Reza Shirmarz primarily crafts his poetry in Farsi, a language through which he has articulated his artistic vision since the inception of his career. For Shirmarz, poetry serves as an unparalleled medium to illuminate untold narratives and to exalt the seemingly inconsequential elements of existence. He masterfully transforms what might be dismissed as trivial—a fleeting moment, an overlooked object, or a subtle concept—into profound and evocative poetic expressions. To him, poetry embodies the act of resurrecting the ephemeral fragments of life, rendering the intangible intricacies of existence vividly perceptible. Shirmarz advocates for a poetic philosophy rooted in simplicity and refinement. He contends that poetry need not be convoluted or esoteric to achieve artistic significance. “Simplicity does not diminish the value of poetry," he asserts, "but instead enhances its accessibility, allowing it to resonate deeply with the intellect and emotions of its audience.” Reflective of his transnational appeal, a selection of his works has been translated and published in both France and Greece, extending the reach of his poetic voice beyond linguistic and cultural boundaries.
Click to read some of his poems in English:
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A war-game
The Green Boy
A dead-end alley
Friendship
A bird-man
I am a bird with fractured wings, bound to a wretched, ancient cage, far from the stars that pierce the night, a stranger to the sun's embrace. Those who forged my prison bars, praised my gift of flight-- then clipped my feathers, robbing me of the sky’s promise. I am a bird of silence, caged by hands that craft a mockery: dry branches, forged flowers, a cruel echo of lost freedom. They cheer my hollow songs, my beak cracking as I rage against the unyielding bars, longing for a freedom that lives only in shadowed corners. I am a bird of truth, a harbinger of sorrow, a wanderer without paradise. Even in restless dreams, I cannot soar; my broken beak hungers, yet my shattered heart still loves. I love the sound of wings outside, the melody of unseen birds perched on distant, imagined trees, or trapped, like me, in flickering screens. Now, my wings seem to shift, transforming into hands, my beak softens into lips, and my frail legs find themselves as feet, firm upon the ground. I am a man in a cell, who must rest tonight, for tomorrow awaits-- a shop, a life, a strange, sorrowful bird-man’s toil. Getting old
My hair turned white, strand by strand, like the winding roads and silent alleys I have wandered-- now buried beneath the snow's relentless fall, its frost veiling the tombstones etched by time’s cruel hand. My skin turned red, hue by hue, like the fragile bodies of children, their small forms cradled by rivers swollen with blood, floating, unyielding, in a tide of sorrow. The City of the Dead
Upon their shoulders, humans bear the crushing weight of houses, flats, and factories, while their souls stagger beneath the smother of smog, the rage of storms, the sear of fires. They are ceaseless beasts of burden, laden with wars, massacres, and unyielding plagues. Every man is a mouse, trapped within the inescapable maze of four enclosing walls. Every woman, a prowling cat, weaving between those walls, seeking the solace of a mate. Together, they are twin cherries, fallen from the trembling tree, scattered and bruised on the chaos of an overrun road. The Wall
You are the wall rising hard and high between our hands, an ancient force laying brick upon brick in cold, methodical blood, sealing minds, hearts, locking out warmth once more. Every brick—a tear, wrenched from Gaia’s weary eyes, a crimson frustration, a goddess abandoned, her sorrow soaked in red clay, the mud thick and clinging, foundations laid with hands stained by their own making. Blood seeps from every brick, each one a soul in pain, the spirit of a citizen still standing, bruised but unbroken, pressing against the mortar, lifting up this wall of walls-- only to tear it down once again. Wanna Risk with My Words
I want to wager the days and nights, to gamble it all, every breath, every while, dancing sorrowfully among the dead, drinking the blood spilt in wars’ red rivers. I long to flee the flat that traps me, to abandon every false shelter’s hold, to shred my CV like a tattered veil and wade into a river, cleansing my hands, my feet-- of the blood of trees, of the blood of seas, of Venus’s wounds, of the blood of the silenced, the unloved. I want to risk the hours, to heal the scars of every bite, on this selfish, fragile body, on this soul, weary and fraying. I want to turn my back on the cities of men, to seek solace in the shadow of annihilation, to find a jungle teeming with terror and embrace it over this desolation-- this nameless stasis, this faceless ignorance, this baseless trust, this endless dalliance with nothingness. I want to risk a little, to risk it all, to risk only the act of risking-- not to perish for my words, but to let them breathe danger, to dare the world with my words. Headless Doll
