Oct 14, 2020
There, in the night, something is happening- The moon is red and anxious.
Forugh Farrokhzad, “The Wind Will Carry Us”
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There, in the night, something is happening- The moon is red and anxious.
Forugh Farrokhzad, “The Wind Will Carry Us”
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Forough Farrokhzad is undoubtedly one of the most prominent among the Iranian woman poets in the history of Persian literature. Her significant achievements in poetry and film production during her relatively short life and her unexpected death have made her an enigmatic and almost legendary person. Her avant-garde poems were both praised and criticized during her life. Half a century after her death, she is still one of the most read and acclaimed Iranian poets; as well as continuing to be one of the most controversial people in Persian literature. به مناسبت 84 سالگی فروغ فرخزاد، شاعر محبوب کشورمان، پولیوری با طرحی که مشاهده می کنید تهیه کرده ایم. از آن جا که شعر های فروغ فرخزاد حسی آبی رنگ به ما منتقل می کند در طراحی تصویر این پولیور از رنگ آبی زیاد استفاده شده. لوگوتایپ فروغانه که پایین تصویر فروغ فرخزاد مشاهده می شود اثر پارسوا پاشی، گرافیست مشهور ایرانی ست، که به طور اختصاصی برای مجله یی ادبی درباره ی فروغ فرخزاد که پیش از این قصد انتشارش را داشتیم طراحی کرده اند. اگر به فروغ فرخزاد و آثارش علاقه مند هستید پیشنهاد می شود زندگی نامه ی او را (به انگلیسی) در وبلاگ سیناریوم (SINARIUM.COM) مطالعه بفرمایید. #Forough #Forugh #Farrokhzad #ForughFarrokhzad #ForoughFarrokhzad #Forough_Farrokhzad #Forough_Farrokhzad #Poetry #Poem #Poet #Literature #PersianLiterature #Sinarium #Sweater #Illustration #فروغ #فروغفرخزاد #فروغ_فرخزاد #شعر #شاعر #فرخزاد #سیناریوم #طراحی #پولیور https://www.instagram.com/p/Br-Zy7fgZVn/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=1arzfdahuihf8
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 the 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 and that we have plucked the apple from that playful, hard-to-reach branch.
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’m talking about my fortunate tresses with the burnt anemone of your kiss and the intimacy of our bodies, and the glow of our nakedness like fish scales in the water. I am talking about the silvery life of a song which a small fountain sings at dawn. we asked wild rabbits one night in that green flowing forest and shells full of pearls in that turbulent cold blooded sea and the young eagles on that strange overwhelming mountain what should be done.
Everyone knows, everyone knows we have found our way Into the cold, quiet dream of phoenixes: we found truth in the garden In the embarrassed look of a nameless flower, and we found permanence In an endless moment when two suns stared at each other.
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. come to the meadow to the grand meadow and call me, from behind the breaths of silk-tasseled acacias just like the deer calls its mate.
The curtains are full of hidden anger and innocent doves look to the ground from their towering white height.
E quando la mia vita non era più nulla, io capii che dovevo amare.
Forough Farrokhzad
Another Birth (poem) by Forugh Farrokzhad
Another Birth Persian : Tavalodi Digar Audio Files: Tavalodi Digar
My whole being is a dark chant which will carry you perpetuating you to the dawn of eternal growths and blossoming in this chant I sighed you sighed in this chant I grafted you to the tree to the water to the fire. Life is perhaps a long street through which a woman holding a basket passes every day Life is perhaps a rope with which a man hangs himself from a branch life is perhaps a child returning home from school. Life is perhaps lighting up a cigarette in the narcotic repose between two love-makings or the absent gaze of a passerby who takes off his hat to another passerby with a meaningless smile and a good morning . Life is perhaps that enclosed moment when my gaze destroys itself in the pupil of your eyes and it is in the feeling which I will put into the Moon's impression and the Night's perception. In a room as big as loneliness my heart which is as big as love looks at the simple pretexts of its happiness at the beautiful decay of flowers in the vase at the sapling you planted in our garden and the song of canaries which sing to the size of a window. Ah this is my lot this is my lot my lot is a sky which is taken away at the drop of a curtain my lot is going down a flight of disused stairs a regain something amid putrefaction and nostalgia my lot is a sad promenade in the garden of memories and dying in the grief of a voice which tells me I love your hands. I will plant my hands in the garden I will grow I know I know I know and swallows will lay eggs in the hollow of my ink-stained hands. I shall wear a pair of twin cherries as ear-rings and I shall put dahlia petals on my finger-nails there is an alley where the boys who were in love with me still loiter with the same unkempt hair thin necks and bony legs and think of the innocent smiles of a little girl who was blown away by the wind one night. There is an alley which my heart has stolen from the streets of my childhood. The journey of a form along the line of time inseminating the line of time with the form a form conscious of an image coming back from a feast in a mirror And it is in this way that someone dies and someone lives on. No fisherman shall ever find a pearl in a small brook which empties into a pool. I know a sad little fairy who lives in an ocean and ever so softly plays her heart into a magic flute a sad little fairy who dies with one kiss each night and is reborn with one kiss each dawn.
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The many faces of Forugh (continued)
The many faces of Forugh