Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
All birds of my heart were high in sudden curved of the azure sky where Enthusiasm and happiness flourishing directly in the magnificent immigration through
dance of wind and wine.  
Swirling
and
Swirling
From north to south.  
showing amazing absolutely, by exposing colorful long tails
from earth to clouds where human’s eyes rarely can magnify
How far? …
Don’t remember exactly
It was fire, water or turbidity dust of shapeless tornado in
unexpected curved of the grey road
that
All birds of my heart …all birds of one type
suddenly lost.
I...
Reluctant, morbid…feeling false
I…
in hours extend in duration of long time burn the  expectations
as outcome,
waiting for
magnificent immigration may return them to their nest, on top of my heart.    
maybe they die, maybe go far…
nurturing and nourishing them a lot,
how is it possible to stay without birds of height?
while
“Maybes” …has never grown any flower in any dust.
while
   while...
the next immigration is not so far
… birdies…
Shall I see you again in the realm of my emotional yard?
Ghazale#Ebrahimzade#
Muharram 2017 #(Ashoura Night)#
When we were  not taking so serious
dig the land to make a great hole to trap the people in serious
pit so deep and those fallen never awaken very serious
so...
we recognize as criminals than serious.
The whole hills of high mountain are covered with pure whiteness, very shining gazing the eyes…
It is ****.
The pearl-like dandelions, I mean, cunning coming, cunning coming …dance and sing with the wave of whizzing band.
It is ****.
the land so far, remote and inaccessible, mountains are far elegantly standing upright,
I can't see exactly
where
pure whiteness carpets softly the zest…full of ****.
I was there if I exactly remember…
I was sinking in depth…
Walking…
Watching…
Running…
1000 miles around me had been surrounded with
****.
Now I’m here, in the land so far, remote and forlorn,
but I know on the zest…
there is  ****!
**** means snow in Farsi language
When I share two or three days of the week to compose poetry I find myself on the
exam session when severe merciless teachers ask us to write about “Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard!”
Elegies mostly are unprepared and never find time to turn to the appropriate types!
They ask me on and on...and I ask them in the consulting area that how can we turn my blossomy song to elegies unwritten about the parish of those people, long time ago had been lost exactly on the exam time?
How could you expect me to turn my naïve feeling to one of the catastrophic ones?
>
<
>
time is over
time is up
time is running
time flies
>
<
>
Teachers shout, “ HURRY UP” when will they shut up?
  I usually haunt by the bundle of words and circled with tumults of ideas as shining and variable as stars that like the savage river rush out to make me drowned. Very rarely I could find a way to breathe out. Elegies swirling randomly again and again to pose the question about whom shall we very soon defined, Mum?  
>...O darlings...<
…motionless corpse, wandering ghost, dead people around,
>.. not stars..<
>...O… no..<  
Is there anybody nowadays to think about the “Country Churchyard” and elegies very appropriate to them at all, what a destiny! what a force! while a long time ago they were bestowed to the grand history of all mankind.
O…no…
Poor elegies remain unborn and sad in my thought…not forever…
they laugh…and laugh…I can hear them, time is over and I’m a failure.
<
<
<

The blank sheet is going to be filled by songs wearing the long red robe of emotional loves or lust…they are tired of black mourning cloth of demise!
they laugh
and
laugh and
laugh
since
>
<
I 'm a murderer…tapping with dirk ….or strangling with a heavy rope of my heart….bloodshed everywhere: drops from my fingers to the height.  shout, scream and cry, they were innocent,  don' t want to die.  I can hear them.
>
<
They are killed not to stay further in a cemetery of churchyard but to be born with a new style, either failure or corrupt…
"Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard" is a poem by Thomas Gray, completed in 1750 and first published in 1751
Fill in the blanks with those vocabularies never ever found in usual discussion, daily comes and goes, never existed even on imaginary world of movies or books.
Fill in the blanks with noise.
Tumult of hallucination whizzing the sound of ambiguity through the sound of the gait of a man galloping smoothly in the long yellow brick route surrounds with fences never expose the way of redemption.
Fill in the blanks with choice.  
