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Sin: Selected Poems of Forugh Farrokhzad
For the first time, the work of Iranian poet Forugh Farrokhzad is being brought to English-speaking readers through the perspective of a translator who is a poet in her own right, fluent in both Persian and English and intimately familiar with each culture. Sin includes the entirety of Farrokhzad's last book, numerous selections from her fourth and most enduring book, Reborn, and selections from her earlier work and creates a collection that is true to the meaning, the intention, and the music of the original poems.
Farrokhzad was the most significant female Iranian poet of the twentieth century, as revolutionary as Russia's Akhmatova and Tsvetaeva and America's Plath and Sexton. She wrote with a sensuality and burgeoning political consciousness that pressed against the boundaries of what could be expressed by a woman in 1950s and 1960s Iran. She paid a high price for her art, shouldering the disapproval of society and her family, having her only child taken away, and spending time in mental institutions. Farrokhzad died in a car accident in 1967 at the age of thirty-two. Sin is a tribute to the work and life of this remarkable poet.
Farrokhzad was the most significant female Iranian poet of the twentieth century, as revolutionary as Russia's Akhmatova and Tsvetaeva and America's Plath and Sexton. She wrote with a sensuality and burgeoning political consciousness that pressed against the boundaries of what could be expressed by a woman in 1950s and 1960s Iran. She paid a high price for her art, shouldering the disapproval of society and her family, having her only child taken away, and spending time in mental institutions. Farrokhzad died in a car accident in 1967 at the age of thirty-two. Sin is a tribute to the work and life of this remarkable poet.
166 pages, Paperback
Published June 1, 2010
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About the author
Forough Farrokhzad
45 books1,292 followersفروغ فرخزاد: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show...
Forough Farrokhzad was born in Tehran to career military officer Colonel Mohammad Bagher Farrokhzad and his wife Touran Vaziri-Tabar in 1935. The third of seven children, she attended school until the ninth grade, then was taught painting and sewing at a girl's school for the manual arts. At age sixteen she was married to Parviz Shapour, an acclaimed satirist.
Within two years, in 1954, Farrokhzad and her husband divorced; Parviz won custody of the child. She moved back to Tehran to write poetry and published her first volume, entitled The Captive, in 1955.
In 1958 she spent nine months in Europe. After returning to Iran, in search of a job she met film-maker and writer Ebrahim Golestan, who reinforced her own inclinations to express herself and live independently. She published two more volumes, The Wall and The Rebellion before traveling to Tabriz to make a film about Iranians affected by leprosy. This 1962 documentary film titled The House is Black won several international awards. During the twelve days of shooting, she became attached to Hossein Mansouri, the child of two lepers. She adopted the boy and brought him to live at her mother's house.
In 1964 she published Another Birth. Her poetry was now mature and sophisticated, and a profound change from previous modern Iranian poetic conventions.
On February 13, 1967, Farrokhzad died in a car accident at age thirty-two. In order to avoid hitting a school bus, she swerved her Jeep, which hit a stone wall; she died before reaching the hospital. Her poem Let us believe in the beginning of the cold season was published posthumously, and is considered by some to be one of the best-structured modern poems in Persian.
A brief literary biography of Forough, Michael Hillmann's A lonely woman: Forough Farrokhzad and her poetry, was published in 1987. Also about her is a chapter in Farzaneh Milani's work Veils and words: the emerging voices of Iranian women writers (1992). Nasser Saffarian has directed three documentaries on her: The Mirror of the Soul (2000), The Green Cold (2003), and Summit of the Wave (2004).
She is the sister of the singer, poet and political activist Fereydoon Farrokhzad.
فروغ فرخزاد (۸ دی، ۱۳۱۳ - ۲۴ بهمن، ۱۳۴۵) شاعر معاصر ایرانی است. وی پنج دفتر شعر منتشر کرد که از نمونههای قابل توجه شعر معاصر فارسی هستند. فروغ فرخزاد در ۳۲ سالگی بر اثر تصادف اتومبیل بدرود حیات گفت.
فروغ با مجموعه های «اسیر»، «دیوار» و «عصیان» در قالب شعر نیمایی کار خود را آغاز کرد؛ اما با انتشار مجموعه «تولدی دیگر» تحسین گسترده ای را برانگیخت، سپس مجموعه «ایمان بیاوریم به آغاز فصل سرد» را منتشر کرد تا جایگاه خود را در شعر معاصر ایران به عنوان شاعری بزرگ تثبیت نماید.
بعد از نیما یوشیج، فروغ فرخزاد در کنار شاعرانی چون مهدی اخوان ثالث و سهراب سپهری از پیشگامان شعر نیمایی است. نمونههای برجسته و اوج شعر نوی فارسی در آثار فرخزاد، اخوان و سپهری پدیدار گردید
Forough Farrokhzad was born in Tehran to career military officer Colonel Mohammad Bagher Farrokhzad and his wife Touran Vaziri-Tabar in 1935. The third of seven children, she attended school until the ninth grade, then was taught painting and sewing at a girl's school for the manual arts. At age sixteen she was married to Parviz Shapour, an acclaimed satirist.
