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Because of Forough Farrokhzad, a sensual, unapologetic, 31 year old Iranian writer, my obsession with poetry never began. As a Persian girl with a wall's worth of books in her bedroom, it was almost expected that I would fall in love with poetry. Persian poetry, dubbed by my mother as the “mother of the romantic,'' was thrown at me in every form: vintage books with farsi verses with beautiful illustrations in 100 year old leather, English translated paperbacks from Barnes & Nobles, and mistranslated quotes on daintily designed pinterest boards. But it just never stuck. I never felt the click of hidden depth in the congested words and silly syllables.

In an attempt to pick a passion-worthy topic for my IB Extended Essay, I turned once again to Persian literature and poetry as a last desperate attempt. Naturally, mainstream poets, like Rumi and Ferdoosi, were my first stops, but I found their message to be too vague, too worldly. I needed something to connect with, something gritty, imperfect, and human, like Ocean Vuong's raw descriptions of his first sexual encounter in his memoir, or Khaled Hossieni’s candid portrayal of the good and bad of having privilege and wealth, and then losing it.

The first sentence in the “about” section of a Google search of Forough Farrokhzad calls her an “influential Iranian poet and film director.” The sentence following calls her a “controversial modernist” and an “iconoclast.” Those three phrases drew me into a black hole of curiosity I can now confidently call awe and admiration. I read about her affairs, her abusive husband, and her time at a rehabilitation center, and I marveled at her strength, and her ability to channel her challenges into her work. I came to the conclusion that the syntax of those phrases in that Google “about” section was the most influential part of my whole journey with her work: that Forough Farrokhzad was an influential poet not despite of, but because of her bold and unapologetic modernism and feminism; that she became widely known because she wrote about the true female experience, the one with madness, seduction, dirt, masturbation, and selfishness along with the gentile persona, soft colors, flowers, and accounts of falling in love.

Her existence slowly melded itself into every aspect of my life: My Youtube search history filled with videos of her lyrical voice performing her poems in a legato, almost cursive Farsi, the section of my bookshelf occupied by Shole Wolpe's collection of Forough’s translated works, and my research notes on how translations of her most famous poem,“Sin,” completely miss the theme of masturbation in favor of hetersoexual sex when read and analyzed through the male perspective. I felt such a kinship with her that when I framed a ripped-out page of the book containing her picture, I felt a sense of pride when people asked if we were related.

Through my awareness of her, I felt like a heightened and bolded version of myself: More Persian, more feminine, more bold, and more of a literarian.

The point of this essay is not to say that I wish to be the next Forough Farrokhzad, far from it actually. I do not owe my love of literature and my fascination with language to Forough, nor do I think of myself as a new-found poet enthusiast because of her. I like to believe she wouldn't like that. I do however find inspiration to be bold, to stand my ground, and to be unquestioningly me. Her words are not my gospel or my philosophy, but her voice is. Because of her, it feels okay to dismiss the unconditional acceptance of the popular, the polished, and the perfect. To instead, listen and hear the stories and voices of those cast aside and silenced, and to continue to grow into myself, and explore different identities through unconventional, sometimes controversial literature.