Through the window, A child gazes-- Her eyes fixed On the headless doll, As snow falls, Soft and silent, Covering it, Piece by piece. I alone mourn The child's silent tears, And the child alone Sees my ghost Fleeing With every breath That slips from my lips. A Romantic Eye
Snow slips through her fingers, and I age through a single night-- poems crystallize within my skull. I gaze at you with a lover’s eye, while fire spills from her gaze-- my nights, now scented with the smoke of your flames. The Shadow of Disgust
My eyes sang with the hue of yours, as stars poured from your throat into my clenched hands. I opened my fists, and the Sun unfurled, my heart swayed like a pendulum, while I cast the shadow of disgust into the fire. Reconciliation
You and I, standing on the doorstep, our shadows stretch and swell-- yours, curling with smoke, mine, sipping the air. You kiss the cigarette, and my shadow, suddenly a poet, whispers a song as the smoke dances between your lips. The song begins where I end, and where it fades, I begin again. There, on the doorstep, we wait, for the other’s smile to light the night. I am not a poem anymore
Your presence slips in like silk through shadow, and the birth of my poems halts, mid-breath. You enter, and my desk surrenders its beauty to the bin, words collapsing into themselves, leaving me blank, hands empty and grasping at air. I look around, lost, and my room swells, filled to its quiet corners with elegance—unearned, effortless. You bring this, you bring everything, and suddenly my pockets are turned out, palms stretched wide, reaching for a poem that no longer comes. I am no poet here; I am stripped to stillness, a watcher, while you, alive and unwritten, are the only poem left in the room. The guitar of my peaceful nights
The guitar of my peaceful nights lies shattered, scattered in pieces, each fragment a part of you, splintered yet shining in the thick silence of dark. Each piece, a stilled string, a curve of wood, glittering faintly like stars lost and falling, flickering through the quiet-- no melody left to play, just the faint echo of what was once whole. a lover’s gaze
Snow slips through her hands, and I age in the span of a night-- poems freeze within my skull. I watch you with a lover’s gaze, while fire pours from her eyes. My nights are scented with the smoke of your flames, and the shadow of disgust lingers, silent and still. the shadow of disgust
My eyes hum with the hue of yours, as stars spill from your throat into my clenched hands. I release my grip, and the Sun unfurls, my heart sways like a pendulum, while I cast the shadow of disgust into the winds. I love a book
I love you because you do not offer a candle to the church, nor capture the image of fear and disgust. You are a book, in which a mountain rises, a tome where you may drink with Satan and lie with God. In your pages, you can squeeze a stone and pull a poem from its depths, melt the sun effortlessly with the power of your song. Broken love
A candle, I, and a mirror in which you never smiled. A night, you, and a star I never held. The Sunset
Behold the Sun, how crimson his face! He is in love with the bird soaring toward his fading, false hues. The bird trembles, afraid to shed its feathers beneath the night’s embrace. Nakedness, breathlessness, the gentle breeze, and a mountain smiling softly, waiting patiently for the brief, red tale of love. freedom
You are free when you find life’s meaning slipping away, like water through your fingers, leaving only the stillness behind. You break the chains when you do nothing, cause nothing, and speak no word-- silent as a rock on a mountain, unchanged, unmoved, witness to the world’s frenzy. Like a tree in the heart of a desert, rooted deep in emptiness, holding still, when all else withers around. Like a frog in the stillness of night, sensing the owl’s watchful gaze, quiet in the knowing, no fear, no flight, just the pulse of existence, unshaken, untouched, free in its silence. Incurable
Rain didn’t heal my wounds-- perhaps your hands will. No, no-- the rain will never cure me, but it drapes the heavy coat of your absence over my shoulders. A weathered rock
A rock, weathered and worn, Lies on a path too busy to care. Once, it was strong, A sentinel in the quiet of time, But now, it’s just a forgotten thing Crushed underfoot by lives moving too fast. No one notices it anymore. The crowd rushes by, Each footstep a reminder Of how things fade-- Of how time chips away At what once had weight. It remembers the days When it was something, A rock with purpose, A piece of history’s puzzle. But now, it’s just a shadow, A relic of a past no one recalls. How long has it been here? Days, years, centuries? It’s hard to say, When the world keeps spinning And leaves things behind-- Like rocks, and people, and stories. It could rise up, Push through the dust of time, But it doesn’t have the strength anymore. Instead, it waits-- A quiet witness to the rush of things, Hoping to be remembered For a moment, Before it too is washed away. |
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