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Best Poems Written by Bahar Moshtagh

Below are the all-time best Bahar Moshtagh poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Bahar Moshtagh Poem

Whisper of the Mirror

In the breadth of madness,
A silhouette twisted by illusion,
Flows the molten stream of evil,
Into the chasms of his gray dreams.

The rebellions of flesh, heavy with indolence,
And the barrenness of bleak thoughts,
Scratch at the dignity that follows sin.
The insanity of a mirage,
Rising from the depths of the soul's cellar,
Unleashes its poisonous whip,
And whispers, again and again—
You are sinking;
You are sinking.

And the threads of survival,
Somewhere beneath the roots of belief,
Are shrouded in moss.

Ah,
You are sinking,
And the reflection inside the mirror
Bears witness to a cold, bleak corpse,
With hands long past their trial.

I wander slowly,
Let the mirror whisper my name,
yet the reflection, it seems,
Has been possessed by another voice for years—
A voice that abandoned me
In a place amongst decaying thoughts,
Fighting for a belief
That was never truly mine.

And now, I hear it,
Behind leaden coughs,
And smell it,
Amid the fragrance of dried flowers.
And I see it
In a spring
That has long since spat
On the balance of the seasons.

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Lighted Island

My lighted island,
Hidden somewhere behind the red rocks,
Somewhere between the jingling of bangles
As I reach out to you.
My lighted island,
Lies behind the rusted walls of the blue city,
Among the trembling of my long earrings.
My lighted island,
Winks at me from the colors of the bustling market,
I find it in the strong scent of fish,
In the muffled noise that swallows us whole.
My island,
Is the color of my skirt’s folds in the wind,
Imaginative as a dance,
And warm as mint tea.

Details | Bahar Moshtagh Poem

Calculating the Weight of a Tormented Leaf

I am naked.
_bare_
my hands
(_)Whose trace are these wounds?
I am naked.
[naked]
prominent blue grooves,
- Green,
- Blue,
- Red!
Red whispers(./:)
on your skin
crawls
_my skin_
Is pale(.)
your skin(,/.)
Stretches
_sketch_
[sleepy]
- are you dead
- are you?
- you dead?
my skin(!/?)
I draw a line.
_grooves_
[groove]
are you (…/?)
Red pours.
Pours (./?)
_Pouring_
Hanging.
Burning.
_flow_
The flow of the artery in the groove of my skin.
[Soil]
I was sleeping.
What color was the soil?
do you know?
are you…
red yes.
Blue(!/?)
are you alive(?/!)
- I am naked
my skin.
Stretches.
Swells.
Slips.
_Slipping_
thick blood behind the furrow,
Bare blood contaminated on the soil,
on the ground
are you…
[Long yawn at 7 p.m.]
Dusk shall shed on me.
Alas my skin!
_Burning_
Alas.
Consign me to the ground!
- ground me
are you dead?
- The soil was red (./?)
this groove
- The soil is cold (./?)
is your trace (?/.)
- It was cold (./?)
your paws
Shall remain (./?)
[your scratch mark]
Bare,
stretched,
Swollen,
cracked,
this body (./,)
Earth's cruel crust.
wrinkled,
Peeled,
_Put your lips on mine_
The soil will hear us.
[Soil]
What is the sound of a drop?
[the sound of the soil]
The sound of cutting your lips
What is the sound of your skin?
my hands
Alas!
Consign me to the ground.
I
are you dead?
Dusk, Ay.
I beheld the Dusk.
- It was purple
"Judas,
My estranged bloodline branch"
Judas!
Don't break my branch!
[my branch]
I laugh.
This is the sound of my laughter:
The laughter is over now.
I moan
This is the sound of my moaning:
[moaning sound]
- What is your moaning sound?
my skin (./,)
Cruel cracks of Earth.
What flower will your wounds yield?
[Judas]
I beheld the dusk.
It was blue, Ay (./,)
your hands.
your veins.
Have you been dead that day?
Have you?
- consign me to the ground
sky me
Consign me to the sea
_ground me_
- What is the sound of your break?
Dusk, Ay
I beheld (./?)

Details | Bahar Moshtagh Poem

Blessed by Death

I lie, naked, cast aside in the shadows,
My flesh, bare, crumbles among the carcasses of half-dying thoughts.

I stare upon myself—
Is this truly I,
This forsaken creature,
Smiling with bitter contentment at my eternal decay?
Is this endless humiliation
Truly the flame of my soul burning within my skin?
Who was it that shaped me?

And who, so merciless, invited me to his feast of thought,
Drowning me in a descent foretold long before I fell?

