“Ta Bahare Delneshin”

IMG_3281This has been a beautiful quest! On May 19, in Istanbul, I heard two musicians play a song that kept coming back to my mind. (I recorded a video, so I was able to learn the melody). It felt subtle and melancholic; I understood none of the words but was enchanted by their sounds.

I hoped to hear the duo again, but during my many walks, I did not run into them. Then, on May 26, my last day in Istanbul, I saw them standing right where they were before. They played a different song; when they finished, I requested this one by humming the melody. When they played it, people gathered around and sang along. I recorded it and learned their names (but not the name of the song). They are Sherko Hoseini and Fali Talebi.

Back in New York City, I tried to look up the song by googling some of the phrases. I didn’t know how to spell them; some of the vowels and consonants sounded different from their counterparts in any languages I know. Also, I wasn’t sure of the word divisions. I tried different possibilities (“tava hare teleshin,” “trova har e teleshin,” etc.), again and again, but nothing came up.

Then I decided to do the simplest thing of all (which I’m often slow to do): ask. I wrote to Sherko last night; this morning I received his reply. The song is “Ta Bahare Delneshin” (or simply “Bahare Delneshin”) an old Persian song. He sent the lyrics too; I will  give them below. I looked for translations; this one (from someone named Afsaneh) seems particularly careful. I have included only the verses that are in Sherko and Fali’s performance (and have kept Sherko’s transliteration). What a beautiful poem and song.

Bahare delneshin
(The Pleasant Spring)

Music: Ruhollah Khaleghi
Poem: Bijan Taraghi

Ta bahare delneshin amade soye chaman
since the pleasant spring had come towards the grass

Ey bahare arezo bar saram saye fekan
oh the spring of wishes spread your shadow on me

Chon nasime nobahar bar ashianam kon gozar
like the breeze of the newly come spring visit my home

Ta ke golbaran shavad kolbeye virane man
so that my ruined cottage would be showered by flowers

Baza bebin dar heyratan beshkan sokote khalvatam
come and see me in astonishment, break the silence of my solitude

Cho laleye sahra bebin bar sine daghe hasratam
see my sorrow on my hot face which is like a lonely tulip

Ey roye to ayineam eshghat ghame dirineam
oh you, whose face is my mirror, your love my old grief

Baza cho gol darin bahar sar ra beneh bar sineam
in this spring come like a flower, put your head on my bosom

Here are the lyrics in Persian:

تا بهار دلنشین آمده سوی چمن
ای بهار آرزو بر سرم سایه فکن
چون نسیم نوبهار بر آشیانم کن گذر
تا که گلباران شود کلبه ویران من

تا بهار زندگی آمد بیا آرام جان
تا نسیم از سوی گل آمد بیا دامن کشان
چون سپندم بر سر آتش نشان بنشین دمی
چون سرشکم در کنار بنشین نشان سوز نهان

تا بهار دلنشین آمده سوی چمن
ای بهار آرزو بر سرم سایه فکن
چون نسیم نوبهار بر آشیانم کن گذر
تا که گلباران شود کلبه ویران من

باز آ ببین در حیرتم
بشکن سکوت خلوتم
چون لاله تنها ببین
بر چهره داغ حسرتم

ای روی تو آیینه ام
عشقت غم دیرینه ام
باز آ چو گل در این بهار
سر را بنه بر سینه ام

listenersThe lyrics seem to match what I heard and saw. When people gathered around and sang along, I sensed that this song was special to them. They didn’t respond the way people do to a recent hit; they were held in a dreaminess for a little while. So was I, though differently.

There is something astonishing about the poem: the way seemingly opposite words come close together, even joining at times: images of brokenness and renewal, sadness and rejuvenation, solitude and love. The sounds hold many textures: I can follow them now, from word to word.

I am glad it took me some time to learn the name of the song; through searching for it, I found myself returning to it, refusing to give up the question. Even now that I have a translation, I realize there is more to understand in the images, phrases, allusions. Something has been opened here, not closed.

Partly through its difference, the poem reminds me of Petrarch’s sonnet “Solo et pensoso i piú deserti campi”:

Solo et pensoso i piú deserti campi
vo mesurando a passi tardi et lenti,
et gli occhi porto per fuggire intenti
ove vestigio human l’arena stampi.

Altro schermo non trovo che mi scampi
dal manifesto accorger de le genti,
perché negli atti d’alegrezza spenti
di fuor si legge com’io dentro avampi:

sí ch’io mi credo omai che monti et piagge
et fiumi et selve sappian di che tempre
sia la mia vita, ch’è celata altrui.

Ma pur sí aspre vie né sí selvagge
cercar non so ch’Amor non venga sempre
ragionando con meco, et io co llui.

And in the English translation of A. S. Kline:

Alone and thoughtful, through the most desolate fields,
I go measuring out slow, hesitant paces,
and keep my eyes intent on fleeing
any place where human footsteps mark the sand.

