The Wind Will Take Us

It's been a while since I posted a poem by Forough Farrokhzad

The Wind Will Take Us

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?
I look upon this bliss as a stranger
I am addicted to my despair.

listen do you hear the darkness blowing?
something is passing in the night
the moon is restless and red
and over this rooftop
where crumbling is a constant fear
clouds, like a procession of mourners
seem to be waiting for the moment of rain.
a moment
and then nothing
night shudders beyond this window
and the earth winds to a halt
beyond this window
something unknown is watching you and me.

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.


Translated by Ahmad Karimi Hakkak

I know I've posted this poem before but it is one of my favourite poems so here it is again.

The poem and several other works by Forough Farrokhzad can be found here

Forough Farrokhzad - In the green lake of summer

In the Green Lake of Summer

In the green lake of summer,

lonelier than a leaf,

with my pack of olden joy,

I slowly ride to the land of void.



In the cold shore of fall,

I gave into the pale shade of pines:

This shade of fleeting loves

This shade of brief laughs

This shaking blind of life…



At nights,

while this down roof, the sad sky, is tapped

by the cold breath of a wandering breeze;



At nights,

when a wide, wounded haze is poured

in the blue lanes of our drained veins;



At nights,

at nights of our intimate meets

with bouncing vibration of our souls

a sore feel of life is heaved

only in pounds of our pulse;

an odd, ailing feel of life.



“The hopeful core of the vales is loaded by painful secrets.”

This saying is carved on firm face of peaks.

This saying is carved by whom that one night

all at once, sliced this constant silence of the mounts

by sharp echo of their truthful shouts.



“I like this calm in the lonely heart of the remains.”

A woman recited this verse,

in the green lake of summer.



A woman rhymed this chant,

with all swings of tides,

a women who occupied for a while,

that deserted deepness of the wild.



She sang:

"We poison each other

with warmth of our every word:

this toxic air of delight of life.



We are scared of the parched song of waft.

We are faded in the dark fright of doubt.



We are shaking, shaking, shaking

in daydreaming nightmare of collapse of roof

on the secret, golden garden of our love."



"Now you are with me,

Now you are with me:

Expanded, spread like fine scent of rose

in neat lanes of dawn.



Now you are with me,

intense on my chest

burning in my hands

fainting, blazing, mad,

all over my curls,

Now I am with you."



"Something,

Something massive of darkness, of shades

Confusing, unclear, vague,

like an onwards hymn of the old days

is rotating, inflating in front of my closing eyes:



I feel being spent, cornered, captured,

far from my lakes,

distant from my boat,

after the final gates…

I feel…scared."



" We had grown on this vain side of turf.

We met with that flying white knight of void,

ruling over all tads of routes."





"We are content, glad and calm.

And we are still, sad and silent.



We are content since we are indeed in love,

We are cheerless because in fact love is doomed."



Translated by Maryam Dilmaghani and appearing on her superb website on Forough Farrokhzad The Sad Little Fairy

Imagery of the Iran-Iraq War

Touched and deranged,

downcast and sad;

with veilless face,

and no chador;

heedless of arrest,

careless of the Guards.

For eyes she has

two red grapes

fallen off the bunch.

She's mad,

stark staring mad;

she's lost,

lost to herself,

lost to the world.

A straw in the wind,

she's drifting around.

A graveless body,

she's deadened to the world.

Round her neck she has

a pair of teardrops, a curse:

of a dead soldier boots

with laces tied together.

"What's that?", I said.

"My son", she said,

"sitting on my shoulders

with his boots on."

I have posted the painting and the poem before but never together. THe painting is by Minoo Emami. It is inspired by her husband's experience in the war. He was seriously injured fighting the Iraqis. One of his legs was amputated.

The poem is The Necklace by Simin Behbahani, the Lioness of Iran. The last time I posted the poem in 2008 one of the comments made was "Jesus, that was DARK!!". I agree, In my mind it is as powerful as any of the works of Wilfred Owen.

I wanted to see how these two powerful indictments of war went together. I think they work together, others may not of course!

More Forough but this time in French - For Claudia

Le vent nous emportera

Dans ma nuit, si brève, hélas
Le vent a rendez-vous avec les feuilles.
Ma nuit si brève est remplie de l'angoisse dévastatrice
Ecoute ! Entends-tu le souffle des ténèbres ?
De ce bonheur, je me sens étranger.
Au désespoir je suis accoutumée.
Ecoute ! Entends-tu le souffle des ténèbres ?
Là, dans la nuit, quelque chose se passe
La lune est rouge et angoissée.
Et accrochée à ce toit
Qui risque de s'effondrer à tout moment,
Les nuages, comme une foule de pleureuses,
Attendent l'accouchement de la pluie,
Un instant, et puis rien.
Derrière cette fenêtre,
C'est la nuit qui tremble
Et c'est la terre qui s'arrête de tourner.
Derrière cette fenêtre, un inconnu s'inquiète pour moi et toi.
Toi, toute verdoyante,
Pose tes mains - ces souvenirs ardents -
Sur mes mains amoureuses
Et confie tes lèvres, repues de la chaleur de la vie,
Aux caresses de mes lèvres amoureuses
Le vent nous emportera !
Le vent nous emportera !

