Large Picture, Small Mirror

10.03.2013

Partaw Naderi was born in Badakhshan, a north eastern province of Afghanistan, in 1331/ 1952. He studied in his birthplace and graduated from the faculty of science, Kabul University in 1354/ 1976. He began to write poetry in the 1970’s. He is now regarded as a leading poet in the modernist trend in Afghanistan. His experiments with ‘‘blank” and “free” verses distinguish him as a highly original and creative poet.

Large Picture,

Small Mirror

Partaw Naderi

Translated from the Persian by S.Wali Ahmadi

My mother was from the green tribe of grace

she spoke the language of the heavenly ones

she wore a silky scarf of faith

her heart resembled God’s throne –

and was as large as the Divine truth.

I could hear God’s voice from the heartbeats

and no one knew that God was in our house

and that the sun would rise along with

the voice of my mother.

My mother was from the green tribe of grace

Whenever she approached me

I could see rays of light

In her little footprints

I could see the green, heavenly fields

And I would pick from their trees the fruits of mirth.

My mother was from the green tribe of grace

she wore a silky scarf of faith

her forehead was the first stanza of God’s loveliest psalm

- which I recited every morning with affection-

and from which I discovered what God’s poetry meant.

My mother was from the green tribe of grace

she spoke the language of the heavenly ones

endurance –that little white dove

washing her wings every dawn

in the purest fountains of paradise –

would bring her massage from the auspicious land of the Koran.

My mother was from the green tribe of grace

her linage extended along the sun’s memory

When she was born

Her father mourned the collapse of the tall tree of his life

I heard from the sun that-

with a finger of faith-

my mother would seek the word SMILE in the book of her life .

but , also, she could not find it even at her last breath of life.

My mother knew crying

she would derive thousand words from TO CRY

in her eyes, she had memorized crying in a thousand Languages.

Her eyes - two perfect mirrors of theophany -

possessed excellent memory.

My mother was a stranger to spring

her life was an ant-trail through the mountains of misery

where, in all four seasons,

the clouds of insult would pour the rain of abuse

and she would gather countless flowers of affliction .

My mother was a patient stone

Whenever my father rode the ship of his agitation

in the scarlet stream of fury

she would take refuge in the shores of endurance

she would wipe her tears and

enter into communion with God .

My father was strange

Whenever he put on his turban of pride

he would think that the sun was a mere pigeon

which flew from his shoulders.

He would think that he could ration sunlight for my mother

and that the moon was colorful marble he could hang on his horse’s mane.

My father was strange

Whenever he summoned me

I could smell disaster all around me

and words – like scared sparrows -

would fly away from the autumn-ridden fields of my mind

and fear would hide my face

Whenever my father summoned me,

the blood of speech would be arrested in the red veins of my tongue

and my mother’s heart-

like a glowing crystal-

would let itself go in the depth of darkness.

My mother would see her loss

in the broken mirror of fear

and await a catastrophe.

My father was strange

Whenever he put on his turban of pride

his little empire would begin in the four corner of our little house.

Then,

he would lash freedom

-which was I-

and life

- which was Mother-

and chain us,

My mother’s blessed soul would even then repeat:

“May God never take his shadow off our heads.”

(Kabul, October 1991)

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Javid	15.05.2017 - 13:08
اين شعر با اين فصاحت و بلاغت و تشبيهات نشان گر چیره دستي شاعر توانا و بزرگ مرد ادبيات دري افغانستان ميباشد. The English version also reflects the true meaning of the poem. But It would have been better if the translator would have used her heartbeats, not the heartbeats. For the English reader of this poem, it would be confusing that where the heartbeats coming from? Are the coming from the heart of mother or from the heart of son. The only

Naseer Rahyaab	11.06.2013 - 06:49
A mesmerizing translation of the poem took me back to the times when I had read the original one in Dari. I know how arduous effort it takes to translate a poem and for that I wholeheartedly thank Mr. Wali Parkhash Ahmadi.

Khuda Daad	10.04.2013 - 03:33
The poem, needless to say, is amazing. The translation is done by none other Dr. Wali Parkhash Ahmadi, a professor at UC Berkeley.

Lutfullah Mashal	02.04.2013 - 11:04
I have read this beautiful poem of our prolific writer and poet, Partaw Nadery in Dari, the English translation is superb!!! Whoever the translator is- "a BIG thank you"