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forough farrokhzad poems

  • نویسنده موضوع *JujU*
  • تاریخ شروع
  • Tagged users هیچ

اطلاعات موضوع

Kategori Adı Peom (شعر)
Konu Başlığı forough farrokhzad poems
نویسنده موضوع *JujU*
تاریخ شروع
پاسخ‌ها
بازدیدها
اولین پسند ارسالی
Son Mesaj Yazan *JujU*

*JujU*

کاربر انجمن
تاریخ ثبت‌نام
Nov 6, 2013
ارسالی‌ها
2,786
پسندها
394
امتیازها
83
محل سکونت
تهران
تخصص
فکر کردن به چیزایی که دیگران ساده ازش رد میشن
دل نوشته
هر روز معجزه است اگر به خدا ایمان بیاوریم..

اعتبار :

[FONT=Arial, sans-serif]I Feel Little Garden’s Pain[/FONT]

Nobody cares for flowers.
Nobody cares for birds.

Nobody wants to believe that Little Garden is dying,
Nobody wants to believe that Little Garden’s heart-
is swollen in this parching heat.

Nobody wants to know that Little Garden's mind-
is slowly losing its green past.

And it seems that Little Garden's sense is a distinct piece,
perishing fast, in the isolating scent of the air.

Our courtyard is feeling lonely.
Our courtyard is yawning-
in hope of a possible visit from a raining cloud.

Our pool is drained.
And young, tiny leaves-
are collapsing from the heights of the trees.

And from the pastel windows of the cage,
song of the birds breaks suddenly-
into the attacks of coughing.
Our courtyard is feeling lonely.


My father says:
“I am done with life,
I am done with life and I did my work.”

In his room, all day long-
he is reading history and poems.

He tells my mom:
“Who cares about upkeep of the yard?
I am ill and old and my pension-pay, is just to carry on.”

My mother’s entire life is a prayer book,
spread at the doors of fright of Hell.
My mother is looking every where-
for the blessed parts of things.

She thinks that Little Garden is spoiled by a depraved plant.
My mom is gifted with tons of innate sins.
She has to pray every day to save her restless soul.

She sends blessing to flowers and birds,
She sends blessing to me, my sister and herself,
She is longing for the resurrection day-
and Divine Pardon that will descend.


My brother calls Little Garden “Graveyard”.
My brother laughs at the chaos of the lawn-
He is counting the bloated bodies of birds,
My brother is addicted to Philosophy.

My brother knows: to salvage Little Garden,
we must wipe it out, as soon as we can!

My bother gets drunk,
My brother blows up mirrors,
plates and painting frames.

He is trying so hard, so hard, so hard to show-
that he is very desperate, sad and drawn.

He takes his ID, his lighter, and his despair-
to streets, to bistros and to shops.
His despair is so tiny that every night,
it gets lost in the crowd of a bar.

My sister was friend with flowers and birds.
When my mother was mad, wanted to scold her,
she was hiding behind the green mass of the trees.
She loved to keep company of wounded, unwell birds.

My sister is living in uptown now.
Now, she has a sham house,
Now, she has an artificial plant.
She stays with her fake husband,
They listen to synthetic music,
And they will make lots of natural kids.

My sister comes to visit.
She doesn’t like dusts of Little Garden.
She always brings perfumed, hydrating creams.


Our courtyard is feeling lonely.
Our courtyard is feeling lonely.
The whole day, it sounds like razing and hammering:
Our neighbors are implanting mines in their field,
Our neighbors are mounting a safety cover for their pool,
Our neighbors’ basement looks like a secret arsenal base.
Our neighbor’s children are fighting with noisy guns and bombs.
Our courtyard is feeling scared.

And I am scared of this Heartless Time.
I am scared of all those Wasted Hands.
I am scared of all these Stranger Heads.
I am so lonely, like a nerd in Math Class.

