I'm Ali Salehi Born in Iran, 31 may 1975. Unfortunately, I'm chemical engineer but truly, I think I am a poet away poetry. Now a days, I write for my wife; my best friend; Mahnaz and for my newborn honey; Nika. I try to be a poem, not poet.

Wednesday, May 03, 2006


I waited for you
a long time
and many times
deceived the death angel
to get another chance for life.
with your first shining hot hands on my shoulders
he is here too
I don't know any trick.


It is sedation and salvation
picking a red roze from your lips,
when you bloom with smile
in our spirit garden,
because we should not be wasted
in this angry world.

Monday, May 01, 2006


Only your black dress had remained of time's darkness
which I pluck it's buttons with my tooth,
till your nakedness brilliancy
steals sleep from world's eyes
and shames the sun.


Praying for descending leprosy from hell
Praying for infinite birth of termites
without any hope to sunshine on this besieger night.
Let leprosy and termites to gnaw our time darkness!


It's beyond my reach
to circle my hands around earth's shoulders
and cry to sympathize for it.
Earth hasn't been without lover in this manner.


Alas! moon!
The only response of nightly inner whispers
and bright conjunction of our eyes' appointment.
Where is moon?


What does a fish in depth know about ocean?
What do I know about you?


I yield to bondage,
to death,
like a deerlet
who loves in it's hunter.


Tell to sky:
rain and snow
as much as you want
on our naked bodies!
Your chest is a eternal ablaze fireplace
that is the enemy of thousands winters.


Alone passenger!
with your small suitcase
in this abandoned station
which train are you waiting for
to yourself otherside destination?
Trains have been fragmented
in your childhood's hands
too many years ago.


Every night,
with thousands times labour pain,
a sore-hearted poem formed in mind's womb
is aborted.
I am poet of thousands not-composed poems,
I am mother of thousands unriped newborn.


You were invited to paradise
but you didn't go
and prefered hell.
You sit on bench awaiting
behind hell's gate;
the fire
can melt your heart's ice.


On shining sharp hook,
no fish bait is tempting,
no earthworm is charming.
Alone fish in quiet pond
is fed up with life
and old fisher know well.


I have not performed a miracle.
No, I have not step on water.
No, I have not restored the dead to life.
No, I have not cut the moon in two halves.

In the world
only I am dead drunk of your finger-tips
full of that orange smell
that you peel for me.
Isn't it miracle?


It is a sky
that angles live there

although it's rainy always.
It is full of angles' dreams
even if they are distressed:
her eyes
her eyes
her eyes.

Saturday, April 29, 2006


One day
I'll compose such a spring of your eyes
on wastepapers
that leopard watchs himself in it
as a deerlet
and tears himself insanely.

Wednesday, April 26, 2006

Dead drunk

I can not be impatient
to wait for ripening your cherry eyes.
My days and nights are dead drunk of you
that patience can't stand me any more too.


If the bird's eyes go to blind,
it's flight will be endless.
My eyes are in your hands,
Be my infinite!

Monday, April 24, 2006

Fire under Ashes

How poem you are
in my mind!
A poem
flowing on my wastepapers.
Why aren't my hands turning into ashes?

Sunday, April 23, 2006


I hear the sound of rain drops,
on roof,
on windows.

Is it rainy outside?
I'm standing near closed window,
wavering to open it.
I'm afraid of sadness
which will come in.

I open it fearfully.
The sun shines and
There aren't any shadows.

Isn't it rainy inside?
Am I so far away from you?
Which window is closed?
Which windows should be opened?
Where are you?
Where aren't you?

I'm rainy
I'm rainy
I'm rainy

Be my umbrella

Thursday, April 20, 2006


A red rose
with it's root
has came
has sat
opposite me
and asks your scent from me.


Not to be with you
hasn't any remedy.
Until you come,
fill and cure my heart's deep wound.


My solitude is among your fingers,
to the same extent of your heart,
all of world's oceans.


This is the beginning of frenzy;
such a manner that I need you
to kiss your eyes
at every moment.
Hasn't my birth been only for this prophetic mission?


How pleasant I am;
Whole of autumn's clouds
and their weepings
are in me.


You didn't believe I can be contained
in your small hands.
Now, close your fingers smoothly


You didn't believe I can be contained
in your small hands.
Now, close your fingers smoothly


I wish you aren't a bird,
I don't find your flight sign in the sky.
I wish I was a bird.