Farhad Showghi Poems

What ever happens: we've got several birch trees by
the open window, and anything will match with them. Every
hand gesture, a start, perhaps, a piece of paper.
Or the row of houses in rain or sun or as
...

We look at windows and balconies as we look
at a pack of deer. But we make no sound
to rouse them, we don't duck down beneath any broad horizon
we just sit down. We're quite happy, drinking and smoking,
...

This hazy, busy place. Red houses follow red
goats. We draw up plans. Speak goat and
sparkler, goat-not-kid. That should be no
surprise, we rattle bells, the sun's out. We
...

The city map doesn't stop. Extroverted bush
and boxfires, marches across beets for onions
and cedars. We try something, know the names
...

I open something, but sunlight separates my
shoulder blade. A grocery shop shines
vulnerable, swinging in the neighbour's backyard. Now
I walk along the street, exchanging words with bushes
...

IF YOU DON't STOP, a whole region will open outward.
Palm rotates, becomes roadworthy
You now go away, quite clearly coming back. But your palm
rotates onward. Becoming construction noise or geranium.
...

A. stands up and sings. In the desert on the room's ceiling.
there's no enchanted breeze. Magic is still hard to
say. soon gone again or behind the palm trees.
...

the walls are cool. Tired, we lie between them, our
knees directed against the desert, the rough feel of the
textured wallpaper.
...

The day regained the diversity of rooftops. The
landscape breaks from the cornice and I open the window.
In the desert on the ceiling there's no enchanted
wind. Magic is still hard to say, even palm trees
...

Like a summer cloud, I bend my hand or let my
brow down slowly on a thread without speaking. I
thus drive onwards, ‘til east and west become itinerant
blending through the walls. I'm exhaling now,
...