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Tuesday, May 25, 2004I Pity the Gardenby Forugh Farrokhzad Forugh Farrokhzad was born in 1935 to a middle-class family of seven in Tehran, Iran. In a society where women have historically had few rights, she married at seventeen, divorced within three years and was forced to relinquish her only son to her husband. She never remarried, instead pursuing an independent lifestyle and a career in poetry. Her expressions of physical and emotional intimacy, much lacking in Persian women's poetry up to that point, placed her at the center of controversy, even among the intellectuals of the time. She was subjected to tabloid gossip and portrayed as a woman of loose moral character. Considered work of great audacity and extraordinary talent, Fraokhzad's poems are today much loved and revered by Iranians, and she is regarded by many as one of the most important female poets in modern Persian literature. On February 14,1967, her car was struck by a military vehicle, killing her instantly. She was 32 years old.  No one thinks of the flowers. No one thinks of the fish. No one wants to believe the garden is dying, that its heart has swollen in the heat of this sun, that its mind drains slowly of its lush memories. 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. Father says: My time is past my time is past, I've carried my burden I'm done with my work. He stays in his room from dawn to dusk reads History of Histories or Ferdowsi's Epic of Kings. Father says to Mother: Damn every fish and every bird! When I'm dead, what will it matter if the garden lives or dies. My pension is all that counts. Mother's life is a rolled out prayer rug. She lives in terror of hell, always seeks Sin's footprints in every corner, imagines the garden sullied by the sin of a wayward plant. Mother is a sinner by nature. She prays all day, then with her "consecrated" breath blows on all the flowers, all the fish and all over her own body. She awaits the Promised One and the forgiveness He is to bring. My brother calls the garden a graveyard. He laughs at the plight of the grass and ruthlessly counts the corpses of the fish rotting beneath the sick skin of shallow water. My brother is addicted to philosophy he sees the healing of the garden in its death. Drunk, he beats his fists on doors and walls says he is tired, pained and despondent. He carries his despair everywhere, just as he carries his birth certificate diary, napkin, lighter and pen. But his despair is so small that each night it is lost in crowded taverns. My sister was a friend to flowers. She would take her simple heart's words --when Mother beat her -- to their kind and silent gathering and sometimes she would treat the family of fish to sunshine and cake crumbs. She now lives on the other side of town in her artificial home and in the arms of her artificial husband she makes natural children. Each time she visits us, if her skirt is sullied with the poverty of our garden she bathes herself in perfume. Every time she visits she is with child. Our garden is forlorn Our garden is forlorn All day from behind the door come sounds of cuts and tears sounds of blasts. Our neighbors plant bombs and machine guns, instead of flowers, in their garden soil. They cover their ponds, hiding bags of gunpowder. The school children fill their backpacks with tiny bombs. Our garden is dizzy. I fear the age that has lost its heart, the idleness of so many hands the alienation in so many faces. I am like a schoolchild madly in love with her geometry books. I am forlorn and imagine it is possible to take the garden to a hospital. I imagine I imagine And the garden's heart has swollen in the heat of this sun, its mind slowly drains of its lush memories. All pages created with 100% recycled electrons posted by CoolSoulSmith a.k.a Rinci|ak ---------------------------
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