Everyone knows,everyone knowswe have found our wayInto the cold, quiet dream of phoenixes:we found truth in the gardenIn the embarrassed look of a nameless flower,and we found permanenceIn an endless momentwhen two suns stared at each other. I told my mother: This is the end.Before you know it, it shall happen;let’s send my obituary to the papers. In my small night, ahthe wind has a date with the leaves of the treesin my small night there is agony of destructionlistendo you hear the darkness blowing?I look upon this bliss as a strangerI am addicted to my despair. Poems. I will.The doorway will glow with loveand I will once again greet those in love, greetthe girl standing in the threshold’s blaze. 9 Neither God nor the Quran are the subjects of Forough’s poems, an omission that made them very controversial and unique in Tehran in the 1930s. Jun 23, 2020 - Forough Farrokhzad was an influential Iranian poet and film director. Let us believe,let us believe in the dawn of the cold season.Let us believe in the ruin of imaginary gardens,in idle inverted scythes,in confined seeds.Look how it snows…. What is silence, what is it, my trusted friend?What is silence but unspoken words?I am bereft of words, but the sparrows languageis nature’s unyielding euphoric flow.The sparrows’ language means: spring, leaves, spring.The sparrows’ language means: breeze, fragrance, breeze.The sparrows’ language dies at the factory. "Sin" includes the entirety of Farrokhzad's last book, numerous selections from her fourth and most enduring book, Reborn, and selections from her earlier work and creates a collection that is true to the meaning, the intention, and the music of the original poems. She broke with many traditional conventions and thus exercised an immeasurably important influence on modern Iranian poetry. in the land of dwarfs,the criteria of comparisonhave always traveled in the orbit of zero.why should I stop?I obey the four elements;and the job of drawing upthe constitution of my heartis not the businessof the local government of the blind. Talk to meI am in the window’s refugeI have a relationship with the Sun. I’m talking about my fortunate tresseswith the burnt anemone of your kissand the intimacy of our bodies,and the glow of our nakednesslike fish scales in the water.I am talking about the silvery life of a songwhich a small fountain sings at dawn.we asked wild rabbits one nightin that green flowing forestand shells full of pearlsin that turbulent cold blooded seaand the young eagleson that strange overwhelming mountainwhat should be done. You are hidden under my skinflowing through my every cell,singeing my hair with your caressing hand,leaving my cheeks sunburned with desire.you are, sweet love, a stranger to my dressbut so familiar with the fields of my nakedness.o bright and eternal sunrise,the strong sunshine of southern climes,you are fresher than early dawn,fresher and better-watered than spring-tide.this is no longer love, it is dazzlement,a chandelier blazing amidst silence and darkness.ever since love was awakened in my heart,I have become total devotion with desire.this is no longer me, no longer me,oh wasted are the years I lived with “me.”my lips are the altar of your kisses, sweet lovemy eyes watching out for the arrival of your kiss. 1. Her published works include The Captive, The Wall, Rebellion, Reborn, and Let Us Believe in the Dawn of the Cold Season. My entire soul is a murky verse Reiterating you within itself Carrying you to the dawn of eternal burstings and blossomings In this verse, I sighed you, AH! I feel that “time” has passedI feel that “moment” is my share of history’s pagesI feel that “desk” is a feigned distancebetween my tressesand the hands of this sad stranger. You kindled my passionate desireThus setting my poems afire. A brief literary biography of Forough, Michael Hillmann's A lonely woman: Forough Farrokhzad and her poetry, was published in 1987. Let us believe in the dawn of the cold season…, “I feel I have wasted my life…and know far too little for woman of twenty-seven years…I feel a dizzying pressure under my skin…I want to make a hole in everything and penetrate it deep. I think it has always been this way–in birth and then in death. Someone Who Is Not Like AnyoneFrom the summer of 1964 through December 1966, Farrokhzad published five poems in various issues of Arash. and my sister who was the flowers’ friendand took her heart’s simple wordsto their kind and silent companywhen Mother spanked herand occasionally offered sun and cookiesto the family of fishÃher house is on the other side of the city.in her artificial home,with her artificial goldfish,and in the security of her artificial husband’s love,and under the branches of her artificial apple tree,she sings artificial songsand produces very real babies.whenever she comes to visit usand the hem of her skirt gets soiledwith the garden’s poverty,she takes a perfume bath.Every time she comes