After purchasing a copy of translated poems by Forugh Farrokhzad and a blue ceramic plate wrapped in white tissue paper, I head home cold through the snow’s mist-shapen road forming one blank turn. It is early March, and as usual, I hope to hear the spirit of my mother’s native pessimism faintly pass through a line of translated poetry. If you break the speed of sound, sound itself disappears.
So as expected, I couldn’t hear her. The translation just a weird bird of itself sounding internet. However, it is easier to listen without the intention of trying to know, so I wait in case something is silvering through. The tube to Bethnal Green in seven minutes and the poem speeching like:
These lines are ok. They remind me of two dimmed out hearts, or beyond a dark garden on a private road. And it’s not exactly like my mother was clear in her relationships, nor were her relationships a way to pile dead stars in the drawer.
But ‘I am depressed / I am depressed / I go out on the verandah’ doesn’t quite scratch her itch.
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