I think we have to bring Little Garden to the clinic.
I think…
I think…
I think…
And Little Garden’s heart is swollen in this parching heat.
And Little Garden’s mind is slowly losing its green past.


Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, June 2006, Montreal.


Forough Farrokhzad
 

*JujU*

کاربر انجمن
تاریخ ثبت‌نام
Nov 6, 2013
ارسالی‌ها
2,786
پسندها
394
امتیازها
83
محل سکونت
تهران
تخصص
فکر کردن به چیزایی که دیگران ساده ازش رد میشن
دل نوشته
هر روز معجزه است اگر به خدا ایمان بیاوریم..

اعتبار :

[FONT=Arial, sans-serif]Friday*[/FONT]

My silent Friday,
My deserted Friday,
My Friday: sad, like dusty-
forsaken lanes.

My Friday,
The cold day of ailing, idle thoughts;
The moist day of endless, cruel bore,
My Friday, loaded with grief,
mournful of my fading faith,
and of my vain hope,

Oh, my Friday,
this renouncing day…

**&**

Oh, this empty room,
Oh, this gloomy home!

These opaque walls, isolating me from attacks of youth,
these collapsing roofs on my short daydreams of light,
this place of solitude, reflection and doubt,
this space of hues and shapes, signs and sound,
all speak to me- of this invincible void.

**&**
My life, like a mysterious river,
streamed into those silent, deserted days,
so calmly, and with a lot of pride.

My life, like a mysterious river,
Streamed into those empty, gloomy rooms,
so calmly and with a lot of pride.


Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, March 2006, Montreal

* In Iran, Friday was/is the equivalent of Sunday.


Forough Farrokhzad
 

*JujU*

کاربر انجمن
تاریخ ثبت‌نام
Nov 6, 2013
ارسالی‌ها
2,786
پسندها
394
امتیازها
83
محل سکونت
تهران
تخصص
فکر کردن به چیزایی که دیگران ساده ازش رد میشن
دل نوشته
هر روز معجزه است اگر به خدا ایمان بیاوریم..

اعتبار :

[FONT=Arial, sans-serif]The Wind Will Take Us Away[/FONT]

In my little night, alas
The storm has a fateful tryst
with the sweet sleep of the trees.

In my little night, alas
The freezing fright of ruin streams.

Listen!
The shadows are stepping by…
We must flee.

This bliss seems so odd to me,
I am addicted to my despair,
I feel that something will disrupt
this flowing peace of our quiet night.

**&**

Listen!
The shadows are stepping by…
We must flee.

Don’t you see?
Our roof is shaking in fear of collapse,
and over this roof, an immense dark cloud,
like a dull, grieving crowd,
is expecting the moment of cry.

Don’t you hear?
Night is marching behind the window’s glass
and the wind is cutting our yard’s breath
It seems that stranger eyes
are watching this house.

Listen!
The shadows are stepping by…
We must flee.

**&**

You,
O green like the soul of the leaves,
Put your hands into mine,
And hold them like the burning memories of love.

You,
O green like the soul of the leaves,
Leave your lips to the stroke of mine,
And savor them like the swell flavor of an old wine.

If we forget,
The wind will take us away,
The wind will take us away.


Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, May 2006, October 2006, Montreal.


Forough Farrokhzad
 

*JujU*

کاربر انجمن
تاریخ ثبت‌نام
Nov 6, 2013
ارسالی‌ها
2,786
پسندها
394
امتیازها
83
محل سکونت
تهران
تخصص
فکر کردن به چیزایی که دیگران ساده ازش رد میشن
دل نوشته
هر روز معجزه است اگر به خدا ایمان بیاوریم..

اعتبار :

[FONT=Arial, sans-serif]Call to Arms[/FONT]


Only you, O Iranian woman, have remained
In bonds of wretchedness, misfortune, and cruelty;
If you want these bonds broken,
grasp the skirt of obstinacy

Do not relent because of pleasing promises,
never submit to tyranny;
become a flood of anger, hate and pain,
excise the heavy stone of cruelty.

