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.
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.