Une autre naissance

Tout mon être nest qu'un verset
Qui se répète en lui même
Qui te portera à l'aube des éclosions
Et des floraisons éternelles.
Je t'ai soupiré,
Je t'ai uni avec l'arbre, l'eau et le feu,

Dans ce verset.

La vie est peut être
Une longue avenue où
chaque jour une femme passe
portant un panier.

La vie est peut être
Une corde avec laquelle
un homme se pend
à une branche.

La vie est peut être
Un enfant qui revient de l'école.
La vie est peut être
Le temps d'une cigarette
Pendant cet engourdissement
Entre deux actes d'amour.

La vie est peut être
Le regard ébahi d'un homme
Qui soulève son chapeau pour
Saluer un autre passant, Avec un sourire impersonnel.
La vie est peut être
Cet instant rétréci
Quand mon regard se brise dans tes pupilles.

Et dans cela il y a une sensation
Que je confonds avec ma connaissance de la Lune
Et ma perception de l'ombre.

Dans une chambre aussi grande que la solitude
Mon coeur, grand comme l'amour,
Regarde les prétextes simples de son bonheur,
La beauté des fleurs fanées dans un vase,
Les pousses tendres que tu plantas dans notre jardin


Mon coeur, grand comme l'amour
Ecoute le chant des canaris
S'envolant dans l'espace d'une fenêtre.

Hélas
C'est mon sort
C'est mon sort,
Mon sort.
Un ciel que voile un rideau tombant.
Mon destin: descendre un escalier abandonné

Aboutir à quelque chose de sordide et d'étrange.
Mon destin: une promenade triste
Dans un jardin de souvenirs,
Expier, dans la tristesse d'une voix qui me dit

"J'aime tes mains"!

Je planterai mes mains dans le jardin
Je pousserai, je le sais, je le sais, je le sais...
Et les hirondelles pondront
Dans le creux violacé de mes doigts.

A mes oreilles je pendrai des boucles
Faites de cerises jumelles
Et je collerai sur mes ongles des pétales de dahlias.

Il existe une rue où les garçons
Qui me faisaient la cour,
Cheveux emmêlés, cous maigres, jambes fébriles,
Pensent encore à une fillette
Emportée une nuit par le vent.
Il existe une rue que mon cecur
A dérobée aux quartiers de mon enfance.

Le voyage d'une forme, le long de la ligne du temps,
Image consciente revenant du festin des miroirs,
Donne vie à cette ligne asséchée.

C'est ainsi que l'un meurt
Et que l'autre reste.

Aucun pêcheur ne peut trouver de perles
Dans un caniveau
Quand il se perd dans un gouffre.

Je connais une petite fée triste
Qui demeure dans un océan.
Elle chante doucement son coeur dans une petite flûte.
Une petite fée triste
Qui meurt la nuit dans un baiser
Et renaît à l'aube dans un baiser.

Texte francais de Parviz Abolghassemi - 2001

From Forough Farrokzad.org

The Sin - Forough Farrokhzad

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,

From Forough Farrokzad.org

Simin Behbahani - Tik...tak, tik...tak

A poem by Simin Behbahani, the Lioness of Iran

Tik...tak and tik...tak, O how the moment flies?
Compelled, humble and obedient it flies.
- Stay, stay my life! give a respite... O God!
Without farewell, wordless and even a look it flies.
Drop by drop like the spring, it drops by moments,
Month turns to year, year turns to month and flies.
At the golden twilight the sun rises,
With the last bloody setting, sinks in well and flies.
When I lay the silvery sleep over my dream,
A black sleep arrives, a white dream flies;
My life like the curtain from alternate white and black
Has become stripped and still stripped it flies.
She who goes is me, I won't return,
Ah me, tell time that untimely it flies!
My pulse is tired, tired from counting ,
The moments of my life, ah... ah time flies!

From Caroun.com. Translated by M Alexandrian

Forough Farrokhzad - Terrestrial Verses

Then the sun cooled
and fertility left the earth.

And vegetation withered in the fields
and the fish shriveled up in the oceans
and the earth
did not open its arm
to the dead.

Night stood in constant commotion
behind all the pale window-panes
like a dubious illusion
and the roads
lost their extension in the dark.

No one cared for love
no one cared for triumphs
and no one
ever cared for caring any more.

In caverns of loneliness
absurdity was born
blood reeked of bhang and opium
pregnant women
gave birth to headless infants
ad cradles for shame
buried themselves in graves.

