamic, go beyond the limits of this paper, although there is no doubt that both of these schools influenced these great poets, all of whom were learned men of their times. As Shafiei Kadkani writes: “No one can doubt that Saadi was well-versed in philosophy, Islamic jurisprudence, the Prophet’s sayings, analysis, mysticism and Sufism, history and other aspects of this culture.”6
We must also remember that, historically speaking, philosophy is an area that was pursued alongside literature in Iran. Although there is no doubt that the essence of philosophy has influenced the poetic memory of Iranians, it was never an integral part of classical education. Except for scholars who were specifically concerned with philosophy, most well-learned individuals became acquainted with the subject through poetry. The point here is that the poetic perspective of Iranians was shaped by these five poets (or by some counts six – if we include Nezami), great men whom Nader Naderpour calls “six peaks of Iranian literature”.7
Based on their own particular way of being and perspective on life, Iranian literati can take advantage of these five realms of being: in what I refer to as “a period of presence”. In this essay, by referring to these “periods of presence” and focusing on the point that each of these poets (as mentioned above) represents the apex of a spiritual genealogy in Persian thought, I will show how by opening themselves to these different realms of being and remembering their heritage, Iranians absorb the previous levels of each of these ideological movements. By spending time with the “Masnavi”, for instance, they are joined to poets who came before this work, like Sanai and Attar. My intention here is not to ignore the many other Iranian poets, some of whom are quite important; instead it is to emphasise that the essence of these poets has become manifest in these peaks of Persian poetry, just like many mountain passages lead to the cliff.
Let us begin by looking at Ferdowsi, a prime example at the time of epic narratives, a time where the hero is raised to a level of enlightenment through mythopoesis. In Ferdowsi’s poetry, a hero like Kay-Khosrow disappears from this world to become an otherworldly hero. In the story of Jamshid, Ferdowsi shows how wealth and power can be so intoxicating and seductive that it can make someone like Jamshid turn his back on the creator and speak of his own “greatness and kingly power”, going so far as to state, “in this world nothing matters but I”, so that ultimately he ends up losing his throne due to his ego and arrogance. Then Kay-Khosrow, a wise and just king, abdicates from the throne, turns his back on the earthly life and seeks paradise instead because he knows that power can turn evil and he fears that he will share Jamshid’s fate:
“For now I have found all that I sought
And my desire for the throne is naught.”8
This message from the “Shahnameh” later appears in the mystical tales of philosophers like Suhrawardi, turning a heroic epic into a mystical epic, essentially transforming the timeless version of the wise-king (Kay-Khosrow) into an eternal version of the complete (enlightened) man.
Every period of presence is a progression to another level of being, each level a passage from the outer to an inner dimension. While in the case of Ferdowsi, the epic describes a different form of being for the hero with a focus on eternal life, the mystical path of love in Mowlana and Hafez describes a transition from human to holy love. This passage has an aspect of ecstasy and joyous wonder with Mowlana, whereas in Hafez the progression is much more delicate because, due to his aesthetics and delicate taste, Hafez avoids expressing anything with full conviction and prefers to cover everything in an intricate shroud of ambiguity (except when it comes to revealing the hypocrisy of the devout and the pious, where he is incessantly direct). The ascents, descents and numerous pauses in Hafez’s delicate mystical journey make one think that nothing is absolutely positive or negative. Every forward movement toward a point is simultaneously an evasion of that point, and the progression of love appears through this endless tension of back and forth. To keep the soul constantly moving forth, Hafez never completes the circle of being. He maintains a distance between an eternity without beginning and an eternity without end. Hafez is well aware of the limitations of man as long as he is trapped in this “ruinous earthly world”, and this is exactly why his mysticism and spirituality are combined with a type of rebellion and impertinence against sanctimonious pretenders; it is also the reason behind his impetuous opposition to close-minded fanatics. Hafez praises the outlook of the libertine while condemning the self-righteousness of the ignorant. For Hafez, the Muhtasib9 and the devout (which he uses synonymously) are symbols of disingenuousness, and for Mowlana “the leg of syllogisers is of wood; a wooden leg is very infirm”. Hafez speaks of the archetypes of mysticism and tradition in his poem on the night of separation; he describes man as a pilgrim in exile and recounts his progression in love, the long path he takes to reach the creator and the “realm of being”, which is a path filled with obstacles and pain. Where he speaks of the pain and anxiety of awareness, the modern tone of the poetry is very engaging:
“Lost is the grail in the dark of the night
Appear in the corner of the sky oh leading light
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