Shirin Razavian

Arvin

Held by the pleasure
of being with you,
of your being-to-be
in my womb,

I enter, with you,
each moment’s smell
and touch, with you,
time’s smallest cells

You are the miracle
of late love
connecting me back
to my last green.

You are
the rare chance
of a second chance.

Shirin Razavian
2005

Water Song

Let me see.

How far is it
to the highest peak
of solitude?

to the songs that well
from the throats
of pigeons nesting
between the crumbling bricks
that line the shaft of a well?

to the dandelion clocks
whose message floats
on the autumn winds?

Let me switch on
my loneliness meter:
how many degrees

below zero
will it say?

Below the ice swims the fish of my heart,
golden and hopeful,
and it looks at the sun
as through frosted glass
and laughs shyly in its heart of hearts.

From the grey throats of pigeons
nesting in the well shaft
comes the song of water.

tr. Robert Chandler & Shirin Razavian

The grey morning

Runs its cold delicate hands
On my shoulders
And playfully toys with my dress
The grey morning
Is full of the murmurs of life
The sounds of today
Voices of today
And the silent pains of yesterday
Which nobody speaks of
The grey morning
Is full of the stories of exile
The silver wings of the doves of loneliness
Upon the metallic sky
And the hoary smoke of the cigarettes of uncertainty
Over the coffee cups of unresolved questions
And the dancing of the pupils of eyes
That look from one face to another
In search of an answer
Oh what cold delicate hands
Has the grey morning.

Shirin Razavian
July 2006

TRAIN IN THE DARK

On the road again
of uncertainty and loneliness,
with the world smaller ?(the world less)
every moment.

No way
leads to an end
that is known.

No road
will take you back
to the fern’s green sincerity.

Eyes dusted with dust
and lips puckered
again by the taste
of loneliness;

Your tall, cold,
attenuated shadow
with its woollen scarf
dancing in the wind;

As you look for a train
that might take you
somewhere, anywhere
not here.

Shirin Razavian, tr. by Robert Chandler

Dying young

My friends
Are all dead
The souls
I used to write with
Sing with
The songs of freedom
On the mounts of Esfahan

Those familiar smiles
Knowing sparkles in their eyes

Souls who knew me,
Are now wandering at night
Hovering over the blue mosques
Brushing away the sound of Azaan
From the navy sky of a suffocated town

The sounds
Which throttled the songs of freedom
In our mind
And why would god
Play the devil’s advocate?

Was he not merciful?
Was he not kind?
Did he not whisper softly
In my ears
Sweet lullabies of Erfaan
From the silver throat of the moon?

Did he not gently
Stroke my hair
Through the kind hands of midnight breeze?

Where did I leave him behind?
Where did the devil hide my merciful?

In the grave of some rotten corpse
Of ignorance and need?
In the lethargy of decayed beliefs?
Or in the fire of lust and greed?

My friends are dead
All beautiful and young
But through the silence of the night
Lives on the whisper of their song.

Shirin Razavian
17th July 2003 London

Powerless

Nobody cared then

If we hung from the branch of sadness

And became the bitter fruit of deprivation

Nobody cared then

For the tender twists of young bloom

Struggling to break through and reach the light.

There were men in heavy boots

Stamping on the blooms

Stamping on the grass

Stamping on the soul of youth and beauty

Chanting holy verses

Chanting god’s name

Where kindness should have been the order of the day

And mercy should have painted the souls

While he was watching

Tears streaming down his ancient cheeks

Raining his sadness on the perished blossoms

In the dust and dirt and heat

In the drought of kind tears

Nobody cared then

That we had become powerless

Hovering through the alleys of an eternal night

Unnoticed like ghosts

Of some mythical heiress

Nobody seemed to care.

Shirin Razavian

3^rd April 2006

Last Update: October 2009