Propz Me Love FORUGH FARROKHZAD POEMS PDF

FORUGH FARROKHZAD POEMS PDF

Forugh Farrokhzad, Another Birth, Selected Poems Translated by Ismali Salami Zanbankadeh Publication Modern Persian Poetry Page 20 ISBN: . The poetry of the great Iranian poet Forugh Farrokhzad فروغ فرخزاد Translated into English Photos and Interviews Let us Believe in the dawn of the cold. Forough (Forugh) Farrokhzad was an influential Iranian poet and film director. She was a . Sin: Selected poems of Forugh Farrokhzad, translated and edited by Sholeh Wolpé, (Fayetteville [Arkansas]: University of Arkansas Press, ) ISBN.

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Forugh, one of the most famous Persian Women poets died in a car crash February 13, at the young age of Excerpts of her work are accompanied by photos and two live interviews in her own voice. 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!

In this verse, I grafted you to trees, water and fire. Perhaps life Is a rope with which a man hangs himself from a branch Perhaps life is a child returning home from school. Perhaps life fofugh the lighting of a cigarette Between the narcotic repose of two lovemakings Or the puzzled passage of a passerby Tipping his hat Saying good morning to another passerby with a vacant smile. Perhaps life is that blocked moment When my look destroys itself in the pupils of your eyes And in this there is a sense Which I will mingle with the perception of the moon And the reception of darkness In a room the size of one solitude My heart The size of one love Looks at the simple pretexts of its own happiness, At the pretty withering of flowers in the flower pots At the sapling you planted in our flowerbed At the songs of the canaries Who sing the size of one window.

Ah This is my lot This is my podms My lot Is a sky, which the dropping of a curtain seizes from me My lot is going down an abandoned stairway And joining with something in decay and nostalgia My lot is a cheerless walk in the garden of memories And dying in the sorrow frarokhzad a voice that tells me: In my small night, ah the wind has a date with the leaves of the trees in my small night there is agony of destruction listen do you hear the darkness blowing?

Forugh Farrokhzad

I look upon this bliss as a stranger I am addicted to my despair. O green from head to foot place your hands like a burning memory in my loving hands give your lips to the caresses of my loving lips like the warm perception of being the wind will take us the wind will take us. One window will suffice me one window to the moment of awareness observance and foruggh. You, comrad, brother, confidant, when your reach the moon write the history of flower massacres.

Dreams always plunge down from their naive height and die. I smell the four-petal clover which has grown on the tomb of archaic meanings. Talk to me What else would the one offering the kindness of a live flesh want from you?

Forugh Farrokhzad Poems and Poetry in English | Persian Women Poets

From the summer of through DecemberFarrokhzad published five poems in various issues of Arash. In it, she scrutinizes the new Pahlavi Tehran of modern, Westernized, mechanized ways and goods, indicts upper class Tehranis, and calls for social justice for lower class Tehranis. In this poem, Farrokhzad presents a dream of an egalitarian Iranian society. Someone is coming, someone is coming someone better.

And with his eyes closed he can recite all the hard words in the third grade book, and he can even take away a thousand from twenty million without coming up short. And he can do something so that the neon Allah sign which was as green as dawn will shine again in the sky above the Meftahiyan Mosque. How come Father has to the dream Only in his sleep? Someone is coming, someone is coming, someone who in his heart is with us, in his breathing is with us, in his voice is with us.

Once more I will greet the earth who, in her lust to re-create me, swells her flaming belly with green seeds.

Forough Farrokhzad – Wikipedia

My hair trailing deep-soil scents. I rarrokhzad come with a bouquet picked from shrubs on the other side of the wall. I will come, I will come. The Wind-Up Doll More than this, yes more than this one can stay silent. With a fixed gaze poeems that of the dead one can stare for long hours at the smoke rising from a cigarette at the shape of a cup at a faded flower on the rug at a fading slogan on the wall.

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One can draw back the drapes with wrinkled fingers and watch rain falling heavy in the alley a child standing in a doorway holding colorful kites a rickety cart leaving the deserted square in a noisy rush.

With ffarrokhzad body like a leather tablecloth with two large and hard breasts, in bed with a drunk, a madman, a tramp one can stain the innocence of love. One can degrade with guile all the deep mysteries one can keep on figuring out crossword puzzles happily discover the inane answers inane answers, yes—of five or six letters.

Conquest Of The Garden That crow which flew over our heads and descended into the disturbed thought of a vagabond cloud and the sound of which traversed he breadth of the horizon like a short spear will carry the news of us to the city. Everyone knows, everyone knows that you and I have seen the garden from that cold sullen window Everyone is afraid everyone is afraid, but you and I joined with the lamp and water and mirror and we were not afraid.

I am not talking about the flimsy linking of two names and embracing in the old pages of a ledger.

I am talking about the silvery life of a song which a small fountain sings at dawn. Everyone knows, everyone knows we have found our way Into the cold, quiet dream of phoenixes: I am not talking about timorous whispering In the dark. I am talking about daytime and open windows and fresh air and a stove in which useless things burn and land which is fertile with a different planting and birth and evolution and pride.

