her last love poem she lettered
as she lay dying on the tainted
bright Rabia Balkhi
sister of Haares Ghozdari
so completely with all her heart
wrote on the walls of the public bath
my love for him brought
earlier that day, blew a bluster through
and the silent sound of noontime broke
deeming her heart’s desire much to blame
whose honour was outside of himself
who had put his scheme in motion
as she was shoved in
causing
for daughter of Amu Darya
who followed her fervent heart
stalwart with secretive life
taking the painful
I knew not when I rode
this came some thousand years past
where River Amu Darya
where no one said no to men
when no one resisted coward men
when Prince Haares roughly
when she wept into verse
love is like an expansive sea
her grave now a shrine
who escaped his prison and hearing news
distraught by death of a princess
if you ever aspire
the first woman poet
which she had no chance to challenge
on the tail of some thousand years
as the battle goes on in olden lands
while in big cities, it comes in
men too coward to show
men too blind to see the distinct soul
like Rabia who settled into her sorrow
when witnessing things hideous
let’s get together with Rabia at Amu Darya
let’s get together with Rabia at Amu Darya
******
Rabia Balkhi lived in the 10the century of our era.
2007
in her blood, her own pool of warm
blood dripping dipping in it
her fingers made of moonlight
tiles of a public bath
bent against the wall
Persian poet painter Princess
ruthless ruling prince of Balkh
whose Turkish slave Baktaash
she loved like a goddess
for his singing voice that told her stories
for his music that was sweet to her ears
for his beauty that moved her
beyond words
her doomed life of secret ties
with her man
about my bondage again
all essays in secrecy
proved to be in vain
the blue skin of sky as Baktaash was thrown
into a prison-well for daring to love
a princess
as Rabia was lured to this fateful place
on the orders of heartless Haares
abreast of the tale
of her venture
offended by havoc made
of his honour
on Rabia’s shoulders, in her mien
and manners and under
her skirts
by his henchmen
who called her names
who stabbed her six times
who slashed her both wrists
and left her dying
locking the doors
from outside
cries of angels
clouting on the clouds
the air breaking in quick echoes
the thunder to crack harder, louder
the skies to light up and the rain
to pour down for her destiny
trespassing customs that traverse
and deny women’s selfhood
labouring of passion
giving birth, one last time
to her mystic poem
cuts in her neck
on her wrists
the high-spirited stallion
the harder I pulled its reins
the stiller it would remain
in Mother of Cities, Bactra / Balkh
centre of Bactria / Bâkhtar
in today’s northern Afghanistan
fenced in walls of mountains
rushed recklessly past it
with clouded eyes as owners
of their women’s lots and lives
without honour whose honour was
endowed with by their sisters
mothers daughters wives
ripped apart Rabia’s daring
dream of loving Baktaash
how she loved her precious one
with no shore in sight
who knows, oh wise woman
how to swim in it outright
for the pleas of young lovers
beset by adversity, feeling for
her tragic tale and that of broken
Baktaash
of Rabia’s death, rushed to Haares’s office
slew him with a sword, then took his own
life on her fresh tomb
forced to endure dazzling dread
dashing to her heart
as she wrote
to go to the end of love
welcome with it all things
vile you could think of
in the history / herstory of Persian poetry
was a clear victim of honour-murder
the evil tempest of honour-murders
is keeping up the tempo to this day
in faraway villages and in towns
of Iran and surrounding lands
the pattern of ordered suicides
staged accidental deaths of hundreds
of women who carry the honour
of their honourless men
honour by their own deeds
by their own honesty
goodness and self-respect
of their women kin, too crude to look at them
as persons of their own with no need for owners
as she ended her poem and died like a glass
that turns into a mirror
in the shades
fancy them lovely and neat
when given deadly poison
imagine it tasting sweet
where her feet have trodden and her wings
of words stretched out over
its stormy waters
and sing for a day when this evil storm
fades away, when bewildered waters
of this river flow gently
in lovely lull.
The verses in italic are her last poem titled “Love.”
They are translated from Persian by me.
, Azadeh Azad
