Something Nicer to End With Tonight= Persian Poem Translation by A.Z. Foreman/Poems Found in Translation

Poems Found in Translation: “Jahan Khatun: Woman Aging (From Persian)” plus 1 more

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Jahan Khatun: Woman Aging (From Persian)

Posted: 13 Nov 2014 08:01 PM PST

The poem here translated is by a Persian princess who lived in the same time and place as Hafiz. It is of particular interest in its expression of gender. Two of the images, that of the curling locks of the beloved snatching the heart or attention of the lover in verse 3, and the beloved having the gracile sexiness of a cypress tree in verse 4, are typically used to refer to the poet's addressee (who is by convention the beloved) in medieval Persian lyric verse. Here, however, one finds the speaker describing themself in these terms, which has a mildly disorienting effect, inverting the typical point of view, switching the voice to that of the pursued rather than the pursuer. The speaker is not passive, however, as other verses of the poem indicate. But the overall experience conveyed is that of being the object of attention, rather than its agent. The significance of this should be obvious, given that medieval Persian lyric poetry is a male-dominated tradition in which Princess Jahan is a happy anomaly.  

Anyway, some of the artistic liberties I've taken in my English rendering reflect this gendered reading of the poem, and indeed amplify it somewhat, partly compensate for the fact that the atypical image use is not as jarring in English as it seems to be in Persian. (For example, and in the interest of full disclosure, the words "the game was never fair" are my addition and do not correspond to anything in the Persian.)

"Woman Aging"

By Jahan Khatun

Translated by A.Z. Foreman

I had no sense of my own worth

When I was young and fair.

     Now that my years have run their course, 

     I know. What point is there? 

I know the good and bad of life,

Now that they've passed me by,

     Sped in my prime swift as a breeze

     In bright brief morning’s air.

There were so many flighty birds
Of passion that I lured

     And captured in the curling locks

     That were my beauty’s snare.

Then in the orchard I could raise 

My face as gracefully

     As any thin young cypress tree

     Over the greensward there.

What handsome challengers I played

Against in lovers’ chess,

     And lost so many of love’s pieces.

     The game was never fair.

How often in the world’s arena

Of beauty I would spur

     The racing steed of my heart's hopes

     Through every bleak affair.

Now there is not one leaf or shoot

Left of my sweet green youth.

     Cold with old age I turn to face

     A dark night of white hair.