Within two years, in 1954, Farrokhzad and her husband divorced; Parviz won custody of the child. She moved back to Tehran to write poetry and published her first volume, entitled The Captive, in 1955.
In 1958 she spent nine months in Europe. After returning to Iran, in search of a job she met film-maker and writer Ebrahim Golestan, who reinforced her own inclinations to express herself and live independently. She published two more volumes, The Wall and The Rebellion before traveling to Tabriz to make a film about Iranians affected by leprosy. This 1962 documentary film titled The House is Black won several international awards. During the twelve days of shooting, she became attached to Hossein Mansouri, the child of two lepers. She adopted the boy and brought him to live at her mother's house.
In 1964 she published Another Birth. Her poetry was now mature and sophisticated, and a profound change from previous modern Iranian poetic conventions.
On February 13, 1967, Farrokhzad died in a car accident at age thirty-two. In order to avoid hitting a school bus, she swerved her Jeep, which hit a stone wall; she died before reaching the hospital. Her poem Let us believe in the beginning of the cold season was published posthumously, and is considered by some to be one of the best-structured modern poems in Persian.
A brief literary biography of Forough, Michael Hillmann's A lonely woman: Forough Farrokhzad and her poetry, was published in 1987. Also about her is a chapter in Farzaneh Milani's work Veils and words: the emerging voices of Iranian women writers (1992). Nasser Saffarian has directed three documentaries on her: The Mirror of the Soul (2000), The Green Cold (2003), and Summit of the Wave (2004).
She is the sister of the singer, poet and political activist Fereydoon Farrokhzad.
فروغ فرخزاد (۸ دی، ۱۳۱۳ - ۲۴ بهمن، ۱۳۴۵) شاعر معاصر ایرانی است. وی پنج دفتر شعر منتشر کرد که از نمونههای قابل توجه شعر معاصر فارسی هستند. فروغ فرخزاد در ۳۲ سالگی بر اثر تصادف اتومبیل بدرود حیات گفت.
فروغ با مجموعه های «اسیر»، «دیوار» و «عصیان» در قالب شعر نیمایی کار خود را آغاز کرد؛ اما با انتشار مجموعه «تولدی دیگر» تحسین گسترده ای را برانگیخت، سپس مجموعه «ایمان بیاوریم به آغاز فصل سرد» را منتشر کرد تا جایگاه خود را در شعر معاصر ایران به عنوان شاعری بزرگ تثبیت نماید.
بعد از نیما یوشیج، فروغ فرخزاد در کنار شاعرانی چون مهدی اخوان ثالث و سهراب سپهری از پیشگامان شعر نیمایی است. نمونههای برجسته و اوج شعر نوی فارسی در آثار فرخزاد، اخوان و سپهری پدیدار گردید
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Displaying 1 - 30 of 96 reviews
February 15, 2018
What could be better than having a translator who is a poet in their own right. It this case, award-winning Iranian-American poet and literary translator Sholeh Wolpé who is fluent in both Persian and English. For this was quite simply a stunning collection of poems. Farrokhzad delves into a deep abyss of purity and relentless intensity, hypnotic in both beauty and force, shock and tranquility. It was like diving into heavenly arctic water and being caressed by singing angels, delivering warmth through the numbing cold. Her metaphors are astounding. She feels through the senses, and experiences intellectually the things that bind us all together as human beings. There is no clash of east meets west, just a true and meaningful connection. We can feel her happiness like a beautiful sunset, and also the dark interiors of her pain, heartache and loneliness. Forough had to endure much abuse from the double standard male dominated society to pursue her dreams and artistic career. The Eternal Farrokhzad smashed my heart into a million pieces, and reading these poems was made even more poignant by the fact she tragically lost her life in a car accident in 1967 age just thirty-two.
On Loving:
Tonight from your eyes’ sky
stars rain on my poem,
my fingers spark, set ablaze
the muteness of these blank pages.
My fevered, raving poem shamed by its desires,
hurls itself once again into fire, the flames’ relentless craving.
Yes, so love begins,
and though the road’s end is out of sight, I do not think of the end.
It’s the loving that I love.
Why shun darkness?
The night abounds with diamond drops. Later, jasmine’s intoxicating scent lingers on the spent
body of night. Let me lose myself in you till no one can find my trace. Let your dewy sigh’s
fevered soul waft over the body of my songs.
Wrapped in sleep’s silk
let me grow wings of light,
fly through its open door
beyond the world’s fences and walls.
Do you know what I want of life?
That I can be with you, you, all of you, and if life repeated a thousand times, still you, you, and
again, you. Concealed in me is a sea: how could I hide it? How could I describe the typhoon inside?
I’m so filled with you
I want to run through meadows,
bash my head against mountain rocks, give myself to ocean waves.
I’m so filled with you
I want to crumble into myself like a speck of dust, to gently lay my head at your feet,
cling fast to your weightless shadow.
Yes, so love begins,
and though the road’s end is out of sight, I do not think of the end
for it’s the loving I so love.
On Loving:
Tonight from your eyes’ sky
stars rain on my poem,
my fingers spark, set ablaze
the muteness of these blank pages.