I am talking about our loving hands which have built across nights a bridge of the message of perfume and light and breeze. The curtains are full of hidden anger and innocent doves look to the ground from their towering white height.

Love Song My nights are painted bright with your dream, sweet love and heavy with your fragrance is my breast. Your eyes are my pastures, sweet love the stamp of your gaze burning deep into my eyes. You are my breath of life, sweet love, you have brought me back to life from the grave. You are hidden under my skin flowing through my every cell, singeing my hair with your caressing hand, leaving my cheeks sunburned with desire.

You are the convulsions of ecstasy in my body, like a garment, the lines of your figure covering me.

This sad heart of mine and burning incense? You have touched me with the frenzy of poetry; pouring fire into my songs, kindling my heart with the fever of love, thus setting all my poems ablaze, sweet love. I am a descendant of the house of trees.

I clasp to my breast the unripe bunches of wheat and breastfeed them. I obey the four elements; and the job of drawing up the constitution of my heart is not the business of the local government of the blind.

Ay, age seven Ay, the farrokhzad moment of departure Whatever happened after you, happened in a mesh of insanity and ignorance. After you, the window which was a lively and farrlkhzad connection between the bird and us between the breeze and us broke broke broke after you, that earthly doll which did not utter a thing, nothing but water water water drowned in water. After you, where our playground was beneath the desk we graduated from beneath the desks to behind the desks and from behind the desks to top of the desks and we played on top of the desks and lost we lost your color Aah, age seven.

After you, we betrayed each other after you, we cleansed your memories by lead particles and splattered blood-drops off of the plastered temples of alley walls. I rose up and drank water and suddenly recollected how the plantations of your youth became agitated by the swarm of crickets.

We lost everything we must have lost we fqrrokhzad treading without a lantern and moon moon the kind Feminine was always there in the childhood memories of a clay and straw rooftop and above the young plantations dreading the swamp of crickets.

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The Frough I sinned, a sin all filled with pleasure wrapped in an embraced, warm and fiery I sinned in a pair of arms that were vibrant, virile, violent.

In that dim and quiet place of seclusion I looked into his eyes brimming with mystery my heart throbbed in my chest all too excited by the desire glowing in his eyes.

In that dim and quiet place of seclusion as I sat next to him all scattered inside his lips poured lust on my lips and I left behind the sorrows of my heart. I whispered in his ear these words of love: Desire surged in his eyes red wine swirled in the cup my body surfed all over his in the softness of the downy bed.

I sinned, a sin all filled with pleasure next to a body now limp and languid I pomes not what I did, God in that dim and quiet place of seclusion. My death will come someday to me One day in spring, bright and lovely One winter day, dusty, distant One empty autumn day, devoid of joy. My death will come someday to me One bittersweet day, like all my days One hollow day like the one past Shadow of today or of tomorrow.

My eyes tune to half dark hallways My cheeks resemble cold, pale marble Suddenly sleep creeps over me I become empty of all painful cries. The earth invites me into its arms, Folks gather to entomb me there Perhaps at midnight my lovers Place above me wreaths of many roses. In my burning body you are a turning gyre In the shade of my eyelashes you are a blazing fire.

This forlorn heart of mine and incense perfume? The music of harp and lyre in a prayer room?

Forough Farrokhzad

With the cold moments of the past fleeting by, Your wild eyes contained in your silent demeanor build a wall around me And I flee from you to a pathless path. But your eyes with their silent scream Will blur my vision Like your dark secrets that Build a wall around me.

It is there where I am happy and free And I weave memories of this world Because your bewitching eyes Find my eyes And blur my vision Like your dark secrets That build a wall around me. I shouldered my burden and pooems my share. Father says to Mother: Mother prays all day long. Mother is farrokhzqd natural sinner and she breathes on all the flowers and on all the fish, garrokhzad exorcises herself. Mother is waiting for a coming and torugh forgiveness to descend upon the earth.

My brother calls the garden a graveyard. My brother is addicted to philosophy. My brother thinks the cure for the garden lies in its destruction.

Every time tarrokhzad comes to visit posms, she is pregnant. Our garden is lonely, our garden is lonely. I fear an age that has lost its heart. I am scared of the thought of so many useless hands and of picturing so many estranged faces. Time passed, time passed and the clock stuck four times, struck four times. I know the secret of seasons, know the language of moments. The Messiah sleeps in a grave and the earth—the hospitable earth— beckons one to serenity.

The wind blows in the alley. A man passes by the wet trees, a man whose strings of blue veins are dead snakes wrapped about his throat, pounding his angry temples with those bloodied syllables; Salaam.

The wind blows in the alley and it is the dawn of destruction. The forugn also blew the day your hands fell to ruin. Dear stars, dear paper stars, how can one take refuge in the verses of defeated prophets when lies blow through the air like wind? I am cold and I think I will never feel warm again. Beloved, my truest pomes, How aged was that wine? Farrokhzae, how heavy time stands here and how the fish nibble on my flesh.

Why do you always keep me at the bottom of the sea? I am cold and despise shell earrings, I am cold and I know nothing will remain of the red delusions of a wild poppy but a few drops of blood.