Wandering Thought # 117

Man will not rest until he has transformed the last bit of nature into an economic resource for consumption, and thereby killed himself as well as the rest of nature. Perhaps technological capitalism is nothing more than a long process of suicide, deprived of any self-control or spiritual mastery.

Wandering Thought # 116

Loving each other meant transforming into the best versions of ourselves we could ever be; it meant finding, through each other, the secret source of joy in our own hearts; it meant opening up and flowing, but also being contained and cradled; it meant traveling away and going, but always connected by a hidden thread, and always under a watchful and caring eye. Love is being in becoming, always from the central place in our own hearts.

Free Verse # 456 (this solitude)

Poetry,
my one faithful love,
the only one who keeps
watch over me
and waits
and waits
to touch my face
and fill my heart.

~

Not just the earth,
touched by autumn’s rain
even this longing
exudes poetry

~

The moon’s light dissolves
all memories
of past and future,
and ties everything
in a silent knot
that whispers: “now.”
Nothing exists
outside this moment,
nothing lives
outside your heart.

~

Je t’aime, il lui a dit,
chaque jour au lever du matin,
chaque jour au coucher du soleil.

أحبكِ، قالها لها،
كل يوم عند طلوع الضوء،
كل يوم عند مغيب الشمس.

~

In the end, logic is the death of man; it’s where the poetry in his soul goes to die.

~

For a poet, it is enough, in this world, to have a little corner in which to sit with a book, a desk and some paper, to read and write to the light of a candle, lit by the impassioned flame of longing.

~

There are many who preach hate in the name of love.

كثيرون هم من يبشرون بالحقد باسم الحب.

~

I value a heart by how much longing it is capable of holding.

~

My life – I measure it in moments of poetry.

~

This solitude – without it I would not recognize my face.

Wandering Thought # 115

This compulsion to buy ever new things, not out of any need, not because the newly acquired item is better, but because this allows us to project a better image of ourselves, and gives us a psychological satisfaction (that we fit, that we ‘are‘) — is at the heart of what consumer driven capitalism is all about.

It is not having or possessing in itself that satisfies us, but the image that, through this having, we are able to project to others, is what we ultimately seek. Advertisers did not so much create this need as exploit it, and therefore amplify it. We are, each of us, an “influencer.” But the questions is: at what point does the image we project of ourselves meet with actual life, with the reality of our emotions and intellectual capacities, with the sum of our life and its potential?

To be is not so much to have, but to be able to project the image that fits, the image that insures our identity and social standing and recognition. But it is a mirage we are only attaching ourselves to, an illusion. We are nothing more than a whiff of smoke that the softest breeze will dissipate.

Haiku # 701

Autumn
one leaf then another
falls in the wind

الخريف
ورقة ثم أخرى
تقع في الريح

~

September
through the woods I take
the long way home

~

September
you’ll find my heart buried
in a pile of yellow leaves

~

I breathe her in
as though her skin
is the light of the moon

~

Autumn evening
my thoughts drifting
with the passing clouds

~

Deep in the forest
I find my heart still
like the air and leaves

~

Forever is just a word
between us
and the moon

~

الخريفُ يبدأ
برائحةِ الأرض أُعَطَّر
زوايا روحي

~

هو يحب النساء اللواتي
يعرفن كيف يتحولن إلى شعر
بين يديه

Haiku # 700

Without a name
I go alone…
winds of autumn

Sans nom
je vais tout seul
sous le vent d’automne

~

Autumn evening…
the smell of a flower blooming
on the edge of my days

~

Autumn evening…
this loneliness deepens
with the colors of the sky

~

Her smile…
something to take with me
on the long journey

ابتسامتها
شيء لآخذه معي
في رحلتي الطويلة

~

Réunissant nos âmes
l’amour fusionne nos corps
en un seul poème

Haiku # 699

Last stand of August
amid the passing clouds
a waning moon

~

Not her skin
it undresses her feelings
moon in the sky

ليسَ بَشَرَتِها
هو يُعَرّي مَشاعِرَها
القَمَرْ في السَماء

~

Sleep can wait
another minute to gaze
at the silent moon

~

The trail of kisses he left
at night she feels it
burning on her skin

~

كلما صمتّ
قليلاً سمعته في قلبي
حفيف الذكريات

~

المرأة التي أحبّ
على بشرتها أخطّ
قصائد روحي

~

هذه الوحدة
بدونها لكنت وجهاً
آخر يمشي معِ الحشودْ

Free Verse # 455 (Naufragé du monde moderne)

Nudity is just another veil.

~

Naufragé du monde moderne, j’ai pris refuge sous le ciel de la poésie.