My fevered, raving poem shamed by its desires,
hurls itself once again into fire, the flames’ relentless craving.
Yes, so love begins,
and though the road’s end is out of sight, I do not think of the end.
It’s the loving that I love.
Why shun darkness?
The night abounds with diamond drops. Later, jasmine’s intoxicating scent lingers on the spent
body of night. Let me lose myself in you till no one can find my trace. Let your dewy sigh’s
fevered soul waft over the body of my songs.
Wrapped in sleep’s silk
let me grow wings of light,
fly through its open door
beyond the world’s fences and walls.
Do you know what I want of life?
That I can be with you, you, all of you, and if life repeated a thousand times, still you, you, and
again, you. Concealed in me is a sea: how could I hide it? How could I describe the typhoon inside?
I’m so filled with you
I want to run through meadows,
bash my head against mountain rocks, give myself to ocean waves.
I’m so filled with you
I want to crumble into myself like a speck of dust, to gently lay my head at your feet,
cling fast to your weightless shadow.
Yes, so love begins,
and though the road’s end is out of sight, I do not think of the end
for it’s the loving I so love.
June 7, 2014
I had read half of this while on-the-go; cafés and waiting spaces. I'm still slightly irked (mostly amused) by the thought of random people stealing a peek at my face when it was reacting to Farrokhzad's words -- this clash of private and public made for an appropriate setting, though.
I'm grateful for Wolpé. From what I've read so far, these are the most lyrical of Farrokhzad's poetry in English. Wolpé understands the importance of sounds -- the melody and rhythm of words -- which shouldn't be left out in translations, if it can be helped.
I'm grateful for Wolpé. From what I've read so far, these are the most lyrical of Farrokhzad's poetry in English. Wolpé understands the importance of sounds -- the melody and rhythm of words -- which shouldn't be left out in translations, if it can be helped.
May 13, 2021
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.
This is almost certainly a situation where biography imbues the reading. Especially in translation we follow the case history of the unfortunate poet and find evidence here, a blood trail there, tears across page which must allude to this one particular time. Perhaps it is foolish but it is also nearly inevitable.
I enjoyed these poems immensely. They appeared to smolder once read, emitting faint wisps within one's head. The explanatory notes were indispensable more than a few times.
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.
This is almost certainly a situation where biography imbues the reading. Especially in translation we follow the case history of the unfortunate poet and find evidence here, a blood trail there, tears across page which must allude to this one particular time. Perhaps it is foolish but it is also nearly inevitable.
I enjoyed these poems immensely. They appeared to smolder once read, emitting faint wisps within one's head. The explanatory notes were indispensable more than a few times.
March 27, 2020
Tonight from your eyes’ sky
stars rain on my poem,
my fingers spark, set ablaze
the muteness of these blank pages.
My fevered, raving poem
shamed by its desires,
hurls itself once again into fire,
the flames’ relentless craving.
Yes, so love begins,
and though the road's end is out of sight,
I don't think of the end.
It's the loving that I love.
Why shun darkness?
The night abounds with diamond drops
Later, jasmine's intoxicating scent
lingers on the spent body of the night.
Let me lose myself in you
till no one can find my trace.
Let your dewy sigh's fevered soul
waft over the body of my songs.
Wrapped in sleep's silk
let me grow wings of light,
fly through its open door,
beyond the world's fences and walls.
stars rain on my poem,
my fingers spark, set ablaze
the muteness of these blank pages.
My fevered, raving poem
shamed by its desires,
hurls itself once again into fire,
the flames’ relentless craving.
Yes, so love begins,
and though the road's end is out of sight,
I don't think of the end.
It's the loving that I love.
Why shun darkness?
The night abounds with diamond drops
Later, jasmine's intoxicating scent
lingers on the spent body of the night.
Let me lose myself in you
till no one can find my trace.
Let your dewy sigh's fevered soul
waft over the body of my songs.
Wrapped in sleep's silk
let me grow wings of light,
fly through its open door,
beyond the world's fences and walls.
August 1, 2014
We lost whatever we were to lose.
We began our journey without a lantern;
We began our journey without a lantern;
June 11, 2021
Sholeh Wolpe manfully battles with the abstraction of Forugh’s originals, and more often than not, it seems to me, she comes off second best. Admittedly, she took on a Herculean task when she chose to tackle the work of the "Iranian Plath". Farrokhzad was one of the early modernists in Persian poetry, and it is a measure of her vision that reading these translations made me wish (and quite frequently at that) that I had better access to the music and rhythm and subtlety of the Farsi verse.
Forugh was not interested in conformity. These are the frank confessionals of a woman in love, in lust, in the throes of heartbreak and tragedy. As the biographical essay describes so well, what Forugh did was no less than lob a bomb into the stuffy salons of Persian letters, which had no space for a woman, let alone a woman with a voice so original, a woman so far ahead of her time in her romantic and sexual candor. (The mullahs still have not lifted the ban that they imposed on her works after the Revolution.)