to visit us,sheis pregnant. Your translation is smooth and fluid. After you,we killed the cricket’s voicewe became luredby the bell ring rising off of the letters of the alphabetand the whistling of the arms factory. I will let go of lines,of counting numbers too,and from among the limits of geometry,seek refuge in the soul of infinity.I am naked,naked, naked, Nakedas the hush between words of love.My wounds are all exacted by love,love, love, love. And here I ama woman aloneat the threshold of a cold seasonat the the dawn of realizing earth’s sullied existanceand the sky’s blue despairand the impotence of these hands made of cement. someone who is like no one,not like Father,not like Ensi,not like Yahyanot like Mother,and is like the person who he ought to be.and his height is greater than the treesaround the overseer’s house,and his face is brighterthan the face of the mahdi,and he’s not even afraidOf Sayyed Javad’s brotherwho has goneand put on a policeman’s uniform.and he’s not even afraid of Sayyed Javad himselfwho owns all the rooms of our house.and his name just like Mothersays it at the beginningand at the end of prayersis either ‘judge of judges’or ‘need of needs’.And with his eyes closedhe can reciteall the hard wordsin the third grade book,and he can even take away a thousandfrom twenty million without coming up short.and he can buy on credithowever much he needsfrom Sayyed Javad’s store.And he can do somethingso that the neon Allah signwhich was as green as dawnwill shine againin the sky above the Meftahiyan Mosque. With shame one can hide the beauty of a momentâs togethernessat the bottom of a chestlike an old, funny looking snapshot,in a dayâs empty frame one can displaythe picture of an execution, a crucifixion, or a martyrdom,One can cover the crake in the wall with a maskone can cope with images more hollow than these. The third of seven children, she attended school until the ninth grade, then was taught painting and sewing at a girl's school for the manual arts. In other words, they are only poets when they wrote poetry. By Forugh Farrokhzad Translated by A.Z. It contemplates its simple pretexts for happiness: the beauty of the flowersâ wilting in a vase, the sapling you planted in our garden, and the canariesâ songâthe size of a window. Then it is finished and they turn into greedy, indulgent, oppressive, shortsighted, miserable, and envious people. All my being is a dark verse that repeats you to the dawn On the threshold of a cold seasonand in the mimrrors’ grieving vigil,in faint memories’ mournful wake,and in this dusk pregnant with wise silence,how can one cry Stop! With a fixed gazelike that of the deadone can stare for long hoursat the smoke rising from a cigaretteat the shape of a cupat a faded flower on the rugat a fading slogan on the wall. My lot is descending a lonely staircase to something rotting and falling apart in its exile. Translation from the Farsi By Sholeh Wolpé. I come from the midst of carnivorous plant rootsand my brain is still overflowedby a butterfly’s terrifying shriekcrucified with pinsonto a notebook. A body traveling along the line of time impregnates timeâs barren cord, and returns from the mirrorâs feast intimate with its own image. After you,we betrayed each otherafter you,we cleansed your memoriesby lead particles and splattered blood-dropsoff of the plastered temples of alley walls. After you,us: each other’s murderers,judged loveand while our hearts were anxious in our pockets,we judged love’s share. In a far off sunset, like wild dovesIâll see fields, mountains, and the sky beneath my feet.And in the midst of dry bushes Iâll hearthe blissful music of field birds. Your glance is a wondrous lullabyCradling restless babes thereby, Your breath is a transcendental breezeWashing off me tremors of unease, Finding in my morrows a place to sleepPermeating my world deep and deep, In me the passion for poetry you inspireOver my lays you cast instant fire. I guided this wandering isle awayfrom the ocean’s tempest, awayfrom the volcanoes’ eruption.To shatter was the secret of that unbroken bodyfrom whose humblest pieces the sun was born. THE HOUSE IS BLACK ON YOUTUBE. After youwe resorted to cemeteries and death was breathing under the grandmother’s veiland deathwas that corpulent treewhich the living of this side of the “origin”would tie their desire-thread to its weary branchesand the dead of the other side of the “end”would paw at its phosphorous rootsand deathwas sitting on that sacred mausoleum which had four blue tulipsabruptly lighting up at its four corners. Slowly my hands slide oâer my notesDelivered from poetryâs spell,I recall that once in my handsI held the flaming blood of poetry. Rebirth Poem by Forough Farrokhzad. She attended public schools through the ninth grade, At age 15 she graduated from Junior High School and went on to study dressmaking and painting at Kamalolmolk Technical School. She was a controversial modernist poet and … Everyone is afraideveryone is afraid, but you and Ijoined with the lampand water and mirror and we were not afraid. Alas, this is my lot. Forugh Farrokhzad (1935–1967) was an Iranian poet and filmmaker. I enjoy reading Forough in Farsi without any effort, but reading her in English has been a challenge to say the least. One can be like a wind-up dolland look at the world with eyes of glass,one can lie for years in lace and tinsela body stuffed with strawinside a felt-lined box,at every lustful touchfor no reason at allone can give out a cryâAh, so happy am I!