Im Alter von 16 Jahren heiratete Sie den15 Jahre älteren iranischen Satiriker und Karikaturisten Parviz Shapour, von dem Sie sich nach nur 3 Jahren Ehe trennte. Die Ehe brachte einen einzigen Sohn hervor.Das Sorgerecht behielt der Ehemann. Aus dem schmerzhaften Verlust des Kindes heraus, widmete sich von nun an der Dichtkunst. 

Ihre Gedichtbände “Die Gefangene” “ Die Wand” “Aufbegehren” “Die Wiedergeburt” widerspiegeln Ihre persönlichen Gefühle der Ausweglosigkeit, inneren Flucht, Heimatlosigkeit und die Trauer über die Vergänglichkeit der Zeit.

Das nach ihrem Tode veröffentlichte Gedicht “Lasst uns an den Beginn der kalten Jahreszeit

Forough Farrokhzads Werke sind geprägt durch den Willen, die damals herrschenden sozialen und kulturellen Konventionen zu übergehen und darüber hinaus Ihren Schwerpunkt auf die Gleichberechtigung von Mann und Frau zu setzen,in dem Sie beide Geschlechter von festgelegten Klischees und Vorurteilen befreit und prosaisch gleichsetzt.glauben“ gilt heute als das “beststrukturierte moderne Gedicht in persischer Sprache”.

Sie liegt heute auf einem Friedhof in Teheran Darvand begraben.

Let Us Believe in the Beginning of the Cold Season
“Let Us Believe in the Beginning of the Cold Season ” was first published in a fall 1965 issue of Arash. One of Farrokhzad’s longest and most pensive poems, it begins with a speaker’s personal and individual declaration that implies a whole life behind it:

And this is I
a woman alone
at the threshold of a cold season
at the beginning of understanding
the polluted existence of the earth
and the simple and sad pessimism of the sky
and the incapacity of these concrete hands.

In “Let Us Believe in the Beginning of the Cold Season,” Farrokhzad looks into both the past and the future:

time passed,
time passed and the clock stuck four,
struck four times.
today is the winter solstice.
I know the season’s secrets…

the wind is blowing through the street,
the beginning of ruination.

I am cold,
I am cold, and it would appear
that I will never be warm again…
I am cold and I know
that nothing will be left
of all the red dreams of one wild poppy
but a few drops of blood.

I shall give up lines
and give up counting syllables too.
and I will seek refuge from the mob
of finite measured forms
In the sensitive planes of expanse.
I am naked, naked, naked,
I am naked as silence between words of love,
and all my wounds come form love,
from loving…

will I once again
comb my hair with wind?
will I ever again plant pansies in the garden
and set geraniums in the sky
outside the window?
will I ever again dance on wine glasses
will the doorbell call me again
toward a voice’s expectation?

I said to Mother, It’s all over now.
I said, Things always happen before one thinks;
we have to send condolences
to the obituary page… .

Border Walls
Now, again in the silent night,
sequestrant walls, border walls
like plants entwine,
so they may be the guardians of my love.
Now, again the town’s evil murmurs,
like agitated schools of fish,
flee the darkness of my extremities.
Now, again windows rediscover themselves
in the pleasure of contact with scattered perfumes,
and trees, in slumberous orchards, shed their bark,
and soil, with its thousand inlets
inhales the dizzy particles of the moon.
***
Now
come closer
and listen
to the anguished beats of my love,
that spread
like the tom-tom of African drums
along the tribe of my limbs.
I, feel.
I know
which moment
is the moment of prayer.
Now stars
are lovers.
In night’s refuge,
from innermost breezes, I waft.
In night’s refuge, I
tumble madly forth
with my ample tresses, in your palms,
and I offer you the equatorial flowers of this young tropic.
Come with me,
come to that star with me
that is centuries away
from earth’s concretion and futile scales,
and no one there
is afraid of light.
On islands adrift upon the waters, I breathe.
I am in search of a share in the expansive sky,
void of the swell of vile thoughts.
Refer with me,
refer with me
to the source of all being,
to the sanctified center of a single origin,
to the moment I was created from you
refer with me,
I am not complete from you.
Now,
on the peaks of my breasts,
doves are flying.
Now,
within the cocoon of my lips,
butterfly kisses are immersed in thoughts of flight.
Now,
the altar of my body
is ready for love’s worship.
Refer with me,
I’m powerless to speak
because I love you,
because “I love you” is a phrase
from the world of futilities
and antiquities and redundancies.
Refer with me,
I’m powerless to speak.
In night’s refuge, let me make love to the moon,
let me be filled
with tiny raindrops,
with undeveloped hearts,
with the volume of the unborn,
let me be filled.
Maybe my love
will cradle the birth of another Christ.

Translated by Layli Arbab Shirani (2/96)

Bildnachweis: Huang Xiang and William Rock