كتابخانه آياصوفيه؛ استانبول The Hagia Sophia Library

كتابخانه آياصوفيه؛ استانبول

و تهى بودن كتابها را آموختم
به كشورهاى دیگر رفتم و همه جا با نادانی روبه رو شدم.
درست نمی دانستم
به دنبال چه چیزی
به اینجا آمده بودم
پرنده کوچکی شده بودم
انگار
دنبال آشیانه می گشتم
برگه دان ها را
زیر و رو می کردم
قفسه های میانی
ردیف های کناری.
 
توی ذهنم
بتُن آرمه
گچ بُرى قرن بيستم
بُعد پیدا می کرد...
رادارهایم
خوب کار می کرد
مثل هانسل و گرِتِل
وحشت زده
خرده های نان را
پشت سرم جا می گذاشتم.
 
به قرا‌‌هتخانه رسیدم
کتاب های مرجع را یکی یکی ورق زدم
انگار کم کم داشتم غرق می شدم
دنبال تخته پاره ای می گشتم.
اما دیر شده بود؛
در قفسه های میانی
سالومه ی نیچه می رفت
تا الٰهه ى الهام ريلكه باشد
و شاید مابین این دو
از تنازع بقا حرف بزند
که «حق وِتو» ندارد!
 
قراهتخانه سرد بود
صداهای مختلفی می شنیدم:
ناظم حکمت
بلند بلند
برای مُنوّرنامه مى نوشت
و همزمان
با ورا شطرنج بازی می کرد
چه عدالت نابی!
 
کسی در آن تاریکی صدام کرد
برگشتم
شمع کوچکی در مخزن روشن بود
خودم با چشم های خودم 
دیدم
که مایکوفسکی به ماریا
کارت ویزیت تعرف می کرد
 
پرتاب شده بودم
به یک موقعیت استثنایی 
و خودم نمی دانستم.
روی نقشه دیوار
بلقیس الراوی
در سفارت عراق
خواب می دید
که‌ کشته خواهد شد
و مزار قبانی
معشوق تازه آش را‌‌ انتخاب کرده بود.
 
کم کم دارم به خاطر می آورم
جادوگر دنبالم کرده بود
توی کتاب ها مخفی شده بودم
تقلا می کردم
دست و پا می زدم
اما فایده ای نداشت
بعاتریس نُه ساله
 
 
 

The Hagia Sophia Library

I wasn’t sure
what brought me here
or what I was looking for.
As I riffled through the index cards
on the middle shelves
and side rows,
it was as if
I had turned into a small bird
searching for a nest.
 
Reinforced concrete
invaded my mind.
My radar functioned,
Terrified,
like Hansel and Gretel,
I dropped breadcrumbs behind me.
 
In the Reading Room
I leafed through reference books one by one
as if I was slowly drowning.
I looked around for a plank of wood
but it was already too late.
In the middle of the stacks
Nietzsche’s Salomé was about
to become Rilke’s muse –
but they had no veto
over her verdict
of the survival of the fittest! 
 
The Reading Room was cold.
I could hear many voices.
Nâzım Hikmet
was writing letters to Manowar
in a loud voice,
while playing chess with Vera –
what perfect justice!
 
Someone called my name in the dark –
I turned round,
a small candle flickered
in the archives.
With my own eyes
I saw Mayakovsky
give his card
to Maria.
 
I found myself in unforeseen circumstances.
A map on the wall showed
Balqis Al-Rawi
in the Iraqi Embassy
dreaming she’ll be killed,
while Nizar Qabbani
chose his new girlfriend.
 
It dawned on me
that the witch was stalking me –
I hid inside the books
floundering,
but it was hopeless.
Nine-year-old Beatrice
dictated the Devine Comedy
to Dante
who, exhausted and helpless,
never made it to the Paradise he created.
No!
His life was no Hell either –
he found himself condemned to the Purgatory
Beatrice had designed for him.
 
Here, among the mouldy books of this archive,
even Olga
couldn’t make Chekhov  
crazy enough to love her.
 
I must get out of here
and return to my childhood home
in Roodsar –
my sad city –
and read the story of Layla and Majnum
till my heart is full.
 

