I was up late last night watching the elections. I knew
Obama would win. He had to. The alternative was unthinkable.
I watched the election results at my desk while I worked on
my translation of Walt Whitman's Song of Myself into Persian (for a
project sponsored by the International Program at the University of Iowa.)
It was a surreal experience to watch the
results come in and be discussed while I translated lines like:
There is no stoppage and never can be stoppage,
If I, you, and the worlds, and all beneath or upon their
surfaces, were this
moment reduced back to a pallid
float, it would not
avail in the long run,
We should surely bring up again where we now stand,
And surely go as much farther, and then farther and farther.
A few quadrillions of eras, a few octillions of cubic
leagues,
do not hazard the
span or make it impatient,
They are but part, anything is but a part.
(Walt Whitman, Song
of Myself, 1881 edition)
Today, I’d like to share with you a poem by Iranian poet
Sohrab Sepehri (1928-1980), a gifted painter and poet who drew his images from
eastern mysticism. I think it’s a fitting poem to read one day after the presidential
elections. It’s a poem that in its own timeless way addresses many issues we grapple with today, issues
such as the environment, United State’s foreign
policy, and our sense of responsibility towards each other and towards our
fellow human beings around the world.
Water
Let’s not
muddy the water:
Down yonder,
a pigeon drinks.
In a far away
thicket, a finch bathes.
In a village
somewhere, a jug is filled.
Let’s not
muddy the water:
perhaps it
flows towards a poplar
to wash away
the sorrow from a heart,
or to the
foot of a dervish who dips in his bread.
A beautiful
woman has come to the stream’s edge.
Her
reflection repeats her beauty.
Let’s not
muddy the water.
How lucent
the stream!
How sweet the
water!
How the folks
up yonder savor!
May their
springs surge.
May their
cows give abundant milk.
Though I’ve
never been
to that
village, I know
God’s
footsteps grace its fields.
The moon
there spreads her light
on their
talk, and no doubt
their clay
walls are low.
The people of
that village know
what poppies
are.
No doubt
there, blue is blue,
and when a
flower blooms
the whole
village is aware.
What a
township!
May its
streets overflow with song!
Those on the
stream’s edge understand the water.
They have not
muddied it.
Let us too
not muddy the water.
(From The Forbidden, Translated by Sholeh Wolpé )