Πέμπτη, 29 Σεπτεμβρίου 2011

Forough Farrokhzad












  






I feel Little Garden’s pain

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 the hope of the possible visit of a raining cloud.

Our pool is drained.
And young, immature leaves
are collapsing from the heights of 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 the 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 is blessing flowers and birds,
She is blessing 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 party with 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 rasing 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 hHeads,
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.
Forough Farokhzad -Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani, June 2006, Montreal

The bird was just a bird

The birds said:
“What a bright day, what a fresh air,
Spring has arrived,
I must look for my mate.”

The bird fled from the edge of wire,
The bird soared towards the clouds,
and disappeared fast:
Just like a wish,
Just like a prayer,
Just like a whisper,
The bird spread vastly in the air.

The bird was small.
The bird was slight.
The bird was not bright,

The bird was lonely,
The bird well, was truly free.

In the sky, over ups and downs,
above traffic lights and above Stop signs,
The bird constantly flew…

And in the heights of the peace of her dreams,
She finally felt the blue sense of instance and space…

The bird, well, was just a bird,
The bird well, was truly free.

Forough Farokhzad  --Trs: Maryam Dilmaghani


Connection
The black of my irises,
those simple, reclusive Sufis of mine
swooned in the song-spell of his eyes.

I sensed him billow all around me,
radiating towards infinity
to the other side of life
like fire’s red pyramid,
like a cloud in spasm of rain,
like a sky embraced
by warm seasons’ breath.

I sensed that in the breeze
 of his hands’ movements
the substance of my being
was disintegrating.
I sensed his heart peal inside mine
like the bell of a wandering sorcerer.

The clock took flight.
The curtain withdrew with the wind.
I had pressed him to myself
inside the halo of that fire
and I wanted to say something
but to my astonishment
his thick shadowing lashes
released themselves like silk strands
from the base of darkness
along desire’s long trail
and through the tremor
—that deathly tremor—
to the end of my end.

I sensed my release.
I sensed my release.

I sensed my skin crack from love’s dilating joy,
as my flaming mass melted slowly
and flowed, streamed and flowed
into the moon, 
a turbulent blurry moon
drowned in a ditch.

We had cried into each other.
We had madly lived a moment’s
ephemeral union inside one other. 

Translation of “Vasl,”   from Reborn.
Translation copyright 2010 by Sholeh Wolpé. All rights reserved.


The Sin

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:
“I want you, mate of my soul
I want you, life-giving embrace
I want you, lover gone mad”

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 know not what I did, God
in that dim and quiet place of seclusion.

Translated by Ahmad Karimi-Hakkak, Remembering The Flight,



 My beloved

My beloved
with his bare bold body
rose over his legs,
fearless like death.

On his firm face
An array of brief lines
was tailored by his revolting limbs.

My beloved surely belongs
to a faded clan.

In deepness of his eyes, it seems
A Tartar is constantly longing
for advent of a knight.

In brightness of his teeth, it seems
A barbarin male is patiently waiting
for cornering of a prey.

My beloved is like the earth
in his blunt fated air;
in his concrete cruel rule.

My beloved is wildly free.
My beloved is like a whole instinct
in core of a dark isolated isle.

My beloved is originally estranged,
like veiled gods, like lone monks.
My beloved is a male from the ancient eras,
And from the essence of beauty.

By his tread, he awakens
the innocent sense of youth.

With his aura, he reminds
the fond flavor of mythical truth.

He loves with such a faith
all bits of life, all tads of soil
all laughs and all the sorrows.

He loves with such a faith
void route of the parish, the green veins of the trees
the slight smell of soap, the fresh taste of milk.

My beloved surely belongs
to a faded clan.

My beloved,
He is a natural man.
And in this wicked wonderland
He must hide away.

My beloved,
He is a simple man.
And like the last rest of the vast past beliefs,
I hide him always away,
in the wake of the warmth of my breasts.

 Translation: Maryam Dilmaghani  The poem is from the anthology Tavaloddy Digar (Rebirth).


Window

One window is sufficient
One window for beholding
One window for hearing
One window
resembling a well's ring
reaching the earth at the finiteness of its heart
and opening towards the expanse of this repetitive blue kindness
one window filing the small hands of loneliness
with nocturnal benevolence
of the fragrance of wondrous stars
and thereof,
one can summon the sun
to the alienation of geraniums.

One window will suffice me.

I come from the homeland of dolls
from beneath the shades of paper-trees
in the garden of a picture book
from the dry seasons of impotent experiences in friendship and love
in the soil-covered alleys of innocence
from the years of growing pale alphabet letters
behind the desks of the tuberculous school
from the minute that children could write "stone"
on the blackboard
and the frenzied starlings would fly away
from the ancient tree.

I come from the midst of carnivorous plant roots
and my brain is still overflowed
by a butterfly's terrifying shriek
crucified with pins
onto a notebook.

When my trust was suspended from the fragile thread of justice
and in the whole city
they were chopping up my heart's lanterns
when they would blindfold me
with the dark handkerchief of Law
and from my anxios temples of desire
fountains of blood would squirt out
when my life had become nothing
nothing
but the tic-tac of a clock,
I discovered
I must
must
must love,
insanely.

One window will suffice me
one window to the moment of awareness
observance
and silence.
now,
the walnut sapling
has grown so tall that it can interpret the wall
by its youthful leaves.

Ask the mirror
the redeemer's name.
Isn't the shivering earth beneath your feet lonelier than you?
the prophets brought the mission of destruction to our century
aren't these consecutive explosions
and poisonous clouds
the reverberation of the sacred verses?
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.

Wasn't the woman
buried in the shroud of anticipation and innocence,
my youth?

Will I step up the stairs of curiosity
to greet the good God who strolls on the rooftop?

I feel that "time" has passed
I feel that "moment" is my share of history's pages
I feel that "desk" is a feigned distance
between my tresses
and the hands of this sad stranger.

Talk to me
What else would the one offering the kindness of a live flesh want from
you?
but the understanding of the sensation of existence.

Talk to me
I am in the window's refuge
I have a relationship with the Sun.
Translated by: Leila Farjami