It is your warm embracing bosom
that nurtures proud and pompous man;
it is your joyous smile that bestows
on his heart warmth and vigour.

For that person who is your creation,
to enjoy preference and superiority is shameful;
woman, take action because a world
awaits and is in tune with you.

Sleeping in a dark grave is happier for you
than this abject servitude and misfortune;
where is that proud man..? Tell him
to bow his head henceforth at your threshold.

Where it that proud mane? Tell him to get up
because a woman is here rising to battle him;
her words are the truth, in which cause
she will never shed tears out of weakness.


Forough Farrokhzad
 

*JujU*

کاربر انجمن
تاریخ ثبت‌نام
Nov 6, 2013
ارسالی‌ها
2,786
پسندها
394
امتیازها
83
محل سکونت
تهران
تخصص
فکر کردن به چیزایی که دیگران ساده ازش رد میشن
دل نوشته
هر روز معجزه است اگر به خدا ایمان بیاوریم..

اعتبار :

[FONT=Arial, sans-serif]One Day Ali Told His Mom[/FONT]


The little Ali,
The spoiled Ali,
woke up suddenly-
At exact midnight.

He rubbed his eyes-
with his little hands.
He yawned twice-
and then he sat.

What had happened?
What had he seen?

***
He had a dream, about a fish;
A shiny, gilded fish,
soft, sleek, slick,
light, bright, slight.

It was like sunshine-
Across a navy pane,
throwing sparkle and stars-
to both Ali’s eyes.
And finally,
she laid on surface
with its tiny wings,
padding water’s face.

It smelt so good,
like washed, clean sheets,
like new notebooks,
like presents’ wraps.

It felt like warm nights-
on the top of roof.
It felt like stars, like rain, like a full moon.
It smelt like candy, like chocolate, jelly.
It was just- so pretty.

It looked like a goddess, bathing in heavenly lakes,
It looked like a saint with a golden crown,
It looked like divine visions of Paradise.

Whatever it was,
Whoever she was,
Bewitched our Ali…
Yes, Little Ali- fell madly in love-
with that shiny fish.

As soon as Ali, pulled his small hands-
to catch that piece of art, that rare beauty,
Sky got mad, ranting and raving;
Storm started roaring and raging.
Rain poured down like hell.
Then the soil tore off,
and took up the fish.

Little Ali was left alone,
in his tiny bed, with no dream,
with no shiny fish,
upset and in daze!

***

The wind was blowing, brutal, in the yard.
It was dragging tresses of the trees.
It was flowing, under covers and sheets.

The wind was blowing and on the rope,
wet clothes and wears were hung, fairly close,
they were playing, dancing in the breeze.

Cheerful crickets were nicely harping.
If the wind was mild, frogs were singing.
Brief, that night was just the same,
as all nights before.

Only Ali was different.

Little Ali was bewildered,
cast under the spell- of the dreamy fish.

He wanted the fish of his dream.
He couldn’t stop- thinking about it.
That shiny little Fish, from then on,
possessed Ali’s mind.

***
“Hey Little Ali,
Hey Little Ali,
Don’t fidget so much!
Stay straight or you’re gonna fall!
If in your dream, it was a fish in a blue lake,
It was not real.
Don’t get confused: It was a vision.
Don’t spoil your day!”

“What is wrong with you?
What is your problem?
You are so healthy, you are so lucky,
Forget about that fish!”

“Listen to me!
Dreamy roads are not like reals-
with sidewalks and signs,
with light and asphalt.
In the dreams, you may get lost,
You may get hurt…
In the dreams, in dreamy roads-
there is no way back!”

“Look Little Ali!
You will grow up,
You will buy a car,
You will buy a house,
You may be a boss,
You may be famous,
You will be handsome,
You will travel,
All will be lofty.”

“Why don’t you play?
Don’t you have friends?
Don’t you like your toys?
Why are you so sad?”