The last track of nightingale, maybe, dwells on the far branches of novel blossom tree of best spring with no worrisome regards countable, uncountable, passives, actives, adjectives or nouns.  
Fill in the blanks with skylarks of no boast.  
It is causative by its own, Imagery flying over the untrodden lands inspires the eyes overview the long hair singers hadn’t been observed before. Access is denied!  
Fill in the blanks with liberty of boost.
Aurora …aurora…. Some body calls. Pretending to be wise whole life, how nonsense it was. Being lunatic is secret of joy.
Fill in the blanks with wandering ghosts!
Ghazal# Ebrahimzade# English grammar#
when the  rivers green early in the morning of obscure season fountain up to weave the clouds blue, and the roses rouge give the arrayed passengers solemn hello, mild adores from Narcissus and lilacs make wild grass rhythmically flew,
when sun spatter gold ness to heart of people coming through
and  humid on petals remnant from past night rain shrewd  
to  make the robust mountain shine under occasion to give the blinking eyes clue
I will let myself to think upon you.
considering our doings during years like ghost forlorn comes and go
while it is neither spring nor summer day that smooth breeze opening the door to bid the winter’s storm out…out…
memories long, long… breaks out by strong typhoon, so…
I would be persuaded to assess:  my hard-hearted angle, on some occasions, maybe it is possible to forgive you!
I am Sylvia Plath and decide to commit a suicide
Before night, before midnight, before any incident spoils my intention that goes totally upward, or any single communication proves it is life: generally  moves on haphazard, neither do I want be introduced as a horrible criminal never been merciful to grandiose thought in keeping self magnified or words very elegance. Away… don’t look at me in this way since reality is so horrified, since I’m a goddess with only one eye  lying beside the lake and playing with water flowing on the line of the green jungle what we call it life to shot the fingers on heavenly drops and sing the song of eternity  to confess: I’m not as honest as other gods attached to the mirror of the wall with four eyes to reflect the  realities of  people of come and go, creating   flickering and shaking atmosphere over my sights that makes me semi- blind when  three other eyes remaining behind the mirror and  one eye -goddess is not trustworthy enough in exposing the  murmurings  of  the woman reposing on river side in pledge of tuning the song of solitude with silent outcry:
La  La  La                  La La La                       La  La La     *

                                                             My Love:
How creative you are, not cruel at all, just very creative in exploring the long distance between doves of love and very cunning in employing people to excavate a chasm of agony, torturer and blood between you and I… I’ me Sylvia Plath and decide to commit a suicide, before maroon crimson night, before children know what their mother really decide, before horrible fish rises abruptly inward to devour my heart or demolish all my beauties of ladylike in shadow of  your last statement warned me  “ for what  you are still in dark?”
Dark! What a brilliant statement in the first and last and lost time, on duration of nights insomnia or feeling nausea when autumnal  rain attacked the yellow red leaves to fall to forecast that  unity is so far. When nights’ owl very kindly repeats your heart  dark…dark…when the mirror broken, eyes  spatter on all over the world, god and goddess remain eye less, completely blind, and our last reminder…your last medal on my heart still dark.
I am Sylvia Plath and decide to commit a suicide.
On the basis of Sylvia Plath's life and her poem " Mirror".
Singing the song of still never being
Deep deep in the ceremony of wind
Swirling and swirling more than a typhoon without any wing
Deep and deep under the dust green emerald hot
Roots in and petals swift frozen cuts
What drinks necessarily from the bottle of a lovers’ heart
Dirge dire nasty ecstasy belonging to no creature
Except whom filled with wine
White, white or crimson like a passionate loves  
Talking to you my frozen blossom
Wide soft  
Without hearing you without knowing me
Without any incident happening to shape our way
Bright.
Composed on 1 January of 2020, before midnight. under inspiration of listening to the song " Lament for a Frozen Flower".
Master builder of hanging audio of the hearts,
Tapping and mapping
a
kind of music through the vocabulary of arts,
in
conducting  the harmonious sound of unique violin orchestra
a crowd of fiddlesticks rima …
up… and only ups…
never downs.
Audio
Audio…
I will go…true or false.  
That’s what you ask for it. If you ask me to stay, I would never say no.
Have you ever seen me on the occasion of disobeying you?