Ayasofya Library, Istanbul

And I learned the emptiness of books
I went abroad, and I found the same deep-rooted ignorance
 
Van Helmont
 
I didn’t quite know
In search of what
I had come here
It seemed
I had turned into a small bird
Looking for a nest.
I was shuffling through
The card holders
Middle shelves
Side rows
 
Inside my mind
Reinforced concrete
20th Century plasterwork
Found new dimensions…
My radars
Worked well
Terrified
Like Hansel and Gretel
I left bread crumbs behind.
 
I arrived at the reading room
Turned pages of reference books one by one
As if I was gradually drowning
I was looking for a piece of board
But it was already too late;
In the middle shelves
Nietzsche’s  Salome was going
To become Rilke’s muse
And may talk between these two
Of the survival of the fittest
Which has no right to veto!
 
The reading room was cold
I could hear different voices;
Nazim Hikmet
Was writing letters to Monavar
In a loud voice
And simultaneously
Played chess with Vera
What a pure justice!
 
Someone called me by name in that darkness
I turned back
A small candle was burning in the repository
I saw with my own eyes that
Mayakovski was offering  business cards
To Maria
 
I had been thrown into
An exceptional position
And I didn’t know myself.
On the map on the wall
Balqis Al-Rawi
Was dreaming in the Iraqi Embassy
That she will be killed
And Nizar QabbaniHad chosen his new beloved.
 
I am slowly remembering
The witch was stalking me
I was hiding inside the books
I was struggling
Floundering
But it was useless
9-year old Beatrice
Was dictating to Dante
The patterns of the Divine Comedy
Dante
Tired and homeless
Never went to the paradise he had created
No!
There was no hell in his life either
For his entire life
He staggered in the horrible purgatory
That Beatrice has built for her.
 
Here
Among the damp books of this repository
Even Olga
Could not make Chekov
A little disturbed and  a lover
I should leave this place
And go to Roodsar
My sad city
And read a full heart  of Leyla and Majnun
In my childhoods’ room
 

‘The Hagia Sofia Library’ was a wonderful introduction to the poetry of Bahareh Rezaei and the poem itself – both playful and witty – was a pleasure to translate.

Hagia Sofia is one of the great masterpieces of Byzantine architecture. Situated in Istanbul, the building was first a magnificent church, then an imperial mosque and is now a museum. Turkey, next door to Iran, is a frequent destination for Iranian tourists, who often go there to enjoy its less restrictive rules of social conduct.

The poet herself, as she tells us in the opening lines, is unsure of what has brought her to the Hagia Sofia Library, or what she is searching for, and the poem traces her journey through the book stacks where she encounters visions of male writers and their female companions.

As you will see by comparing Alireza’s fine literal translation to our final version, we’ve altered very little. In the first stanza, we’ve reversed the syntax of the second sentence by putting the action of the poet riffling through index cards before its simile of her behaviour of her being like ‘a small bird’.

The first instance of literary partners she comes across is the only example in the poem of a woman writer, Lou Andreas Salomé, confounding her two male lovers, Nietzsche, whom she abandoned for Rilke. Thereafter, the women come off worst.

The great Turkish poet, Nâzım Hikmet, writes to his wife while playing chess with his lover. The modernist Russian poet, Mayakovsky, begins his seduction of Maria (a lover mentioned in ‘The Cloud in Trousers’). Balqis Al-Rawi, the second wife of Nizar Qabbani (one of the most revered poets of the Arab world), was killed by a bomb on the Iraqi Embassy in Beirut in 1981; in this poem, while his wife is dying, Qabbani is accused of already choosing his next lover. Next, Beatrice is said to have dictated The Divine Comedy to Dante – and condemned him to a Purgatory she devised. And finally it’s claimed that Chekhov’s lover, Olga, couldn’t make him crazy enough to love her (even though they did eventually marry).

Eventually, the poet has had enough of these deceptions and she longs to return to ‘her sad city’ and birthplace, Roodsar, in northern Iran, where she vows to ‘read to her heart’s content’ (from Alireza’s ‘read a full heart’) of the most famous story of thwarted lovers in Persian literature, that of Layla and Majnun.

Sarah Maguire, Workshop Facilitator

Original Poem by

Bahareh Rezaei

Translated by

Alireza Abiz with The Poetry Translation Workshop Language

Farsi

Country

Iran