The Poet Descends, Willingly, the Stairs
for Forough Farrokhzad (Tehran, 1935 – 1967)
My mother said:
A woman about to die,
her kiss is cold.
I answered, Mother,
I cannot do otherwise.
Not today, she said.
Go another day, go tomorrow.
Wait for spring, the New Year, she said.
Wait for the mountain storms to fall quiet.
Wait for the tulips to fill the valleys,
for the sun to warm your young face.
Mother, I whispered, I cannot do otherwise.
My lot is to go down the long stairs.
My lot is to descend
into the loneliness of the moon.
The page you have requested is restricted to subscribers only. Please enter your username and password and click on 'Continue'.
If you have forgotten your username and password, please enter the email address you used when you joined. Your login
details will then be emailed to the address specified.
If you are already a member and have not received your login details, please email us,
including your name and address, and we will supply you with details of how to access the archived material.
If you are not a member and would like to enjoy the growing online archive of Stand Magazine
, containing poems, articles, prose and reviews,
why not subscribe
to the website today?