It kicks off with that stick of dynamite that started it all - Sin. The poems gain in power and pith, and reach a pitch in the middle section, selections from her collection Reborn. Wind-Up Doll, Those Days, Friday, My Lover, O Bejeweled Realm, The Bird Was Just a Bird - whether short or long, abstract or concrete, metaphorical or literal, these are powerful examples of the poet’s art. Forugh spans the range here - love poems, poems in communion with nature, poems that return insistently to the themes of rot and death, poems that unfold in the most fantastical of imaginary landscapes. She can be in nostalgic mood, remembering her small-town childhood, or she can express her caged-in discontent in just a few strokes. She can be savagely satirical about the dysfunctions and hypocrisies of her society, pour acid on the impotent wrath and envy of her literary peers. Bejeweled being the supreme example in this latter vein.
Above all, there is the constant sense that this was a woman with a razor-sharp mind who was thwarted at every turn by her time and place that was simply not ready for her. The frustration and rage that pours out of her mixes in with her need for love, her infinite capacity to love - finally the foreknowledge of her tragic separations and her horrific death casts a pall over every syllable, and every line.
So that’s the good stuff. Then, there are the poems of extreme abstraction, of an almost wilful disjointedness, even given the benefit of Forugh’s striking and vivid imagery. The bemused reader can often be left wondering - is this supposed to read this way? is it meant to mean like this? is it different, maybe better in the original Farsi?
Those are just the breaks in this business, the ordinary equation of traduttore-tradittore compounded many times over when dealing with complex poetry from an almost alien culture, which has its own set of deep meanings, auto-suggestions, inferences and associations that are all but hidden to the outside world. You can take it or leave it. But the stuff you take, I guarantee you, will be infinitely valuable and open your soul to a unique, unforgettable vision.
Forugh was not interested in conformity. These are the frank confessionals of a woman in love, in lust, in the throes of heartbreak and tragedy. As the biographical essay describes so well, what Forugh did was no less than lob a bomb into the stuffy salons of Persian letters, which had no space for a woman, let alone a woman with a voice so original, a woman so far ahead of her time in her romantic and sexual candor. (The mullahs still have not lifted the ban that they imposed on her works after the Revolution.)
It kicks off with that stick of dynamite that started it all - Sin. The poems gain in power and pith, and reach a pitch in the middle section, selections from her collection Reborn. Wind-Up Doll, Those Days, Friday, My Lover, O Bejeweled Realm, The Bird Was Just a Bird - whether short or long, abstract or concrete, metaphorical or literal, these are powerful examples of the poet’s art. Forugh spans the range here - love poems, poems in communion with nature, poems that return insistently to the themes of rot and death, poems that unfold in the most fantastical of imaginary landscapes. She can be in nostalgic mood, remembering her small-town childhood, or she can express her caged-in discontent in just a few strokes. She can be savagely satirical about the dysfunctions and hypocrisies of her society, pour acid on the impotent wrath and envy of her literary peers. Bejeweled being the supreme example in this latter vein.
Above all, there is the constant sense that this was a woman with a razor-sharp mind who was thwarted at every turn by her time and place that was simply not ready for her. The frustration and rage that pours out of her mixes in with her need for love, her infinite capacity to love - finally the foreknowledge of her tragic separations and her horrific death casts a pall over every syllable, and every line.
So that’s the good stuff. Then, there are the poems of extreme abstraction, of an almost wilful disjointedness, even given the benefit of Forugh’s striking and vivid imagery. The bemused reader can often be left wondering - is this supposed to read this way? is it meant to mean like this? is it different, maybe better in the original Farsi?
Those are just the breaks in this business, the ordinary equation of traduttore-tradittore compounded many times over when dealing with complex poetry from an almost alien culture, which has its own set of deep meanings, auto-suggestions, inferences and associations that are all but hidden to the outside world. You can take it or leave it. But the stuff you take, I guarantee you, will be infinitely valuable and open your soul to a unique, unforgettable vision.
August 30, 2019
I've been fascinated with Forugh Farrokhzad ever since reading Song of a Captive Bird and finally got round to reading some of her poetry in this collection. I loved the fact that the translator, Sholeh Wolpe, is also a poet in her own right.
"Sin" contains selected poems written throughout Forugh's life from several different collections and it's interesting to see how her style and content evolved. As with most poetry, I find it difficult to review - some poems I loved, some I liked and some didn't resonate at all, but overall I enjoyed reading these.
"Sin" contains selected poems written throughout Forugh's life from several different collections and it's interesting to see how her style and content evolved. As with most poetry, I find it difficult to review - some poems I loved, some I liked and some didn't resonate at all, but overall I enjoyed reading these.
March 14, 2016
I hadn’t heard of Farrokhzad until last year when I visited the Hirshorn in Washington DC. There they had a Shiren Neshat show (which was awesome) and this book was sold in the gift shop. I brought after I read a few of the poems.
These poems are awesome and awe inspiring. They deal with sexuality, death, life and everything in between. There is music and rhythm here.
Love these poems. There is such direct confrontation to them that is refreshing.
These poems are awesome and awe inspiring. They deal with sexuality, death, life and everything in between. There is music and rhythm here.
Love these poems. There is such direct confrontation to them that is refreshing.