I find no other defence to protect me
from other people’s open notice,
since in my aspect, whose joy is quenched,
they see from outside how I flame within.

So now I believe that mountains and river-banks
and rivers and forests know the quality
of my life, hidden from others.

Yet I find there is no path so wild or harsh
that love will not always come there
speaking with me, and I with him.

I took the first photo on Eurovelo 11 in Hungary; the second, while listening to Sherko and Fali. For a short video playlist of Istanbul musicians, go here. Also, Sherko pointed me to Ali Zand Vakili’s recording of the same song.

Solitude of Time

The subject of solitude seems trickier and trickier, the more I think about it–and more and more important. Yet it is important only in relation to things that require it. There is no sense in pursuing or defending solitude for its own sake. Also, it is possible (and even common) to seek solitude for the wrong reasons–such as escape and self-defense. They are “wrong” insofar as they involve closing off the mind and the experience. To make things even more perplexing, it is possible to seek  solitude for “right” and “wrong” reasons at the same time.

But what is this solitude? In his treatise De vita solitaria (On the Solitary Life), Petrarch posits three kinds of solitude: solitude of place, solitude of time, and solitude of the mind. For a long time, it was the third that interested me the most; recently, I have been thinking about solitude of time.

Solitude of time comes in many forms. There is solitude of chronos, the procession of time; solitude of kairos, the right moment for things, and solitude that combines the two.

We often think of time as a material possession: “I have time” or “I have no time.” When viewed as such, it seems closely related to money; a wealthy person has leisure time, whereas a poor person must work.

But it is possible to view time not as possession, but as vastness and structure. Abraham Joshua Heschel writes of the “architecture of time“–in particular, Shabbat, which opens up an infinity of time. “The higher goal of spiritual living,” he writes, “is not to amass a wealth of information, but to face sacred moments.” He makes clear that he does not disparage information-gathering for a higher good: “What we plead against is man’s unconditional surrender to space, his enslavement to things. We must not forget that it is not a thing that lends significance to a moment; it is the moment that lends significance to things.”

It is easy to forget the difficulty and unpopularity of Heschel’s words. They come from solitude; they demand solitude. They ask us to set aside our trinket-gathering, if only for a little while.

The artist Karen Kaapcke (who happens to be a parent at my school) articulates something similar (albeit quite differently) on her “Drawing 50 Blog“–her project, beginning on her 50th birthday, of drawing a self-portrait every day for a year. “This is surprising to me,” she writes–“the path of these drawings is less about me, my 51st year, how do I look as I age – and more about what living as a draftsperson, being-in-the-world as a draftsperson, means. And so, I am finding that sometimes the drawings, while starting with myself, do not have the sense of being about only myself, but a connection to a state that might be, almost, universal.”

There is something solitary about recognizing time. That recognition can take different forms–but one is alone in it. On the day that my students’ philosophy journal, CONTRARIWISE, arrived in boxes, I had come to school just for that occasion (I had no classes on that day). But even when the boxes were within feet of me, I knew it wasn’t time to open the first one; that had to wait for the editors-in-chief. That was a short wait–but I remember the utter clarity of it.

The right time is not always “now.” (The hermit in Tolstoy’s story “The Three Questions is wrong.) The right time is now only when one recognizes that it is now.  Sometimes the right time is “not yet”; that very stretch of time between “not now” and “now” is solitary.

Timing in speech and music–a sense of tempo, rhythm, cadence, pause–is another way of recognizing time, of grasping the intersection between the stream and the moment. One knows when the timing is right, yet such timing is entirely singular, never to be repeated exactly. Even if it were repeated exactly, it might not be right the second time.

Time is not just a segment or line; it has dimension. Solitude lets you see into the dimension. One could reword a line from Zarathustra’s Roundelay, to say “Die Zeit ist tief” instead of “Die Welt ist tief”–but they  mean something similar, since it is the deep midnight speaking here. (It is part of the answer to the question posed in the first two lines: “O Mensch! Gib acht! / Was spricht die tiefe Mitternacht?”

There are times when possessible time dries up and crumbles, and the true time opens up. But we always return to the illusion of possessible time. (We must, in order to “do” anything with time.) Is it that simple, though? Does time divide up like that, into the illusory and the real? Or is it necessary to “grab” time in order to see past the grabbing? I think the latter: “material” time can lead to “matterless” time, as long as we allow this to happen.  For example, a person can get things done by a certain time in order to have a stretch of doing nothing. Also, the completed things, once done, are there for good, even if they decay materially.

Why is the solitude of time important? When one finds it, one is no longer subject (entirely) to group demands and rush. One has to meet certain demands, but one also stands outside them. It’s like having a mansion that costs no money and isn’t in the least bit gaudy.

 P.S. Those interested in solitude may wish to tune in to The Forum (BBC World Service) this weekend.

Note: I made a few edits to this piece (for style and clarity) after posting it.