Sholeh Wolpe

Forugh Farrokhzad was an Iranian poet of the 1950s and 60s, who died tragically when she was 32. Her poems caused quite a stir because they were sensuous and modern rather than traditional, and, while women were often the subjects of much Iranian poetry (written by men, of course) she was a woman now writing about men. She stretched the boundaries of what Iranian women could say. She quickly became a literary celebrity.

On first reading I thought these poems somewhat unsophisticated and plain-spoken, albeit passionately so. But I did not bring my full, thoughtful attention to that first read (for clearly the collection intrigued me enough when I browsed through it in the bookstore to inspire me to purchase it) As a Western women (or men) reading these poems a half century later, we take for granted being able to express ourselves passionately, so understanding the cultural context these poems were written enhances one reading. And Farrokhzad is a young poet and that youth is apparent in her work. Even now, 50+ years after her first collection was published (1955), her poetry is still rich with emotional and sensual/sexual intensity. Here are some excerpts of the many I like:

Those days are gone
the days of staring at the secrets of flesh,
of cautious intimacies and the blue-veined beauty
of a hand holding a flower, calling
from behind a wall
to another hand—
a small ink-stained hand,
anxious, trembling, and afraid...
And love unveiling in a shy salaam.

---excerpt from "Those Days" in the collection Reborn, 1964

Like the disheveled locks of a woman
the Karun river spreads itself
on the naked shoulders of the shore.
The sun is gone, and the night's hot breath
wafts over the water's beating heart.

Far in the distance the river's southern shore
is love-drunk in moonlight's embrace.
The night with its million brilliant bloodshot eyes
spies on beds of innocent lovers

The cane field is fast asleep. A bird
shrieks from amid its darkness,
and the moonbeams rush to see
what fear has driven it to such despair.

---excerpt from "Grief" in the collection Asir (1955, her first collection)

Our garden is forlorn.
It yawns waiting
for rain from a stray cloud,
and our pond sits empty.
Callow stars bite the dust
from atop tall trees
and from the pale home of the fish
comes the hack of coughing every night.

Our garden is forlorn.

---excerpt from "I Pity the Garden" in the collection Let Us Believe in the Dawn of the Cold Season (1967, published posthumously)… (mere)