Neither yes, nor no…
Thirsty and aridity,  
Words dance glamorously in the silence of the mud of bricks
You will construct the magic towers of the world gust (crust).
On the apex
Trapper of heights
you
Shaking hand for all ant size human shape creatures
In down.
I’am member among.
Time flies and melts in icy doom of the word “why”… burning agitatedly on the white eyes.
Don’t look at me.
Whatever had been shaped, like thunder of emotional burst digs …digs in insomnia of rapid nightmares
of mine.
O' liberty…
Don’t be dubious of what you are going to do, Master architecture of heavenly domes of long treatise of eloquence and good sounds.
Hissing….sooozzzing….biippping ….buzzzing….moooppping….murmers….
Claps and shouts.
Ant shaped creatures gather under the grand dome and waiting for miraculous mesmerize.
No more I am among.
Master builder of raw materials
in vivid shape of “new oregano (m).”
Time runs and I am not “going to catch a falling star.”
Time of demise.
Heavy lock on mouths. Death of both of us in constructing the luxurious roads never ended in dead end of not being honest and neither being wise.
Master designer of unique arches…domes…abstruse stairs…
Audio…audio. I will go…for you and ours.
Derivations:
Master Builder:  a drama by Henrik  Ibsen
Go and Catch a Falling Star: a poetry by John Donne
Novum Organum: a philosophical book by Francis Bacon (16th century)
The black voodoo of his mind  
creates the magic song,
long…
long…
in a magnificent talk.
This is the main reason for his
Rise.
And lies…
In the first glance
Rarely will found,
On his lovely eyes!
Oh…
Make us fall in love,
The black voodoo in our hearts!
When the birds of spring sang with joy
To hail the blowing breeze pampering the face rapidly with moisturizing coy
When rays of the shine stand very kind to make the life neither hot nor too cold
Life rushes through the mobility of less anxiety or creating abundant tumult  
Shining novelty on juvenile tress’ robe bestow jubilee to those hurry to work
In confronting the bundle you expect to parole
Life is so lovely what are you feeling for?
- “ seems… GARLIC…?”
The most beautified Criollo … ladies of shadow…listen to spring and smooth song of returning swallows
- “ sounds GARLIC..?”
Sender of magic rockets to Apollo… ladies of shallow…   smell of plant mingled with heavenly blossom of sharp blue, it is a time to define the final intentions supposed to follow…
- “ feels GARLIC…?”
Drowsy, numb, with mouths open, shoulders down like zombies out of tomb… who are you? mighty dancers with delicate willow with strong sense of itching on our marrow
- “…ladies of GARLIC…”
Nobody comes, nobody goes, life is so hollow, what it supposed to be full of energy …you You talk a lot…just go!
smell strange not from corpses but from walls, earth, and ceiling… what is it?  
- “….life is …GARLIC…”
On Remembrance of days we were not acknowledged enough to health and may not very happy but a routine life we had. Never think to enjoy spring, to enjoy times we are in an assembly, and to enjoy our talking through avoiding extra complaining on trivials.
Being devoured by black holes, the last star, used to be gleaming upright. Dancing and dancing in harmony of an oval ladder of the milky wayward.
Brilliant
               Smart
                        Honorable, alight
but…treacherous, unkind…(destiny)
Diffuse disharmony to astray aster entangled in abstruse cosmos of profound dignity each and every side.
And, now…
She…
buried in cold soil of nasty livid dust.
How?
o…Profound dignity, look up and countdown. From ten billion to one,
none is as brilliant as the last shining one.
Not in the galaxy (ia) – the last emanate of big-bang award-
but…
in our mind was any black hole allows to suffocate the lustrous kind.
our last- this is our pray-be alive and shine….on and on...rise and shine.
you are always alive in our mind.
In memory of Maryam Mirzakhany
A
Rose  in dust
a rose is nice
Petals are healthy
red dark arch
sun shines hot
Leaves seem (up)right
gazing the height
green emerald
From land to ace
Ace of the sky march.
Rose is nice
Roots in dust
Feature is rouge
Of the shame love trust
Bud…bud…bud
Blossoms of the yard.