September 24, 2020
"I want to make a hole in everything and penetrate it deep. I want to reach the heart of the earth. My love lies in there, a place where seedlings turn green and roots meet one another and creation continues even in disintegration. I think it has always been this way--in birth and then in death. I think my body is a temporary form. I want to reach its essence. I want to hang my heart like a ripe fruit on every branch of every tree."
-- Forugh Farrokhzad
-- Forugh Farrokhzad
February 20, 2023
Disfruté mucho a Forough, pero me lo tuve que llevar lento. Sus poemas son riquísimos en metáforas y me gustaron particularmente porque también son muy visuales. Creo que en general, era una mujer que escribía con todos sus sentidos. Leerla fue estar sola en un cuarto en alguna ciudad desértica, siempre al alba, en esas horas cuando parece que eres la única persona despierta en el mundo, o hasta la única persona en el mundo. Y en ese cuarto solo hay una ventanita (¡en este poemario menciona la palabra "ventana" 34 veces!) donde la vida pasa y tú solo puedes ver de lejos.
January 11, 2013
I recommended this book on my blog but didn't place it among the top 5 books in translation I'd read in 2012. Rereading it for these comments, though, I began to think it should have been on that shorter list. Saying so forces me to set aside the dark romanticism of Farrokhzad's situation (a woman poet who suffered familial and social oppression for the views expressed in her poetry, who nevertheless persisted in her rebellion, and who died in a car accident at the age of 32); I do believe the lives of poets should have no affect on our assessment of their work. But the compelling excellence of Farrokhzad's verse, as conveyed by translator Sholeh Wolpé to those of us who don't know Persian, is inextricably rooted in her personal life as a woman who came of age in Iran after the CIA-sponsored overthrow of the democratically elected Mohammad Mosaddegh. Ironically, the overthrow resulted in the installation of Mohammad Reza Pahlavi, a puppet of the U.S. and Britain whose political savagery was nevertheless accompanied by a relaxation of restrictive social norms. It's within this period of social openness, which was to be rolled back by the conservative revolution of Ayatollah Khomeini in 1979, constituted the bubble in which Farrokhzad flourished. Her writing, shaped ineluctably by her complex situation, is great because expressing it fully required greatness—great courage, great honesty, great ferocity of spirit. It's been a privilege to read and reread her work.
May 18, 2025
I just adore Forugh Farrokhzad.
A stunning poetry collection which gave me the opportunity to revisit some work I had already read, as well as introducing me to some new poems.
Forugh's writing is sensual, evocative, utilizing all senses, merging together raw human emotion with the sights and sounds of the natural world. Farrokhzad's writing is so honest and powerful, surreal and hypnotic.
The book opens with a small biography, which feels like a love letter to the remarkable woman Farrokhzad was. I am quite familiar with her story at this point, but revisiting the journey of her too short life breaks my heart every single time.
I also really appreciated the translator note at the end. The translator, Sholeh Wolpe, explains her approach to the work, the way she strove to maintain as much of Farrokhzad's lyricism as she could. Wolpe also mentions a moment in which she was struggling with translating a particular piece, and in the middle of the night an image of Forugh Farrokhzad visited her, told her to "get up and change that horribly constructed stanza", and told her word for word what to write. Wolpe woke up, remembering the words exactly, and was able to use them. It made me smile, and made me tear up, as you can feel that Wolpe approached this translation so carefully and lovingly, and the final result is superb.
A stunning poetry collection which gave me the opportunity to revisit some work I had already read, as well as introducing me to some new poems.
Forugh's writing is sensual, evocative, utilizing all senses, merging together raw human emotion with the sights and sounds of the natural world. Farrokhzad's writing is so honest and powerful, surreal and hypnotic.
The book opens with a small biography, which feels like a love letter to the remarkable woman Farrokhzad was. I am quite familiar with her story at this point, but revisiting the journey of her too short life breaks my heart every single time.
I also really appreciated the translator note at the end. The translator, Sholeh Wolpe, explains her approach to the work, the way she strove to maintain as much of Farrokhzad's lyricism as she could. Wolpe also mentions a moment in which she was struggling with translating a particular piece, and in the middle of the night an image of Forugh Farrokhzad visited her, told her to "get up and change that horribly constructed stanza", and told her word for word what to write. Wolpe woke up, remembering the words exactly, and was able to use them. It made me smile, and made me tear up, as you can feel that Wolpe approached this translation so carefully and lovingly, and the final result is superb.
October 25, 2008
I had the pleasure of interviewing Sholeh Wolpe, the translator of this collection of Forugh Farrokhzad's poems on my show, Translated By, a few days ago:
http://www.blogtalkradio.com/onword/2...-
Forugh Farrokhzad was a dynamic figure in pre-Revolutionary (pre-1979) Iran and the greatest female poet, perhaps greatest poet of all, of her generation.
Sholeh Wolpe does a fantastic job translating her work and introducing English-language readers to this amazing woman's life and work.
Many amazing poems. I especially enjoyed "O Bejeweled Realm."
http://www.blogtalkradio.com/onword/2...-
Forugh Farrokhzad was a dynamic figure in pre-Revolutionary (pre-1979) Iran and the greatest female poet, perhaps greatest poet of all, of her generation.