“Hey Little Ali,
You went crazy!
You lost your mind,
What the heck the fish!
I don’t understand…”

“Hey Little Ali,
You are getting sick,
I am getting mad!
You are just spoiled.
I will punish you,
No ice cream, no bike, no party.”

“What the heck the fish?
Why do you need fish?
Fish is stinky,
Fish is gonna die,
It’s no worth a dime.
Go back to your bed,
Try to sleep!
And leave me alone.”

***

Water was upset,
pretty tired.
Water slowly-
was running off-
to the roof of Sky:

“Hey Little Ali,
You disappointed me!
Not everybody can dream about a shiny fish!
They dream about fries, chips and fish,
They dream about youthful ladies, wealthy gentlemen,
They dream about dress and necklace, about dogs and cars.”

“Whoever dreams about the fish, must go and get it!
Whoever dreams about the fish,
his days are filled up by billion stars.
He won’t see the sight,
He won’t need the light,
He won’t be able to sleep the night…

Hey Little Ali,
Don’t let me down!”

***

A butterfly was getting drowned.
Little Ali was listening to the water’s words.

It seemed that someone was calling Ali.
It seemed that a hand, a moist, smooth hand-
tapped on Ali’s back:

“Hey Little Ali,
Do you hear me?
One, two, three,
Jump in the water!”

“Hey little Ali,
Don’t you want to come?
I am the Shiny Fish.
Believe me Ali!
I am right here,
ynder the water”

“Hey Little Ali,
I waited for you,
Now it's a long time!

I’ll take you to Sea,
It is not that far,
It is not so hard.
I will take you there:
To Garden of pearls,
To Crystal palace,
To Mountains of light,
We will play there.”

“Believe me Ali,
If you don’t see them-
what is your life for?
If you don’t go there-
what is your time for?”

“Hey Little Ali,
I am getting sick,
in this dirty pool!
Make up you mind:
Either jump inside-
Or then never mind,
I’ll leave you behind!”

***

Sky got mad,
Storm started.
Water coiled upward.
Then suddenly,
gulped down Ali.

Silvery circles over the water’s face,
They turned and they turned.
Then blue bubbles,
took their place.

And at the end,
On the water's face-
of Little Ali- was left no trace!

***

- Where is Ali?
- I don’t care!

- What is he doing?
- I don’t dare:
“If you want to know,
jump in the water!”


Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, May 2006, Montreal.


Forough Farrokhzad
 

*JujU*

کاربر انجمن
تاریخ ثبت‌نام
Nov 6, 2013
ارسالی‌ها
2,786
پسندها
394
امتیازها
83
محل سکونت
تهران
تخصص
فکر کردن به چیزایی که دیگران ساده ازش رد میشن
دل نوشته
هر روز معجزه است اگر به خدا ایمان بیاوریم..

اعتبار :

[FONT=Arial, sans-serif]Green Mirage[/FONT]

The whole day,
I was crying in the eyes of mirrors.
Spring had handed over my window-
to the green illusion of the trees.

I was not fitting into my lonely wrap;
And the smell of my hollow crown-
had infested the surround.

I could not,
I could stand no more-
the noisy lane,
the cry of birds,
the blast of balls,
and the screams of a child…
And then,
the waltz of colorful kites,
in all frames of my windows-
like soap bubbles-
climbing up their white tiny ropes…

And that wind,
the wind was breathing fast,
as if in the darkest depth of a making-love.

They were all, pressing on the gates of my mute fort of faith.
They were breaking through;
And, when they did-
they called my soul-
by her name.

The whole day,
I stared into the eyes of my life.
Those nervous, fearful eyes,
were running away from my sight.
Like helpless thieves, they hid-
in dark, masking holes.

Where was The Peak?
When was The Rise?

“All these spinning roads will end-
in the cold, absorbing mouth of death.”
Isn’t it right?

What did you give me words, sly words?
What did you give me sore limbs?