What bitter black days!
bread had won over
the wonder of prophecy
hungry, helpless prophets
deserted divine havens
the lost lambs of Jesus
n longer heard their shepherd’s call.

In the eyes of mirrors
motion, color, and form
reflected in reverse
and a halo of holiness
glowed above the heads of uncouth clowns
around the shameless faces of whores
like a splendid canopy.

Swamps of alcohol
exuding dry, deadly gases
attracted to their lower depths
inert masses of intellectuals
while in antique cabinets.
pernicious rats gnawed
at the golden leaves of books.

The sun was dead
the sun was dead, and
in the minds of the children
tomorrow
was a half-lost, indeterminate concept,
in their notebooks
they marked
its quaint sense
with a big black blotch.

People
The fallen masses of people
heartsick, broken, stunned
dragged their ill-omened carcasses
from one alienation to another
and the will to kill
swelled in their hands.

Once in a while a spark, an infinitesimal spark
suddenly imploded
the silent stupor of their society,
they rushed at each other
daggers in hand, men
slit one another’s throats
and rolling in pools of blood
raped underage girls.

They were immersed in their fear
and a terrifying sense of sin
had stupefied
their blind, dull souls.

And in public hangings, often
as the hangmen’s rope
pushed out of its sockets
the bulging eyes of the condemned man
they sank inside themselves
And their tired old nerves felt alive
at some lusty sensation.

And yet you could always see
these little murderers
at the edge of the public square

Standing
and staring
at the continual downpour of water spray
from the fountain.

Perhaps still
some confused, half-alive something
lurked behind their emaciated eyes, deep in their frigid souls
which struggled feebly
to believe in the purity of the water’s words.

Perhaps—but what an endless void!
the sun was dead
and nobody knew
that the sad little dove
flown off from the hearts is called—faith.

Imprisoned voice!
will the glory of your despair
ever be a tunnel toward light
through the walls of this loathsome night?
Oh, imprisoned voice!
Oh, last of all voices…..

foroughfarrokzad.org

Simin Behbahani on NPR

Simin Behbahani on a telephone interview on NPR on 26 June

Stop Throwing My Country To The Wind

If the flames of anger rise any higher in this land Your name on your tombstone will be covered with dirt.

You have become a babbling loudmouth. Your insolent ranting, something to joke about.

The lies you have found, you have woven together. The rope you have crafted, you will find around your neck.

Pride has swollen your head, your faith has grown blind. The elephant that falls will not rise.

Stop this extravagance, this reckless throwing of my country to the wind. The grim-faced rising cloud, will grovel at the swamp's feet.

Stop this screaming, mayhem, and blood shed. Stop doing what makes God's creatures mourn with tears.

My curses will not be upon you, as in their fulfillment. My enemies' afflictions also cause me pain.

You may wish to have me burned , or decide to stone me. But in your hand match or stone will lose their power to harm me.

Simin Behbahani

June 2009

Translated by Kaveh Safa and Farzaneh Milani. From NPR

It’s Time to Mow the Flowers - Simin Behbahani

It’s time to mow the flowers,
don’t procrastinate.
Fetch the sickles, come,
don’t spare a single tulip in the fields.
The meadows are in bloom:
who has ever seen such insolence?
The grass is growing again:
step nowhere else but on its head.
Blossoms are opening on every branch,
exposing the happiness in their hearts:
such colorful exhibitions must be stopped.
Bring your scalpels to the meadow
to cut out the eyes of flowers.
So that none may see or desire,
let not a seeing eye remain.
I fear the narcissus is spreading its corruption:
stop its displays in a golden bowl
on a six-sided tray.
What is the use of your ax,
if not to chop down the elm tree?
In the maple’s branches
allow not a single bird a moment’s rest.
My poems and the wild mint
bear messages and perfumes.
Don’t let them create a riot with their wild singing.
My heart is greener than green,
flowers sprout from the mud and water of my being.
Don’t let me stand, if you are the enemies of Spring.

--Translated by Farzaneh Milani and Kaveh Safa

From Logos Journal

Confrontation - Sohrab Sepheri

A light descended on earth,
I saw two footprints in the desert sands.
Wherefrom had it come?
And where was it going?
Only two footprints were visible,
Maybe somebody had stopped on the ground by mistake.

Suddenly the footprints started moving,
Light followed the footprints,
The footprints were lost.
I watched myself from the opposite direction:
A cavity was filled by death
And I started to move in my dead corpse,
I could hear the sound of my footsteps from distance,
Maybe I was passing a desert.
I was imbued with a lost expectation.
Suddenly a light fell on my dead body
And I resurrected with anxiety:
Two footprints filled my existence.
Wherefrom had it come?
Where was it going?
Only two footprints were visible
Maybe somebody had stopped on the ground my mistake.

Sohrab Sepheri (1928-1980) from sohrabsepehri.com