Mahsati of Ganja, whose name combines the old Persian words for moon (mah) and lady (sati), is among the most famous of all classical Persian woman poets. Born in early twelfth century Ganja, at that time the literary capital of Azerbaijan, Mahsati pioneered the rubā’iyyāt (quatrain) form. Best known to an Anglophone reading public from Edward Fitzgerald’s translations of Omar Khayyām (d. 1131), rubā’iyyāt is the plural of rubā’i (“four”), an Arabic word denoting two verses bound together by an aaba rhyme scheme. The rhyme scheme admits of variations, such as aaaa (employed in four out of the ten poems translated here). Mahsati shares much in common with the elder poet-astronomer: a pessimistic orientation to life, distaste for organized religion, impatience with social mores, a predilection for transgressing convention through wine-drinking, and a preference for authorial anonymity, which has accounted for many misattributed poems in the case of both poets (see Sharma 2007; Davidson 2004). Mahsati is distinguished from Omar Khayyām, and, for that matter from most of her Persian predecessors and contemporaries, by one major biographical detail: alone of the major medieval Persian poets, she was a woman. Scholars will always debate the relevance of gender to Mahsati’s literary output. Some will decide it is better to foreground her seemingless gender-free genius for poetic form; others will regard this as evasion, but that Mahsati’s body inflected her words no less than Marina Tsvetaeva inflected hers cannot be denied. The question is how the gendered inflection affected her verse. Persian does not distinguish grammatically between male and female, even for pronouns, so, context aside, there is no way to determine whether the lover or speaker in any Persian text is male or female. For a true connoisseur of this tradition, this difficulty is in fact the point: you are not supposed to know; ambiguity is classical Persian poetry’s highest aesthetic value (see Davis 2004). Gender ambiguity does however create a challenge for the translator; American and British poets, especially in the modern age, tend to prefer to concrete rhythms of daily life, just as their readers assume that the more literal the poetry, and the more obvious its referents, the better. The closest approximation in American literature to Mahsati’s aesthetic preference for “telling it slant” may be the studied indeterminacy of Wallace Stevens, or Emily Dickinson. Mahsati’s rubā’iyyāt will fare best in English when read with a non-literalistic aesthetic, and without any attempt to reduce her multivalent texts to singular meanings. Mahsati’s poems deal with sex, divinity, death, and love all at once, even and especially when they seem to be occupied with other subjects. This is thematically and formally true;
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