If I’d put a flower on my hair,
wouldn’t it be better- than this fake,
this paper-made crown,
stinking on my head?

I don’t know-
how the ghost of desert possessed me-
and the marvel of moon moved me away-
from the faith of flock.

And, how the empty hole in my heart grew-
and infected the whole heart.

I don’t know-
how I could stand and watch that Earth,
was falling down underneath my feet.

And, how I could bear-
thta the fever of my lovers-
could never reach-
the fading hope of the void
in my heart.

Where was The Peak?
When was The Rise?

Shelter me blinding, mystifying lights!
Shelter me, glowing, silent abodes!
Shelter me in the row of your washed cloths-
swinging on your roofs!
Shelter me in your basin of scented steams!

Shelter me perfect, simple women!
I watch your fingers tracking-
the fantastic course of your unborn child-
beyond the depth of your expanding skin.
And, I sense that the tears of your robe-
spread in the air, the generous perfume of fresh milk.

Where was The Peak?
When was The Rise?

Oh, shelter me, shelter me!
Shelter me fire-stoves, lucky charms!
Shelter me, singing plates!
Shelter me- in the sticky stream of your sink!
Shelter me, blue melody of sewing machines!
Oh, Shelter me!
Shelter me- in the daily quarrel of rugs and brooms…


Shelter me, greedy loves!
Shelter me, survival instincts!
Shelter me- in your stained conquest bed-
Shelter me- in its elixir flood and blood.

The whole day,
like a forsaken remain riding on the tides,
alone in my boat,
I was heading towards-
frightening rocks, deserted isles-
towards the darkest, most profound caves-
near the most dangerous sharks.

And my thin back-bone was shaking-
up to the extent of the wits of Death.

I could not,
I could no more.

My footsteps at the end,
confessed to the vain futility of the route-
And despair, at last, defeated the patience of my soul.

Then spring,
that Green Mirage,
while passing cross my sight,
whispered to me :

“Look!
You have never advanced,
you have been drowning.”


Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, August 2006, Montreal.


Forough Farrokhzad
 

*JujU*

کاربر انجمن
تاریخ ثبت‌نام
Nov 6, 2013
ارسالی‌ها
2,786
پسندها
394
امتیازها
83
محل سکونت
تهران
تخصص
فکر کردن به چیزایی که دیگران ساده ازش رد میشن
دل نوشته
هر روز معجزه است اگر به خدا ایمان بیاوریم..

اعتبار :

[FONT=Arial, sans-serif]The Wedding Band[/FONT]

The girl smiled and said: What
is the secret of this gold ring,
the secret of this ring that so tightly
embraces my finger,
the secret of this band
that sparkles and shines so?
the man was startled and said:
it's the ring of good fortune, the ring of life.

Everyone said: Congratulations and best wishes!
the girl said: Alas
that I still have doubts about its meaning.

The years passed, and one night
a downhearted woman looked at that gold band
and saw in its gleaming pattern
days wasted in hopes of husbandly fidelity,
days totally wasted.

The woman grew agitated and cried out:
O my, this ring that
still sparkles and shines
is the band of slavery and servitude.


Forough Farrokhzad
 

*JujU*

کاربر انجمن
تاریخ ثبت‌نام
Nov 6, 2013
ارسالی‌ها
2,786
پسندها
394
امتیازها
83
محل سکونت
تهران
تخصص
فکر کردن به چیزایی که دیگران ساده ازش رد میشن
دل نوشته
هر روز معجزه است اگر به خدا ایمان بیاوریم..

اعتبار :

[h=1]To My Sister[/h]Sister, rise up after your freedom,
why are you quiet?
rise up because henceforth
you have to imbibe the blood of tyrannical men.

Seek your rights, Sister,
from those who keep you weak,
from those whose myriad tricks and schemes
keep you seated in a corner of the house.

How long will you be the object of pleasure
In the harem of men's lust?
how long will you bow your proud head at his feet
like a benighted servant?

