It has been a pleasure blogging for the Best American Poetry
this week. As promised, here are two poems by Iranian poet Forugh Farrokhzad.
Mates
Night comes
then darkness
past night’s
darkness–
eyes
hands
then, rhythmic
breathing in – out in – out
and the drip drop
drip drop
drip drop of water
slipping from the tap
then, two cigarettes
two spots of glowing
red
the tick tick of a
clock
and two hearts
steeped in
loneliness…
(from Sin: Selected Poems of Forugh Farrokhzad, translated by Sholeh Wolpe)
Wind-Up
Doll
Even more, oh
yes,
one can
remain silent even more.
Inside eternal
hours
one can fix
lifeless eyes
on the smoke
of a cigarette,
on a cup’s
form,
the carpet’s
faded flowers,
or on
imaginary writings on the wall.
With stiff
claws one can whisk
the curtains
aside, look outside.
It’s
streaming rain.
A child with
a balloon bouquet
cowers
beneath a canopy. A rickety cart
flees the
deserted square in haste.
One can
remain fixed in one place, here
beside this
curtain…but deaf, but blind.
With an alien
voice, utterly false,
one can cry
out: I love!
In the
oppressive arms of a man
one can be a
robust, beautiful female–
skin like
leather tablecloth,
breasts large
and hard.
One can stain
the sinlessness of love
in the bed of
a drunk, a madman, a tramp.
One can
cunningly belittle
every
perplexing puzzle.
Alone, occupy
oneself with crosswords,
content with
unimportant words,
yes,
unimportant letters, no more than five or six.
One can spend
a lifetime kneeling,
head bowed,
before the
cold altar of the Imams,
find God
inside an anonymous grave,
faith in a
few paltry coins.
One can rot
inside a mosque’s chamber,
an old woman,
prayers dripping from lips.
Whatever the
equation, one can always be a zero,
yielding
nothing, whether added, subtracted, or multiplied.
One can think
your eyes are buttons from an old ragged shoe
caught in a
web of anger.
One can
evaporate like water from one’s own gutter.
With shame
one can hide a beautiful moment
like a dark,
comic instant photo
rammed deep
into a wooden chest.
Inside a
day’s empty frame one can mount
the portrait
of a condemned, a vanquished,
a crucified.
Cover the gaps in the walls
with silly,
meaningless drawings.
Like a
wind-up doll one can look out
at the world
through glass eyes,
spend years
inside a felt box,
body stuffed
with straw,
wrapped in
layers of dainty lace.
With every
salacious squeeze of one’s hand,
for no reason
one can cry:
Ah, how
blessed, how happy I am!
(from Sin: Selected Poems of Forugh Farrokhzad, translated by Sholeh Wolpe)