Dear Reader
Below you will find five of my poems written in the past twenty years or so. Originally, I started writing poems in early eighties. But at that time I was writing few poems. It was in early two thousands that I started to write a lot more frequently.
All my poems are written in both English and Farsi. Most of the time I find inspiration for a poem through a single word or a short phrase. Depending on the language of the inspirational word or phrase, either English or Farsi, I write first in that language, say, Farsi and then in English and vice versa. Of course, here you will only find the English versions.
I do write both structured and free verse poems. I always mention the date and place of writing of each poem at the bottom of the page. This is just a tradition of Iranian poets that I adhere to like Mehdi Akhavan Sales and Ahmad Shamloo. (See https://anmly.org/ap34/fatemeh-madani-sarbarani-translates-ahmad-shamloo-and-mehdi-akhavan-sales/).
I hope you enjoy what follows.
We Are All Poets
When I write of all these emotions
Of highs, lows, love and life
And all that is so deep within our soul,
When I sense the call
To pass a smile to all
Those with whom by fate or chance
I have somehow come to dance
To enhance my desire for a human touch
When I pick my pilot pen,
Take the beginning of a thread
And free my thoughts to spread
And my feelings of any shred of doubt,
With the wish that sometimes, by someone
It is hopefully read.
And as my pen glides like a mesmerised black dancer on ice,
By chance I take a glance
At all the scribbles so free,
The contrast, metaphors and lists of three,
Of some of wish consciously or not
I do not care or even dare
To claim to be aware,
As I open my heart for all to call and watch.
And so at times
I feel as though my pen takes the lead
And I happily follow
As we are so carefree of the need
For some grammatical correctness,
Whether right or wrong,
Or if everyone can hear this structural rhythm
Or notice that far fetched rhyme
As we don’t see it as a crime
That sometimes it is hard
To ponder a proper prime rhyme.
So if someday by chance
For whatever reason you take a short glance at this
And if by some kind of magic
You hear the same call,
Never allowing any petal to fall
Of the fortress fashioned of petals
By the people poet we politely call
Who bring to life any emotion while
Praying that you read it with all your heart and smile.
Our privilege to call over a heart and gently touch.
Perhaps because somehow
We are all poets to the core
That we play with words and we open the door
To a world honest, true and pure
In search of a smiling helping hand
or a cure
Without fear of shame or danger of ridicule
As we allow our pen to be free,
Letting it glide, dance on paper
And blossom for all to smile,
Cleanse our soul and per chance
Blow away our hearts.
February 2009
Wirral
Still
Still light in the eyes
Still a warm breath in chest
Still questions and whys
Still a chance to do one’s best
Still a scent to smell
Still a piece of bread to bite
Still a story to tell
Still morning, day and night
Still a poem on the lips
Still a passion in the heart
Still tests, trials and slips
Still a new beginning, start
Still a sun in the day
Still a moon at night
Still the flowers in may
Still colours so bright
Still spring and birdsong
Still shade of summer’s oak
Still autumn’s colourful sarong
Still winter’s white cloak
Still the warm fire within
Still passion and human’s love
Still blood, bones and skin
Still so much to be grateful of
Still a moving body and soul
Still a shaking pen in hand
Still a pinhole, chink in wall
Still buds, dawn and hope so grand
April 2020
Wirral
This Is My Home (Iran)
I’m walking in the streets of my city
Every step
Closer to my roots
Every root
Seems to softly wave
From inside the hot tarmac
Here
Everything has a familiar scent
From the forehead’s sweat
Of the loving gardeners of the city
To the understanding that green leaves
Have not easily grown here
From the way watchful crows
Perch on electricity cables and old pines
To the ballet of pedestrians crossing in between cars and motorbikes
And from the sounds, smiles, swears and cries
To the doors and walls and concrete light poles
I know them all
This is my home
Me and ninety odd million others
With all its brotherhoods and inequalities
With all its uptowns and downtowns
Here, with all its mountains, rivers and fields
Even in its smoke filled streets
I breath easier
This is my home.
December 2017
Wirral
The Creation’s Expanse
Last night I dreamed
That before dawn
I was running in the sky.
How exhilarating to race the wind
And what a feeling to shower in rain.
