Poetry coins with the undeniable sociopolitical status of society in mutated circumstances. In two words, it reflects upheaval and/or submission.

 

We see this manifestation in the patriotic epic of Ferdowsi showing love for Persian glory and pride in it. By contrast, we see the non-patriotic lyrics of Hafiz with a cast of shy taste for the taboo wine (Mai). Alternatively, Rumi’s homoerotic mystical lust for another handsome poet, Shams, which is expressed through his lyrics.

 

Finally, this is the Shampoo’s intellectual poetry, which reflects the dominant aspects of the dictatorship. So, in each epoch, poetry articulates in a rational correlation with various ramifications of sociopolitical cases due to the upheaval or submission.

 

Today, art or poetry does not only express the dream, vision, and beauty, but also the pains, death, and ugliness we perceive under the yoke of the Islamic regime. We articulate the feelings of our pains and desires. It is today in this sense of poetry that we can sustain belief in its efficacy.

 

Here is an English translation of my French poem for Sattar composed for my francophone friends on my facebook. Sattar in my poem is a combination of our pains and desires, a vision of new upheaval in our oppressed society:

 

 

Perished under Torture

 

His name is Sattar Beheshti

Sattar means hider of people’s faults

In fact, he was a seeker of justice

Blogger pushing his cries of alarm.

 

The worker could have kept his silence

Earn the bread of his old mother

Recognise the resentment of Mullahs

Forget the illusion of justice.

 

Sattar fell into the hands of God

Worse, in the retinue of his Mullahs

Behind the bars of their prison

And suffered torture infinitely.

 

Beaten up from head to heels

Laminated his body with lashes

His flesh torn to shreds

And after a week in jail

Sattar died at thirty-five years.

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 The original in French :

 

Mort sous la torture

 

Il s’appelle Sattar Behechti

En français, celui qui cache les défauts

En effet, chercheur de la justice

Un blogueur poussant ses cris d’alarme.  

 

Le travailleur aurait beau garder le silence

Gagner le pain de sa vieille mère

Reconnaitre la rancœur des mollahs

Oublier l’illusion de la justice.

 

Sattar tombe dans les griffes de Dieu

Pire, dans le cortège de ses mollahs

Derrière des barreaux de leur prison

Subit de la torture infinie.

 

Tabassé de la tête aux talons

Laminé son corps par coups de fouet

Déchiré en lambeaux sa chair

Et après une semaine en prison

Sattar est mort à trente cinq ans.