Yard is land
Land is grand
vast soil of the hand
light crimson band
Wind blows harsh
Fences move hard
Trees far behind
Shake each side
Men come down
The first one talk
The last one mock
Both of whom walk
Touch the soft land
Ha…ha…ha…
Soil is empty
Dark…dark…dark
Land full of soil
Soil full of worm
Worm is sick
Nasty nabid pick
Become lot... lot ...lot
Every day and night
Wind blows harsh
Spring moves fast.
Man is running
Worm is cunning
man in hurry
Ha…ha…ha…
rose is worry.
worm moves straight
move..more…away…
move…more…away…
hurry…hurry…again
swirl…sweep…d­eep…
digging…digging…*****
man runs far
seeking new boudoir.
rose is alone
poisonous thing around
soil is shaking
grand land kicking
man sing a song
.
.
man, wine, wrong
happy, happy long
wind blows harsh
autumn seize the yard.
rose is sick
petal withered down
no leaves green
gazing to the sun
rose is nice
rose is kind
death moves around
happy stands behind.
far...far...bahind!
Under the inspiration of "The Sick Rose" by William Blake.
I want to wait, come and join me here until it becomes so
LATE
like a last moon of light in cloudy weather never burning bright
and disappears: never comes to its premier shield.  
Don’t be wandering
Wondering
Or in
Misbehaved shape. I want to be
LATE
till ...an event... destroys all fences
play the role of barriers between us.
Then
love bursts in spring reaction of a sudden blossom
and tears, non-stop
flowing on the land of juvenile since it is
LATE.  
we dance
On the spring rush of glancing love,
Gazing permanently
under the shadow of your silvery eyes,
where
No one has remained except you and us!
.
.
  To be a last singer, to be a last dancer…
in the scene of eternal love
wait...wait... to be
LATE!
Ghazal# Ebrahimzade#
What were you expecting for
that always thinking somebody shouts in the wind…
in an empty frame, there are eyes under sunglasses,
May be
sad…
Anxious
or
Untrue
Nobody knows what is the fact.
.
.
in the  train station where you stand for an appointment
mass mess violently.
and
trains run hastily in
front and back of your memories strange.
.
.
A message from
Somebody may  
Bright the morrow…
Or
lost dandelions may scatter everywhere.
things rarely happen.
things you are expecting and things make you not to stay in one place or mood
where
trains move hastily... and
nobody knows what will happen to future, what will happen to you. what will happen to ....?
and
what will happen.....again?
When we dead people awaken it is so late
late
that cannot call it even delayed  
Asking who those out of grave wandering...
people
>
<
salvation preachers after doomsday
>
<
may
>
<
but now bundle of zombies dancing with wind’s hey…hey…
Shall we stay for a while in the midnight on the bridge, the river beneath is dried?
Without you disturbing me further, annoying, or injuring my heart.
Shall we?
Shall I ask you don’t say even a word about being cruel or galling of love?
Neither do I  expect the romantic situation with burning stars, or smooth blowing breeze to pamper cheeks inwards…nothing … I expect for nothing.
What I wait for is only staying for a while. Be patient and calm enough to look at my eyes, someone whose crime is only loving you and ask yourself …why?
Why nightmarish tortures appropriate to her?
why?
to whom deserves the best
Ghazal# Ebrahimzade# English# poetry# about love#
when I saw you for the first time you were a dove on the branches shuddering with the sudden breath of sprite as white as pure snowballs
and………………………………………………………………………I
................................­.................................................................­!
days after visiting you reminding me a nightingale on the same branches singing glamorously although  comprehensible on some occasions and not very tangible on other times: hovering you upon the sky, upon the roof  was enchanting somehow
and......................................................­........................................................I
.......­.................................................................­....................!
later on, a tornado encapsulated the flight of a swallow in habit of severe immigration from the land uneasy to far and far while seeing the branches empty and songs silent tortuous the sight
and.............................................................­.................................................I
..............­.................................................................­...............!
years past and considering those days make me to reproach myself  that how wrong I was. only a butterfly sat on our written scriptures for a while never promise to stay a bit longer. Born  by spring will be die in winter night,
and.............................................................­...............................................I
................­.................................................................­.............?

— The End —