Sholeh Wolpe does a fantastic job translating her work and introducing English-language readers to this amazing woman's life and work.
Many amazing poems. I especially enjoyed "O Bejeweled Realm."
March 21, 2014
Alas, this is my lot.
This is my lot.
My lot is a sky that can be shut out
by the mere hanging of a curtain.
My lot is descending a lonely staircase
to something rotting and falling apart in its exile.
My lot is a gloomy stroll in a grove of memories,
and dying from longing for a voice
that says: /I love your hands./
I plant my hands in the garden soil--
I will sprout,
I know, I know, I know.
And in the hollow of my ink-stained palms
swallows will make their nest.
This is my lot.
My lot is a sky that can be shut out
by the mere hanging of a curtain.
My lot is descending a lonely staircase
to something rotting and falling apart in its exile.
My lot is a gloomy stroll in a grove of memories,
and dying from longing for a voice
that says: /I love your hands./
I plant my hands in the garden soil--
I will sprout,
I know, I know, I know.
And in the hollow of my ink-stained palms
swallows will make their nest.
February 2, 2023
my lover
shameless and naked
stands on his brawny legs
like death.
my lover is like nature,
inevitable and blunt.
by conquering me, he confirms
the naked law of porwer.
he awakens innocent memories
with his childhood smell,
and like a tuneful ballad,
brims with unclad roughness.
he loves earnestly-
particles of life,
flecks of dust,
human sorrows
guileless sorrows.
he loves earnestly-
an alley in a village grove,
a tree,
a bowl of ice cream,
a clothesline.
in this land of sinister wonders,
my lover is a simple man i have hidden
between the two hills of my breast
as the last sign of a miraculous creed.
shameless and naked
stands on his brawny legs
like death.
my lover is like nature,
inevitable and blunt.
by conquering me, he confirms
the naked law of porwer.
he awakens innocent memories
with his childhood smell,
and like a tuneful ballad,
brims with unclad roughness.
he loves earnestly-
particles of life,
flecks of dust,
human sorrows
guileless sorrows.
he loves earnestly-
an alley in a village grove,
a tree,
a bowl of ice cream,
a clothesline.
in this land of sinister wonders,
my lover is a simple man i have hidden
between the two hills of my breast
as the last sign of a miraculous creed.
September 21, 2022
Farrokhzad’s poetry is incendiary and her metaphors rich and palpable. I feel as if I’ve swallowed the sun; I want to read everything she has ever written. This is one collection I will cherish reading over and over again, and I’m looking forward to exploring other translations as well.
May 13, 2015
Forough Farrokhzad is considered to be one of Iran's greatest female modern poets. She was not only a poet, but also a film maker. Farrokhzad led a very unconventional life for an Iranian woman after the breakup of her marriage. Her poems reflect sexuality, loneliness, torment, the beauty of nature. This translation in English is beautiful, sensual, and lush, so it has to be even more so in the original Farsi. Farrokhzad was killed in a car crash in 1967 at age 32. After the Iranian Revolution, her books were banned for over a decade.
August 5, 2014
She's an Iranian poet who shocked everyone in the 1950s and 1960s by writing frankly about her various love affairs. I like her poems, but reading several in a row can get a little overwhelming: the imagery can start to feel oppressive and almost random. But taken one at a time, the poems grab you with their raw emotion.
May 21, 2023
only forugh farrokhzad can rip my heart open and lay it bare. let us believe in the dawn of the cold season is one of the most breathtaking poems i have ever read. her poetry is the most astonishing and beautifully crafted literature i have had the fortune of reading. thank you lizzie and thank you farzaneh milani
January 13, 2023
If you only read one poem, read bathing. You won’t be able to stop.
May 11, 2025
ahead of her time. I do wish the foreword didn’t unnecessarily mention Isr*el.
Read
December 13, 2023RAW!! so much wonder, heartbreak, and frustration illustrated in such an authentic way. tried to take my time with this but it was too too good.
June 10, 2025
There’s a reason she’s an icon. If you want to be depressed about women and society then this is for you.
May 11, 2025
فروغ بالنسبة لي هيَّ الثَّورة
كتبت عن الحب، الرغبة، الجسد، الوحدة وسط مجتمعها المحافظ، لذلك أراها أكثر من مجرد شاعرة. هيَّ روح حرَّة تمردت على الزمن والمجتمع واللغة. تشبه الأصوات داخل الجرح، داخل الوحدة، داخل كل رغبةٍ جامحة للعيش والحياة وسط الخوف والموت. صوتها ناعم لكنه يكسّر.. حزين، لكنه ثائر… على كلٍّ! بساطتها اللغوية جذبتني لها، هيَّ لم تكن بساطة دالة على فقرها اللغوي بل بساطة شعرية وعميقة من حيث الإحساس والمعاني بالآن ذاته. يوجد بها شيء يشبه تنفّس الروح —— هادئ ومؤلم أحيانًا.