~

Longing – a word filled with endless distances.

~

رحلةُ الشِعرِ هذِهِ لعلّها لا شيءٌ آخر غير البحث عن لمسةِ امرأة.

This journey of poetry – perhaps it was nothing more than a search for a woman’s caress.

~

معطرٌ بأنفاسها
الدخان من فمها يصعد
ليملأ الغرفة
بحجابٍ رقيق
من الرغبة

~

In his heart
he feels her beauty
transformed into an ink
that he longs to write back
on the pages of her skin

~

Jalouse
une à une
elle empreinte ses baisers
en touchant les lèvres
au bout de ses poèmes

~

Early morning,
the sound of a rooster
crowing in the distance,
the wind stirring in the tall trees
as a bird softly sings,
your head resting on my belly
with my fingers running
through your black hair.
If happiness ever was
it is this moment.

Wandering Thought # 114

The thing which affects artists more acutely than regular people is how greatly they feel the weight of loneliness. This weight is so tyrannical that they seek out many ways to shed it, mainly through their creative impulse. But it is a process which never succeeds, for, apart from the momentary orgiastic feeling in the moment that art is expressed and in which the artist jumps out of himself, the loneliness returns. Art and artistic expression deepen the feeling of loneliness through time, but it is not a loneliness which severs and isolates the artist from his or her surrounding, on the contrary, it enables a greater and more intense and attentive form of relationship with nature and life. Loneliness is a weight that constructs painfully through many many years, but it strips to the bones and makes the artist shine in the light of their truth. Blessed are the lonely who turn their loneliness into art.

Haiku # 698

Unfinished poem…
at dusk I sit watching
a leaf in the wind

~

Loneliness –
without it I’d be
just a face in the crowd

~

Moonflower
her body in my bed
burning softly

~

Sous la lune d’été
sa peau nue sauf
de la chaleur de ses baisers

تحت ضوء القمر
بشرتها العارية الا
من حرارة قبلاته

Summer moon…
her bare skin covered
in the warmth of his kiss

Haiku # 697

Poème inachevé…
tremblant je quitterais la vie,
une feuille d’automne…

~

من عُطرِكِ عرفتُ اسمِكِ
لا أقولُهُ ولكني
أحفظَهُ في داخلي

~

From your fragrance
I knew your name
I don’t say it
but safe keep it
deep in my heart

~

في حفنة تراب
كم من دمعة وابتسامة
بعثرها الزمن؟

In a handful of dirt
how many smiles and tears
scattered by time?

Free Verse # 454 (a trail of leaves)

أعاني من الأرق لأن نار وجهك تسكن أحلامي.

~

It is her fragrance
that sets the garden
into motion,
she walks in
and everything is alive
with light and love.

~

Unrecognized, our desires come to haunt us in the night.

~

Night does not exist in the city except as an anomaly.

~

This poetry
a trail of leaves
that I follow
deep into the forests
of my childhood,
into the deserts
and high mountains
of my longing,
reminding me of who I am
and who I want to be.

~

Wrapped up in his arms
she unwinds her day,
her breath and thoughts slowing down,
his embrace filling her
with safety and warmth,
as the world outside fades
and a single star shines
from the quietness of their belonging.

~

الحب هو وليد اللحظة، أما الصداقة فتبنى.

Love is the child of the moment, but friendship is built through time.

Wandering Thought # 113

I write because the words open my heart to something greater than I am. I write because, being open, I am transformed through the grace of the other. I write as a form of communion, with the world, with the sacred, with love. I write as a poet; I write as a lover.

Love is a form of communion, that would not be possible without this stepping outside of our social roles, this intimate knowing and being known, this raw offering to the other, bare to the bones, this being seen in one’s soul, which fills us with harmony and light, giving us a deep sense of belonging, and giving us back to the world — as what? — as a divine fragment, as something transformed.

Wandering Thought # 111

The person who is spiritually inclined will find himself drifting away from every day practical matters and the concerns and aspirations of normal society. Thus, in time, the language he uses will no long be sufficient to form a common understanding. He will drift on, as though in a cloud of solitude, but he will be connected to something else, something more inward and less tangible, and also something that cannot be shown to others who would demand a justification for his way of existence. This basic rift has since eternal times marked the existence of the artist, poet, philosopher, shaman and saint separating them from the practical and society oriented folks. This is still at work today in such kind of people, but not without a feeling of guilt more acute than before. When in previous ages this spiritual bent and way of life may have been justified, or even seen as a privilege, today, and under the guise of psychology and capitalism, it is looked upon with a wary eye, and the person labeled as psychologically and economically unsound.