Ah, I must believe,
I must believe,
That this is I—
This frail vessel, its roots entwined with eternal shores,
Bound to the edge of rupture and renewal.
It is I who mock my own bareness
with the softness of my skin.
With hands too short to grasp the sky,
And breasts, sinful as two forbidden fruits.

Has this body ever truly lived?
This body, now wed to death as its eternal mistress.
Did laughter ever tremble upon her skin,
On that day when silence
Had not yet cradled her in its arms?
And those colorless cheeks,
Still flushed with the shame
Of a foolish kiss,
Did they once bloom crimson in their blush?
That day when her gaze
Held fast to the light of day,
And as night fell,
Her eyes faded, losing the hues of life.

Oh, if I could carry her,
I would bring her into the feast of false fairies—
To that feast where each body
Forgets itself beneath the dawn,
And with each dusk,
Their goblet spill upon the earth in hollow celebration.
A gathering of naked forms entwined, writhing,
Their cries of joy
Tearing at the silence of the mind.

I will weep for her,
Weep, Ay,
I will weave a wreath for her bow
From the stolen petals of a neighbor’s bloom,
And draw her eyes with the crimson of the moon.
I will bathe her limbs,
And upon her naked body,
I will drape a gown of silk and lace—
A gown whose trail
Falls like the raven’s feather.
I will adorn her with the scent of wind,
With the scent of wind and leaves,
And upon her lips
I will pour the blood of fallen butterflies.
I will make her the imaginary bride of the earth,
And teach her thighs
To dance to the dissonant rhythms of the night.
And I will whisper to her,
“Now, greet the marriage of eternal bliss.”

Details | Bahar Moshtagh Poem

History of Paper-Hearts

Have you seen, with no word,
The immense, cold voids
,among the slender, patient buds,
Received hollow seeds?

Have you beheld the earth
Lay the masks of dreams upon itself,
And like a sullen cradle,
Crush them within its embrace?

Have you seen the old children,
Pitching their tents upon the graves of young mothers,
On that day when mist
Wept upon the bloodied bridal bed of light,
And thunder,
,In a gown of false sequins,
Wed the sky?

I returned to the my embryo,
And my hands,
clenched the throat of motion,
Hardly tight—
Hardly horrified.

Will you ever know
What day it is today?
What hour,
Or the count of endless kisses between two eyelids?
Will time ever wend its way—
That crimson fluid flow
Coursing sluggishly through your drowsy veins?

And my child,
With hurried crimson lips,
Sleeps, suckling the secret of existence,
Hardly deep—
Hardly silent.

That day,
In a dead-end alley,
A closed window wept.
A window whose claws,
Gripped the erected iron bars,
And was crying out:
“The history of our paper-heart has been written in straw.”

Details | Bahar Moshtagh Poem

The Spell of Forest

I wandered,
With hands brimming with illusion,
And a patient vision
Trailing after me.
Its feet
As though brushing the hem of the sky.

I followed,
It wandered slowly,
Among the crickets,
Whose chorus, once lost,
lingered beyond the long sighs of a night,
Left unsung in their song.

In its shadow,
A forest appeared—
Abandoned by the sky’s embrace.
Yet the clouds wept,
Quiet in their mockery
Of a pond that had surrendered its lilies
To the spellbound of darkness.

I wandered further,
Until I reached a feast
Where the wind played host
To leaves stilled by silence.
I had forgotten the vision,
But it had nestled deep
Among the dry wanderers
of the night-bound forest.

I reached out my hands—
A shadowed vast enveloped me.
I could not see it,
Yet it kissed me gently,
Within its bare being.
Suddenly,
The weight of its absence
Seized my soul.
I could not see it.
The forest’s enchantment
Had blinded my eyes,
Chained them
to its bewitching beauty.
I longed to return,
To tear through the darkness,
But my legs,
Breathless from the frigid winds of illusion,
Faltered.

My hands,
Were the axe that felled branches,
Whose seeds my own hands
Had drowned long ago.
I ran after it,
But it lay buried deep
In a murky, swamp-like abyss,
Waiting.
Waiting for me,
Though running alone
Was never enough.

Breathless, I halted.
The weight of a hope so vast,
had worn my feet to nothing.
In fury,
I embraced myself.
From the heat of my hands,
The illusions, once feathered wings
Tucked behind my back,
Turned to ashes,
Scattering, bit by bit.

Suddenly, I fell—
Fell into the sky.
Yet the forest clawed at my throat,
With the desperate pleas
Of its branches.
Its cries could not,
Would not
Anchor my unbearable lightness.
High above,
I saw a mirror,
Veiled in smoke.
In its heart,
A woman, lost
Amid the black forest’s sneers,
Clutched herself tightly
In her own arms.