How long for the sake of a morsel of bread,
will you keep becoming an aged haji's temporary wife,
seeing second and third rival wives.
oppression and cruelty, my sister, for how long?

This angry moan of yours
must surly become a clamorous scream.
you must tear apart this heavy bond
so that your life might be free.

Rise up and uproot the roots of oppression.
give comfort to your bleeding heart.
for the sake of your freedom, strive
to change the law, rise up.


Forough Farrokhzad
 

*JujU*

کاربر انجمن
تاریخ ثبت‌نام
Nov 6, 2013
ارسالی‌ها
2,786
پسندها
394
امتیازها
83
محل سکونت
تهران
تخصص
فکر کردن به چیزایی که دیگران ساده ازش رد میشن
دل نوشته
هر روز معجزه است اگر به خدا ایمان بیاوریم..

اعتبار :

[FONT=Arial, sans-serif]The Gift[/FONT]

I am speaking to you-
from the edge of darkness,
and about the depths of night.
I am talking about the thickness of absolute shade.

Darling!
If you are coming to visit me,
Then, bring me a torch,
and put up for me-
a little window.

I will then watch-
the noisy crowd of the happy lane.


Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, Summer 2006, Montreal
 

*JujU*

کاربر انجمن
تاریخ ثبت‌نام
Nov 6, 2013
ارسالی‌ها
2,786
پسندها
394
امتیازها
83
محل سکونت
تهران
تخصص
فکر کردن به چیزایی که دیگران ساده ازش رد میشن
دل نوشته
هر روز معجزه است اگر به خدا ایمان بیاوریم..

اعتبار :

[FONT=Arial, sans-serif]Window[/FONT]

A window to see-
A window to hear-

A round window like an unending well:
It should reach to the blazing core of Earth.
And it should release into-
its gentle, lightly air.

A window that loads lonely, little hands-
with the nocturnal scent of generous stars.
A window that invites the sun-
to the glacial exile of blooms.

A window,
A window is enough for me.

I am coming from the land of puppets,
And from underneath shades of painted trees-
in the printed gardens of fiction books.

I am coming from-
arid seasons of thrill-
and barren years of romance,
from deserted lanes of innocence,
from the age of pastel faced letters.

I am coming from-
behind benches of a tired class.
And from that confusing time-
when I wrote the spell of “stone” on the board-
and terrified birds- fled from naked branches of the trees.

I arrive from beneath roots of carnivorous trees,
And my mind is still filled -with the fearful cries of dried butterflies-
under weighty volumes of pale, aged books.

When my trust was hung-
from the frail justice line of this town,
And in the streets, they were cutting off the head of my torch,
When they blind-folded the innocent eyes of my love,
When fresh blood erupted from all veins of my shaking dreams,
And when my life was nothing-
but the regular chant of a Grandfather clock,
I realized that I had to love,
I had to love madly.

A window is enough for me.
A window to the instance of light, insight and peace.

Now,
the little walnut tree-
that you had once known-
is so grown, grown, so grown,
that it can narrate the tale of wall-
to its young leaves.

Ask the name of The Redeemer from mirrors!

Don’t you see?
This trembling ground-
underneath your bare feet-
is lonelier than you.

The verdict of this ruin arrived in prophetic, sealed notes;
And these infected clouds and incessant blasts, perhaps,
stem from those sacred words.

My friend!
Don’t forget!
When you land on the moon,
engrave the date of the carnage-
of young flowers of this Earth-
on its sad, soft, wrinkled face.

Dreams always fall from their naive heights and die.
And on the soil, where old beliefs silently rest,
a little plant, with four tiny leaves,
constantly grows.
I smell this plant.

A woman was buried in the chaste coffin of her hope.
Is she the remnant of my youth?

A gentle god was taking nightly walks-
in the fresh air of the roofs.
Will I climb again, climb again-
the curious steepness of the stairs-
to greet him?

