Ali Babachahi

Ali Babachahi
File:Ali babachahi.jpg
Born	(1942-11-10) 10 November 1942 Bushehr, Iran
Occupation	Poet, Writer, Researcher, and Literary critic
Nationality	Iranian
Education	Shiraz University
Spouse	Farkhondeh Bakhtiari
Children	Ghazal Babachahi & Behrang Babachahi
Website
http://www.babachahi.blogfa.com/

Ali Babachahi (Template:Lang-fa, born 10 November 1942 in Bushehr, Iran) is an Iranian poet, writer, researcher, and literary and art critic.

Babachahi is one of Iran's most prominent modern writers and poets, and has published over 50 literary works in various forms. He has also written hundreds of critical works and essays on art and culture in journals and magazines. He worked as a teacher and editor. From 1989 onward, he has been engaged in the compilation of a dictionary of Persian language at the University Publication Center and also edited Adineh monthly magazine's poetic column.

Ali Babachahi opened his eyes to the world in Bushehr on the Persian Gulf where the blue waves kiss the sandy shore with a scorching sun in the sky.My neighbors and relatives who lived on the seashore and earned their living by fishing , never returned when tempest boiled and overturned their boats. My restlessness ensues from a storm which continuously tosses me from one spot to another and I don't know where I will settle in the end , says the poet who murmurs a sea song when he remembers his beloved home town. Babachahi received his B.S. in literature from Shiraz College of Literature and worked as teacher and editor in the Papyrus and Pishbord magazines. From 1989 onward he has_been engaged in the compilation of a dictionary of Persian language at the University Publication Center and he is also editor of the poetry column in the Adineh monthly literary magazine. Babachahi started his work by publishing his first book of poems called Suspended Without Support.This was followed by The World and the Woeful Lights , From the Sun's Generation , The Sound of Sand , Who Opened the Cage Door? , The Gift of the Spring , The Sun Rises from Our Grave , The Lays of Seamen , I Am A Drop of Rain and the Untraceable Destinations of the Sea which appeared in 1997.The poet has also published a second edition of selected poems , a commentary on Manouchehr Sheibani's poems and a collection of essays on Iranian modern poetry which he has gathered in two volumes.Once it seemed to me that writing is like the singing of birds which fly from one branch to another and pour their tuneful notes by instinct and for their own pleasure. Free of every rule and discipline, a bird has no limitation to confine itself. Perhaps life owes its cheerfulness to the warbling birds, and should they cease to pour their delightful chorus of melody in spring and autumn, our planet would become a dull, dead and despondent place to live. A sudden shock usually awakens my feelings, says Babachahi adding that he writes poetry in the hope that his lays will strike in harmony with the song of birds. Asked about the crisis in modern poetry, he says this is a sudden change of mood like a sudden improvement of a dying patient who recovers miraculously. He says during 10 years of his service with Adineh he is assigned to the thankless job of editing the poetry column where he is continuously besieged and courted by the ambitious poets to publish their poems and is severely attacked and libeled of siding with friends and favorites by those whose poems do not receive the honor of print.

...

Babachahi says those poems which seems strongly worded yet backward and remote from the active movement towards modern poetry have little chance of publication in Adineh. In the same way those superficial and false avant-gardes who disturb the system of poetry without being conversant with it, are not courted by Adineh. This false concentration on composition which leads to bizarre abstraction must be blamed for disturbing our youthful poetry of the day because no creation is free from tradition and nothing is invented from naught".How can those who have no patience to study Saadi's Gulestan and Bustan make inventions in parts of speech or supply a new plan.Do they think that by disturbing such established balance they can create new artistic works , the poet asks.He says the new wave of abstruse diction in the 60s can teach a lesson to these impatient youth who want to shine overnight.However , strangeness of sophisticated or simple works from experienced and talented poets who are normally treated with coldness by superficial editors will not make us hesitate to publish even if not endorsed by the magazine.

...

Regarding the objectives of Adineh, Babachahi says the magazine concentrates on diversity of tastes and talents and has no other mission but to echo the works of talented and unknown poets and writers , and encourage the gifted youth to flourish and beautify the Persian language.I believe a poet needs to create but he cannot create anything with conventional methods.And when he digs new avenues he is gripped with individual or group crisis.The impact of this crisis is the confrontation of the older generation with the new generation which needs a creative art.In short modern Iranian poetry is undergoing a natural upheaval but it is wrong to presume that it has hit a dead end or has degenerated.What I have observed in the past several decades is more devotion and outburst of feeling which allows new definitions to penetrate the language.Before the Revolution poetry dealt with historical intervals , but now it is dealing with morning , noon and evening , Babachahi remarked.

Books

Suspended Without Support, The World and the Woeful Lights, From the Sun's Generation, The Sound of Sand, Who Opened the Cage's Door?, The Gift of the Spring, The Sun Rises from Our Grave, The Lays of Seamen, I Am A Drop of Rain, Untraceable Destinations of the Sea and...

Unless You Return... Translated to English by M. Alexandrian

I am as desirous of your return

As a child,

At a Norouz holiday morning,

Or a swallow

At a spring noontime;

And me,

For the joy of seeing you.

I am so absorbed in your mirror

That the world passes beside me

While I do not turn my head.

In bloody seasons too

One can fall in love.

I envy the lover doves,

Who stretching their wings

Pick up the seed,

And I envy the star and rain

Which kiss you

At your moonlit profile

And I a flower

Which blossoms at your bidding.

In bloody seasons also,

One can fall in love.

Unless you return,

Or arise out of a blossom

Or descend from the sun,

Otherwise day

Is a coffin

Mounted on the shoulders of cloud

Taking us

To unseen horizons;

And love

Is a dying dear,

Which lays its head on the shoulders of the rain.

Come!

Come with a body of fire!,

With the manifestation of thunder.

Alas

Where I can see you again

Oh illuminating star?!

For without you

I will grow old

Until the time of nocturnal ramble.

As soon as you return,

The stars will fall in love

And youth

Will arrive

With the rain.

Autumnal by M. Alexandrian

Perhaps there is something

In the morning of autumnal rains,

Which repeals the hand, ....

The yellow and violet in the pavements,

And find a green box,

And lay several Ashrafi flowers by your side.

In each drop of rain

There is perhaps a brilliant spell

Which makes the parrots speak;

Or perhaps some candy

Which entices the lost children

To return home.

Perhaps

The cracked pitchers of wine

Will assemble in a line from every direction,

And the house will be full of crimson,

And the hand

Turns into diamond branch in the air,

And at the tip of the foot,

Seven oriental girls

Will kindle a fire

On the leaves and flowers of Kerman carpet.

The thunderbolt from the cup-bearer's body

Will perhaps

Rotate the circle of the drunkards,

Love,

Becomes the flower of autumnal feast,

And death

Retreats to a corner.

Unless the coyness of the minstrels

Is trampled,

The face is converted with the flower leave of this ancient hag,

And no doleful cry

From any hole

Will break the mirrors of the air;

As if a drop of blood

Had fallen on an earth from a bird's plume.

Seven days and nights

Staring at the veranda of the cloud,

The lover of rain

Perhaps

Shall understand the secret of the minstrels

Who sell

The lines of the dead

To a foam of wine.