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 )