ââ. Ay, age sevenAy, the magnanimous moment of departureWhatever happened after you,happened in a mesh of insanity and ignorance. someone whose comingcan’t be stoppedand handcuffed and thrown in jail,someone who’s been bornunder Yahya’s old clothes,and day by daygrows bigger and bigger,someone from the rain,from the sound of rain splashing,from among the whispering petunias.someone is coming from the skyat Tupkhaneh Squareon the night of the fireworksto spread out the table clothand divide up the breadand pass out the Pepsiand divide up Melli Parkand pass out the whooping cough syrupand pass out the slips on registration dayand give everybody hospitalwaiting room numbersand distribute the rubber bootsand pass out Fardin movie ticketsand give away Sayyed Javad’sdaughter’s dressesand give away whatever doesn’t selland even give us our share.I’ve had a dream. Writing Beyond Iran: Four Voices in Exile. On February 14, 1967, Forough visited her mother, who later recalled their conversation over lunch as the nicest that they ever had. Love SongMy nights are painted bright with your dream, sweet loveand heavy with your fragrance is my breast.you fill my eyes with your presence, sweet love.giving me more happiness than grief.like rain washing through the soilyou have washed my life clean.you are the heartbeat of my burning body;a fire blazing in the shade of my eyelashes.you are more bountiful than the wheat fields,more fruit-laden than the golden boughs.against the onslaught of darkening doubtsyou are a door thrown open to the suns.when I am with you, I fear no painfor my only pain is a pain of happiness.this sad heart of mine and so much light?sounds of life from the bottom of a grave? I am so brimming full that people pray over my voice…, Lucky corpses.Tired corpses.Silent pensive corpses.Social, chic, well-fed stiffsin the stations of regularityand beneath suspiciously temporary lights,who lustily buy futility’s rotten fruits…, How they stand at intersections, worred about accidentsand whisltes commanding Stop!at the very moment when a manmust, must, mustbe crushed beneath the wheels of time,a man who passes by wet trees…. And so in the endthe sun did not shine at once on both poles of despair.You drained of the blue tiles’ echoes. O green from head to footplace your hands like a burning memoryin my loving handsgive your lips to the caressesof my loving lipslike the warm perception of beingthe wind will take usthe wind will take us. Gift I speak out of the deep of night out of … Dreams always plunge down from their naive heightand die.I smell the four-petal cloverwhich has grown on the tomb of archaic meanings. Those who grow silent or have nothing more to say, had better keep thier peace, otherwise their ability to cope with this frightful sewage becomes impossible, and they find themselves abandoned and useless. In this field, an artist’s work is private and individualistic. Forough-Ozzaman Farrokhzad, the 3 rd of 7 children of Mohammad Farrokhzad, an army officer, and Batul Vaziry-Tabar, a housewife, was born on December 28 th, 1934 in Tehran. I conjured you in my poem with a sigh and grafted you to water, fire, and trees. Perhaps life is a long avenue a woman with a basket crosses every day; perhaps life is a rope with which a man hangs himself from a tree, or is a child returning home from school. Will I ever again comb my hair with the wind?Will I ever again plant purple pansies in the garden,or set geraniums in the sky behind the windowpane?Will I ever again dance in the faces of wine glasses?Will I ever again wait anticipating the door bell’s chime? World Literature Today630 Parrington Oval, Suite 110Norman, OK 73019-4037405-325-4531, An Interview with Iranian Poet Mohsen Emadi, Overnight, 130,000 People Flee Cuba for the United States and Defeat Jimmy Carter and Bill Clinton, âOlivier Schrauwen and the Physiognomy of Style,â by Bill Kartalopoulos, âThe Swan Song of a Departing People,â by Galsan Tschinag, âHaitian Literature as a Model for World Literature,â by Michael W. Merriam, âThe Politics of Crime: South Africaâs New Socially Conscious Genre,â by J. L. Powers, âBaconâs Chicken,â by George Zebrowski, Powerful and Resonant: Native & First Nations Womenâs Filmic Presence, Outpost: âThe Katikati Haiku Pathway,â by Chelsea Greer, âA Mind for Murder: The Passing of P. D. James,â by J. Madison