I feel that the time had left.
I feel that my share of instant is planted in the past.

I feel that in this stand,
there is only an unreal void, distancing my hair-
from the hands of a sad, stranger guest.

Talk to me!
And I reward you-
with the igniting love-
of a whole life.

And, I expect you nothing-
but the reflection of its birth-
in a glance of your eyes.

Talk to me!
Don’t you see?

In shelter of my window,
I am attached to the sun.


Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, June 2006, Montréal


Forough Farrokhzad
 

*JujU*

کاربر انجمن
تاریخ ثبت‌نام
Nov 6, 2013
ارسالی‌ها
2,786
پسندها
394
امتیازها
83
محل سکونت
تهران
تخصص
فکر کردن به چیزایی که دیگران ساده ازش رد میشن
دل نوشته
هر روز معجزه است اگر به خدا ایمان بیاوریم..

اعتبار :

[FONT=Arial, sans-serif]The Wind-Up Doll[/FONT]

More than this, yes
more than this one can stay silent.

With a fixed gaze
like 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.

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

One can stand motionless
by the drapes—blind, deaf.

One can cry out
with a voice quite false, quite remote
“I love…”
in a man’s domineering arms
one can be a healthy, beautiful female

With a 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.

With bent head, one can
kneel a lifetime before the cold gilded grill of a tomb
one can find God in a nameless grave
one can trade one’s faith for a worthless coin
one can mold in the corner of a mosque
like an ancient reciter of pilgrim’s prayers.
one can be constant, like zero
whether adding, subtracting, or multiplying.
one can think of your --even your—eyes
in their cocoo of anger
as lusterless holes in a time-worn shoe.
one can dry up in one’s basin, like water.

With shame one can hide the beauty of a moment’s togetherness
at the bottom of a chest
like an old, funny looking snapshot,
in a day’s empty frame one can display
the picture of an execution, a crucifixion, or a martyrdom,
One can cover the crake in the wall with a mask
one can cope with images more hollow than these.

One can be like a wind-up doll
and look at the world with eyes of glass,
one can lie for years in lace and tinsel
a body stuffed with straw
inside a felt-lined box,
at every lustful touch
for no reason at all
one can give out a cry
“Ah, so happy am I!”’


Forough Farrokhzad
 

*JujU*

کاربر انجمن
تاریخ ثبت‌نام
Nov 6, 2013
ارسالی‌ها
2,786
پسندها
394
امتیازها
83
محل سکونت
تهران
تخصص
فکر کردن به چیزایی که دیگران ساده ازش رد میشن
دل نوشته
هر روز معجزه است اگر به خدا ایمان بیاوریم..

اعتبار :

[FONT=Arial, sans-serif]Unison[/FONT]

Those two lone pilgrims of void routes,
my dark pupils, had fainted away-
under sway of his eyes.

I saw that he was waving-
on the entirety of my verve:

Like an immense fire in the wind;

Like the waltz of a sleeping lake-
under the stroke of rocks;

Like grey, thick clouds-
in the crisis of storm;

Like breathless skies-
in warm, humid days.

He was extended,
up to infinity,
down to the other side.

I saw myself thawing,
with seizing bends of his hands.
And I sank in the opaque steam of my substance.
The bewitching rhymes of his heart-
at last took away the air-
from the chants-
of my breath.

The time hastily flew away.
The drape went off with the wind.
I had surrounded him,
in the circle of flames.

I felt like calling,
but I had to leave-
with the flood of his eyes…
They streamed from extremes of night-
along the long limbs of desire and thirst,
to the morose vibration of fever,
to the lost end of me.

I felt released.
I felt released.

I saw my skin cracking in the expansion of love.
I saw my burning mass, slowly melted;
melted and poured, poured, poured.
It poured in the moon,
that waned, slight,
pale moon.

We had cried in each other.
In that fleeting instant of unison-
We had lived madly in each other.


Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, June 2006, Montreal.


Forough Farrokhzad
 
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