في كل كلمةٍ وقصيدةٍ وبيت يخصها أستوعبت حقيقة أنها ليست مجرد (امرأة شاعرة) بل كائن حساس لدرجة الخطر، تحس بالأشياء أضعاف الناس، وتحتاج هذا الفن كوسيلة بقاء. حساسيتها لم تكن مجرد طبع، بل طريقة وجود—كأنها تمشي في الحياة دون جلد، كل شيءٍ يلمسها، يحفر بها، ويترك أثرًا عميقًا— لم تكن لديها حواجز بين نفسها والألم، أو حتى بين نفسها والفرح. كانت تعيش كل لحظة بكثافة عاطفية مفرطة —وهذا الشيء واضح جدًا في شعرها ورسائلها وصوتها حين تتحدث.
كتبت عن الحب، الرغبة، الجسد، الوحدة وسط مجتمعها المحافظ، لذلك أراها أكثر من مجرد شاعرة. هيَّ روح حرَّة تمردت على الزمن والمجتمع واللغة. تشبه الأصوات داخل الجرح، داخل الوحدة، داخل كل رغبةٍ جامحة للعيش والحياة وسط الخوف والموت. صوتها ناعم لكنه يكسّر.. حزين، لكنه ثائر… على كلٍّ! بساطتها اللغوية جذبتني لها، هيَّ لم تكن بساطة دالة على فقرها اللغوي بل بساطة شعرية وعميقة من حيث الإحساس والمعاني بالآن ذاته. يوجد بها شيء يشبه تنفّس الروح —— هادئ ومؤلم أحيانًا.
في كل كلمةٍ وقصيدةٍ وبيت يخصها أستوعبت حقيقة أنها ليست مجرد (امرأة شاعرة) بل كائن حساس لدرجة الخطر، تحس بالأشياء أضعاف الناس، وتحتاج هذا الفن كوسيلة بقاء. حساسيتها لم تكن مجرد طبع، بل طريقة وجود—كأنها تمشي في الحياة دون جلد، كل شيءٍ يلمسها، يحفر بها، ويترك أثرًا عميقًا— لم تكن لديها حواجز بين نفسها والألم، أو حتى بين نفسها والفرح. كانت تعيش كل لحظة بكثافة عاطفية مفرطة —وهذا الشيء واضح جدًا في شعرها ورسائلها وصوتها حين تتحدث.
September 20, 2022
Really good poems! I felt like I would have appreciated it more if I grew up around that time era. Either way great read.
Took me longer to read because I only read while at the salon.
Took me longer to read because I only read while at the salon.
January 17, 2025
Entered the stormy, magical and brave world of poet Forugh Farrokhzad. Sholeh Wolpe’s introduction was just as good as the rest of the book for me, I loved the narration.
February 28, 2020
A window to see
A round window like an unending well
A window loads lonely hands
With nocturnal scent of generous stars
Invites the sun
A window is enough for me
I speak out of the deep of night
If you come to my house, friend
Bring me a lamp and a window I can look through
At the crowd in the happy valley
No one dreams of love anymore
In the cave of loneliness futility was born
When my life was no longer anything
Nothing but the tick tock of a wall clock
I discovered that i must love madly
Desire sparked a flame in his eyes
I sinned a sin full of pleasure
I whispered in his ear the tale of love
He loves with such a faith
With all laughs and all the sorrows
My Friday loaded with grief and mournful of my fading faith
This empty room, gloomy home
This place of solitude, reflection and doubt
This space of hues, shapes, signs and sound
Speak to me of this invincible void
Ay, age seven after you
The window which was a lively and bright
Connection between the bird and us
Between the breeze and us
Broke
After you we betrayed each other
We cleansed your memories
A dark and chanted verse is what I am
I drew you through this verse and crafted you
Life may be rope for a man who hangs himself from a branch
My lot is a sad promenade in nostalgia's garden
Let me make love to the moon
Maybe my love will cradle the birth of another Christ
O Iranian woman
Become a flood of anger, hate and pain
Woman, take action because a world
awaits and is in tune with you
My mother’s entire life is a prayer book
A round window like an unending well
A window loads lonely hands
With nocturnal scent of generous stars
Invites the sun
A window is enough for me
I speak out of the deep of night
If you come to my house, friend
Bring me a lamp and a window I can look through
At the crowd in the happy valley
No one dreams of love anymore
In the cave of loneliness futility was born
When my life was no longer anything
Nothing but the tick tock of a wall clock
I discovered that i must love madly
Desire sparked a flame in his eyes
I sinned a sin full of pleasure
I whispered in his ear the tale of love
He loves with such a faith
With all laughs and all the sorrows
My Friday loaded with grief and mournful of my fading faith
This empty room, gloomy home
This place of solitude, reflection and doubt
This space of hues, shapes, signs and sound
Speak to me of this invincible void
Ay, age seven after you
The window which was a lively and bright
Connection between the bird and us
Between the breeze and us
Broke
After you we betrayed each other
We cleansed your memories
A dark and chanted verse is what I am
I drew you through this verse and crafted you
Life may be rope for a man who hangs himself from a branch
My lot is a sad promenade in nostalgia's garden
Let me make love to the moon
Maybe my love will cradle the birth of another Christ
O Iranian woman
Become a flood of anger, hate and pain
Woman, take action because a world
awaits and is in tune with you
My mother’s entire life is a prayer book
May 29, 2019
“All my being is a dark verse
that repeats you to the dawn
of unfading flowering and growth.
