Nima Yushij: Phoenix

Phoenix, sweet singer, renowned bird,
a refugee from the cold wind’s blast,
sits apart
on a bamboo stalk,
surrounded by other birds on their branches.

From the ragged cords of a thousand distant voices
he composes lost laments
and in clouds like a dim line over the mountain
conceives a wall for an imaginary building.

Since the sun, yellow upon the waves,
grew pallid, and the cry of the jackal
soared over the shores, and the peasant
lit the hidden light of home,
a small flame reflected in his red eyes
draws a shadow line
under the two large eyes of the night.
In the distance, people pass.

That rare song, still hidden,
the phoenix rises from where he settled
and passes through objects
entangled
with the light and dark of this long night.
He sees a flame ahead.

In a place where there are no plants, no air
the stubborn sunlight bursts upon the stones,
where no land or life is special,
he senses that the dreams of birds like him
are black as smoke, even if some of their hopes
like a fire’s harvest
sparkle in the eye and in their white morning.
He senses that if his life
ends like other birds,
sleep or eating
would be a nameless affliction.

That melodious bird,
in a place where fire is revered,
now a hell,
keeps closing his eyes
and shifting his sharp gaze.
Suddenly beating his wings in place,
a cry rises over the hills
from his heart, bitter and burning,
that the birds passing will not understand.
Drunk on his own despair,
he throws himself on the immense fire.

The violent wind blows, the bird is ablaze.
The bird has amassed the ashes of his body.
From the heart of his ashes, his chicks hatch.

Tr. Kaveh Bassiri. Nima Yushij (1897-1960) was from the Caspian coast of Iran. An outsider and rebel, he's described as "the most influential Iranian poet of the twentieth century". Something of the energy of this poem's story and imagery makes it through the translation, but I'd love to see a freer version that exploited the rhetorical rhythms of English.