Selected poem of NIMA YUSHIJ


 Lyre’s sound

Vague Memo

The Phoenix

The Raven

Woe On Me


O Lover Forlorn


Cold Laugh

An Old Owl

o People

Luminous Mine

A Tale Not New


Cold Stove

When its Recital of Weeping Begins


Upon the Plain

over The Smokes

In The Path Hid, over The Ville

In the Cold Winter Night.

Night It Is

Until Morning

of the Night Still..




My House is Cloud


Every night

On the river bank

My steel heart

The bat from nearby beach


Darkling beetle

Before my shack

Upon his boat

Late at night

Your sight I am a waiting

Night after night

The Rubaiyat ( Quatrain)



Celebrated as the founder of modern Iranian poetry, Nima Yushij (1897-1960) reformed both the form and content of classical Iranian poetry that had persisted into the 20th century. He made poetry more objective and dramatic, often changing the conventional first person speaker to the third person, or else using a poetic persona or dialogue, thereby moving toward polyphonic and pluralistic poetry. Avoiding clichés of classical Persian verse, he made poetry less subjective and less abstract, closer to nature and reality.

Meanwhile Nima revised the classical prosody, developing variable metrical patterns closer to the tone and rhythm of natural speech. A native of the mountainous northern region of Iran, he fused his verse with sounds and sights of the woods and seaside, often with onomatopoeia  and Tabari dialect. Being himself a master of classical verse, Nima claimed that making new poems are far more demanding than treading the beaten path.

This bilingual edition contains choice poems of Nima from his youth on to his last lyrics in chronological order.



Saeed Saeedpoor





ققنوس مرغ خوشخوان آوازهی جهان

آواره مانده از ورزش بادها ی سرد

بر شاخ خیزان

بنشسته است فرد

بر گرد او به هر سر شاخی پرندگان

او ناله های گمشده ترکیب می کند

از رشته های پاره ی صدها صدای دور

 در ابر های مثل خطی تیره روی کوه

دیوار یک بنای خیالی

می سازد

از آن زمان که زردی خورشید روی موج

کمرنگ مانده است و به ساحل گرفته اوج

بانگ شغال و مرد دهاتی

کرده ست روشن آتش پنهان خانه را

Vague Memo

In my notebook on many a page

There’s a line written in another script.

The line has no letter nor dots

Nor form to express its sense.

Has on it whatever it has within

Has within whatever it has upon

Often I behold it amazed.

Between it and I a veil at the eye

I see and cannot breathe a thing

I read it and no one knows how.

To one another a thousand intimations we bear

To me it bears a thousand uses and harms.

This curious line in my note-book indeed

Is but a vague memory, yet oh so sweet.

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