I conjured you in my poem with a sigh
and grafted you to water, fire, and trees.
...
In a room the size of loneliness,
my heart’s the size of love.
It contemplates its simple pretexts for happiness:
the beauty of the flowers’ wilting in a vase,
the sapling you planted in our garden,
and the canaries’ song—the size of a window.
ーForugh Farrokhzad, "Reborn", Sin, transl. from Farsi by Sholeh Wolpé
Farrokhzad's poems pierced in my heart and soul since the very first start reading, as you may witness my frequent post about her. She consumed my thought, mind, spirit and dream. I often think about her poems when the world is quiet, hearing her voice, a whispering. She made me reexamine about how I, as a woman, think, and the freedom to think. The thinking about my feeling, my body, sexuality, love and life, without fear of fallacy norms or status quo. There are hidden mysterious magic in each line of her poems. I wanna talk about her bravery. I wanna talk about her life. But then I'll weep. Whenever I returned to her poems, those emotions stunned me. She was full of courage. She carried so much despair. She has so much meaning. I am meaningless.
A quick note on a remarkable translation by Sholeh Wolpé, a poet herself, made this reading formidable and tearsome.
Get yourself a copy of Forugh Farrokhzad. Read poems that destroy you and reborn.
that repeats you to the dawn
of unfading flowering and growth.
I conjured you in my poem with a sigh
and grafted you to water, fire, and trees.
...
In a room the size of loneliness,
my heart’s the size of love.
It contemplates its simple pretexts for happiness:
the beauty of the flowers’ wilting in a vase,
the sapling you planted in our garden,
and the canaries’ song—the size of a window.
ーForugh Farrokhzad, "Reborn", Sin, transl. from Farsi by Sholeh Wolpé
Farrokhzad's poems pierced in my heart and soul since the very first start reading, as you may witness my frequent post about her. She consumed my thought, mind, spirit and dream. I often think about her poems when the world is quiet, hearing her voice, a whispering. She made me reexamine about how I, as a woman, think, and the freedom to think. The thinking about my feeling, my body, sexuality, love and life, without fear of fallacy norms or status quo. There are hidden mysterious magic in each line of her poems. I wanna talk about her bravery. I wanna talk about her life. But then I'll weep. Whenever I returned to her poems, those emotions stunned me. She was full of courage. She carried so much despair. She has so much meaning. I am meaningless.
A quick note on a remarkable translation by Sholeh Wolpé, a poet herself, made this reading formidable and tearsome.
Get yourself a copy of Forugh Farrokhzad. Read poems that destroy you and reborn.
February 20, 2020
I first read poems by the Iranian poet Forugh Farrokhzad (1935 - 1967) in an American Poetry Review edition January/February 2006, translated from the Farsi by Meetra A. Sofia. A note said there was to be a selection of her poems from City Lights in 2007. This edition of her selected poems titled Sin, which came out in 2007 from the University of Arkansas Press is translated by Sholeh Wolpé. It contains a useful biographical essay, notes on translation & an overview of Iran’s political scene 1941 - 1967. Of the 12 poems in the APR edition, 6 are also included in Sin, providing an interesting view of a battle of the translators.
These poems, written in the 1960s (Farrokhzad died in a car crash in 1967), are echoed at open mics today by young women, or men, or persons of whatever gender, going thru the anguish of love, longing, rejection. These poems are an example of why we can read, understand, be moved by poetry written in times distant from our own, in cultures & in languages not like our own. It doesn’t have to be GREAT poetry, just honestly written, movingly expressed, the emotions of ordinary people, like those who read at open mics, expressed in an extra-ordinary way that even stuffy poetry aesthetes & academics can feel.
These poems, written in the 1960s (Farrokhzad died in a car crash in 1967), are echoed at open mics today by young women, or men, or persons of whatever gender, going thru the anguish of love, longing, rejection. These poems are an example of why we can read, understand, be moved by poetry written in times distant from our own, in cultures & in languages not like our own. It doesn’t have to be GREAT poetry, just honestly written, movingly expressed, the emotions of ordinary people, like those who read at open mics, expressed in an extra-ordinary way that even stuffy poetry aesthetes & academics can feel.
August 9, 2010
Reading these lovely poems by Iranian poet Forugh Farrokhzad--translated from the Persian originals by her young female relative, also a writer--made me wish I could read Persian; the translations are beautiful, but in Persian they would be gorgeous. Farrokhzad was a pivotal Iranian poet in the 50s and 60s who explored subjects ranging from sexual love to politics. Unfortunately, she died (in her early 30s) just as the Iranian political situation was heating up (even more); her political poetry is biting, witty, and incredibly pertinent. I'm so glad I happened upon these poems, and I hope they'll be a window for me into more Iranian authors. Americans, even more so than the rest of the world, desperately need to familiarize themselves with the people, politics, and history of Iran, and reading words written by Iranians like Farrokhzad is the best, least intrusive way, I think, to do that.
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