How refreshing to sit to breakfast
On a table of clouds
And what a scenery,
What a beautiful Earth
After breakfast
I popped to the moon.
Quick chat and then
Rolled to Mars,
Just in time for lunch,
Broth of bunches of the Sun,
Saffron flavoured rice from Venus,
And Jupiter’s exquisite chicken
Last night I dreamed
For dinner I was a guest at Uranus
Classic Neptune’s bread
Mince kebab from Saturn
And basil and horseradish from Mercury
Last night in dreams
I sat on the swing of rainbows
Keepy uppied with shooting stars
And hopped over every planet
Last night
In just one dreamy night
I roamed the length and breadth of our solar system
And yet I know full well
To see the entire creation’s expanse takes longer than that,
Much longer,
Even in dreams
An eternity is needed
May 2016
Wirral
The Wise Crow
For my dear brother Faramarz
An old crow on an oak tree
Sits there every day to see
People passing down below
In the sunshine or snow
Some walk fast and some slow
Some are high and others low
Some are young and some are old
Some are meek and others bold
Some are happy. Some are sad
Some feel so good, some so bad
Some are poor and some are rich
Some are lovely, some a bitch
Some are hungry, some are weak
Some are poorly, week on week
Some live on a piece of toast
Others seem to have the most
Some at dusk lonely as a post
Some like they have seen a ghost
Some are crying, some scream
Some in daytime in daydream
Some seem content, some unsure
Some look holy, some impure
Some are tired, some are bored
Some are seen and some ignored
Some are strong and some are weak
Some are nerd and some are geek
Some are straight and some reserved
Some have no luck, not deserved
Some are absent, some in daze
Like a pinhole in thick haze
Some suspicious, insecure
Some with visions so obscure
Some have purpose in their gait
Some on their way to a date
Some are dressed as if to kill
Others have to pay the bill
Some are in love, some in pain
Someone’s loss is other’s gain
Some hand in hand, some alone
Not every dog gets a bone
Some are deaf and some are dumb
Some are as daft as they come
Some are sober, some are drunk
All their inbox full of junk
********************
In every country, village or town
Some old crow is looking down
And the wise crow still sees
People in the autumn breeze
In the sunshine or snow
When midsummer is on show
Spring, fall and every day
Some are upset some are gay
Some are this and some are that
Some are quiet, others chat
Some in trouble, some in shame
Some seem to have all the fame
Some are one step from a fall
Some are divided by a wall
Some are drowning, at death’s door
Some in mourning, some in war
Some are desperate, some afraid
Some are running in air raid
Some have lost their love and land
Some with white flag in their hand
********************
In the heights of every tree
A wise crow sits watchful, free
And sees people passing by
All involved as life goes by
The wise crow sees the common man
Of every colour, hue or tan
Just looks for a better life
With less trouble, less strife
All in grapple with their lives
Some one faced, some in disguise
Common men have highs and lows
All know life has no more goes
Ordinary man needs no more
To be shaken to the core
Can live without killing fields
In wars or as human shields
The wise crow and human kind
Know that people are inclined
To love and to live in mirth
And say no more war on earth
********************
Foot note
The wise crow can’t understand
Why do humans hand in hand
Day and night they maim and kill
And say this is the God’s will
Humans killed and trees are burnt
As though caring they’ve not learnt
With madness, massacre and death
They don’t care for creatures’ breath
Crows do not kill their own
Species at night or dawn
They are perhaps above that
Won’t kill for the sake of that
I read somewhere recently
Crows are perhaps probably
One of the few creations
Who mourn their own relations
Or any other of their kind
And I’m sure that you will find
That perhaps this wisest bird
For whom not many have cared
Called ugly by this and that
And some curse it while they chat
Is worthy of praising high
High up and up in the sky
June 2018
Wirral
©Farzan Radfar 2026
Notes:
In addition to being a poet and the author of two books, Farzan Radfar is a playwright, translator, screen writer, singer, and songwriter. You can follow him on Instagram – @farzanradfar.
See also OTHER PEOPLES’ FLOWERS: HAFEZ OF SHIRAZ – HASSAN SHABANI & FARZAB RADFAR
By David Selzer