Davis, âHaitian Is My Languageâ: A Conversation with Frankétienne, by Michael W. Merriam, âWhat Would You Call It?,â by Linda Hogan. This sad heart of mine and profuse light?This din of life in the abyss of blight? I will come. Hollow human.Hollow, trusting human.Look at his teeth singing as they chew,and his eyes devouring as they stare,and how he passes the wet trees;patiently,heavily,lost,at the hour four,at the very moment his blue veins,wrapped about his throat like dead snakes,pound his angry templeswith those bloodied syllables;Salaam.Salaam. Forough Farrokhzad Tehran. what is the lengthy whimpering wildnessin animals sexual organs to me?what to me is the worm’s humble movementIn its fleshy vacuum?the bleeding ancestry of flowershas committed me to life.are you familiar with the bleedingancestry of the flowers? Fathers says:it’s too late for me.it’s over for me.I shouldered my burdenand did my share.and in this room, from dawn to disk,he reads either the Shahnamehor The History Of Histories.Father says to Mother:to hell with all birds and fish.when I die, thenwhat difference will it makethat there is a gardenor there isn’t a garden?my retirement pension is enough for me. Conquest Of The GardenThat crow which flew over our headsand descended into the disturbed thoughtof a vagabond cloudand the sound of which traversedhe breadth of the horizonlike a short spearwill carry the news of us to the city. The poetry collection she published two years later, titled Another Birth (Reborn in some translations), is dedicated to Golestan and is considered, by critics and by Farrokhzad herself, to be her most accomplished. Forough Farrokhzad’s The House Is Black stands tall, somewhere between moving images and words, sound and music, cinema and poetry, documentary and experimental film; between Realism, Surrealism and Magical Realism, while being none in particular.The work is a mere twenty-minute strip of film, fragments of a special type of precarious … They subject it to laws. I’ve swept the stairs to the roofand I’ve washed the windows too.How come Father has to the dreamOnly in his sleep?I’ve swept the stairs to the roofand I’ve washed the windows too. I want to hang my heart like ripe fruit on every branch of every tree.”, “Of course we compose poetry out of personal need, an irresistible calling…but what happens after we commit our poems to the page? As long as I stoke the inferno of intolerance with foolish assumptions and childlike profanities nothing I ever do will encourage the evolution of the human spirit nor the greatness of any country, least of all mineâ¦","aggregateRating":{"@type":"AggregateRating","ratingValue":5,"reviewCount":"2"}}, Interview with Iranian Arab Women Poet Farough Farrokhzad, Interview with Middle Eastern Arab Poet Forugh Farrokzhad, Laila and Majnun Complete Story in English, Native American Poetry, Poems and Literature. O.how good bright light is,how good bright light is,and I want so muchfor Yahyato have a cartand a small lantern,and I want so muchto sit on Yahya’s cartin the middle of the melonsand ride around Mohammadiyeh Square. Sinincludes the entirety of Farrokhzad's last book, numerous selections from her fourth and most enduring book, Reborn, and selections from her earlier work and creates a collection that is true to the meaning, the intention, and the music of the original poems. This is a question, the answer to which lies in the capacity and forbearance of each individual artist. This void and these flights?These songs and these silent nights? . The earth invites me into its arms,Folks gather to entomb me therePerhaps at midnight my loversPlace above me wreaths of many roses. I sinned, a sin all filled with pleasurenext to a body now limp and languidI know not what I did, Godin that dim and quiet place of seclusion. The wind blows in the alley.The wind blows in the alley,and I think of the flowers’ mating,their slender, anemic blossomsand this tired tubercular age.A man passes by the wet trees,a man whose strings of blue veinsare dead snakes wrapped abouthis throat, pounding his angry templeswith those bloodied syllables;Salaam.Salaam.And I think of the flowers’ mating. It will take you-. But your eyes with their silent screamWill blur my visionLike your dark secrets thatBuild a wall around me. Poems such as “Reborn”, “The Wind Will Take Us”, “Sin” and “Let us believe in the dawn of the cold season” left an unmistakeably unique and indelible mark on Middle Eastern literature. Mother’s whole lifeis a prayer rug spreadat the threshold of fears of hell.at the bottom of everything Motheralways searches for traces of sinand thinks that a plant’s apostasyhas contaminated the garden.Mother prays all day long.Mother is a natural sinnerand she breathes on all the flowersand on all the fish, andexorcises herself.Mother is waiting for a comingand a forgiveness to descend upon the earth.
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