#another birth

[mournfulroses]

Forugh Farrokhzad, from Let Us Believe In the Beginning of the Cold Season; "Another Birth,"

[dateinmarsh]

«آن چنان آلوده‌ست

عشقِ غمناکم با بیم زوال

که همه زندگیم می‌لرزد…

تو چه هستی، جز یک لحظه، یک لحظه که چشمان مرا می‌گشاید در برهوت آگاهی؟

بگذار که فراموش کنم.»

"It is so contaminated

My sad love with the fear of decay

That my whole life is shaking...

What are you, except for a moment, a moment that opens my eyes in the emptiness of awareness?

Let me forget."

Excerpt from Another Birth, Forough Farrokhzad

[flowerytale]

Forugh Farrokhzad ― Another Birth

[llovelymoonn]

on becoming

danez smith it began right here \\ ?? \\ shirley watkins georgina finds herself \\ ?? \\ forough farrokhzad another birth \\ ?? \\ anis mojgani songs from under the river: “here i am” \\ ?? \\ ramon casas tired (c. 1895-1900) \\ liana finck

kofi

[poetrywillsaveme]

Where do I come from?  Where do I come from, that I have become so filled with the smell of night?

from ‘Let Us Believe in the Beginning of a Cold Season’ in Another Birth: Selected Poems, by Forugh Farrokhzad, Ismail Salami (Translator)

[lifeinpoetry]

I plant my hands in the garden I will grow green, I know, I know, I know and in the hollows of my ink-stained fingers  swallows will lay eggs

— Forugh Farrokhzad, from "Another Birth,” Another Birth and Other Poems, tr. Hasan Javadi & Susan Sallée

[jaiemiller]

I come from amongst the roots of carnivorous plants and my mind, still, is brimming with the terrified cry of a butterfly that they crucified in a notebook with a pin

Forough Farrokhzad, Another Birth and Other Poems

[naturezamorta]

another birth تولدى ديگر

a dark and chanted verse is what i am forever bearing you in myself imbued with you forth to the morning of eternal burgeonings and blooms oh yes, i drew you through this verse, oh, breath oh yes, i drew you through this verse and crafted you to water, trees and fire i grafted you life may be a street crossed by a woman with a basket every day life may be rope for a man who hangs himself from a branch. life may be a child coming home from school life may be a cigarette lighting up in the narcotic pause between two lovemakings or the dazed gaze of a passerby tipping his hat to a passerby with a senseless smile and a good morning life may be that cloistered moment when my gaze comes to ruin in your pupils wherein there lies a feeling which i shall blend with the moon's impression and the night's perception in a room the size of loneliness my heart the size of love looks at the simple pretext of its happiness, the vase's flowers, their beautiful decay, the sapling that you implanted in our garden and the canaries' song wide as a window frame

  oh my lot is this my lot is this this sky abducted from my sight by a hung curtain, this passage down a deserted stairway to retrieve something from amid the rot and banished thoughts my lot is a sad promenade in nostalgia's garden, my lot is to catch my death in the despair of the voice that says to me "i love your hands"   i shall plant my hands in the garden and i will grow i know, i know, oh, i know and in my hand's inkstained hollow the swallow shall lay its eggs i shall wear a pair of cherries as ear-rings and dress my nails with dahlia petals there is an alley where boys who were in love with me even now linger with the very unkempt hair and lanky legs recollecting the innocent smiles of a little girl the wind blew away one night there is an alley my heart has stolen from my childhood's neighborhood a form journeying along time's line inseminating time's dry line with form a form aware of an image back from a mirror's feast and that is how it is that somebody dies while someone abides none who fish in the tiny stream that drains out into a ditch can ever fish up a pearl i know a sad little ocean sprite down in her watery haven who, oh, so softly plays her heart through a flute, a sad little sprite who dies from a kiss at night to be born from a kiss at dawn

forugh farrokhzad’s poem translated by a.z. foreman from the persian