Wandering Thought # 102

What I find deeply disconcerting about science is its will to reduce everything it touches into the realm of knowledge — i.e. utilitarian — thus dispelling existence of every shade of mystery. In such an atmosphere that is deeply antagonistic to poetry I find myself suffocating and unable to tolerate life. The good news is that this endeavour of science is futile, in that it is impossible to reduce everything into the realm of knowledge; the unknown remains, and the shade of mystery cannot be dispelled; poetry cannot be vanquished. The bad news is that science may well destroy life and the world before coming to this conclusion and admitting its childish aspirations. The link between poetry, mystery, and ecology is unmistakable. It is what we hope will one day bring science to its senses, making it aware of its own limitations. Hopefully that day won’t be too long in the future.


Reading a Good Book

The phrases of the book
like twigs twist and turn in every direction,
and soon I am walking a thick forest
with no thought of return,
to find a cabin in a sunlit clearing
and live in it for a while.

But the book ends
as every journey must,
yet, leaving its forest,
I carry it with me,
feeling its sap of words
flowing through my veins,
and growing, silently,
for many months and years
new leaves of meaning.

Wandering Thought # 101

We all coexist with the idea that the people we love might disappear at any moment, though this idea, in the every day life, only occupies the fringes of our minds. But when someone you love has cancer, the idea becomes central, and it moves to occupy the entire space. Managing your emotions while going through this is one of the hardest things a human being has to do.

Haiku # 688

This life is a journey
with footsteps lost
in winter snow


Winter night
with the fire of a book
I warm my heart


Like rivers in the night
his words travel
the curves of her skin


حبرُ كلِماتي
بذورٌ أزرعها
في تربةِ بشرتها


الشمسُ على بشَرِتِكِ
في فَمي تذوبْ
كخَمرٍ عُمرُهُ ألفَ عامْ


Like snow unmarred
the poem
I do not dare to write


Heavy rain…
my heart is just a window
on a sunlit plane

Haiku # 687

وضعت فمي على فمها
كأني بين شفتيها وجدت
مهد الشعر والنبيذ


نمش بشرتها
الخريطة التي بها
أعبر الى النجوم


أبدأ نهاري
وأنا أرتشف الدفىء
من شفتيك


كالثلج الأبيض
يستقر العمر
في شعري

Like white snow
age settles
on my hair


Tea on a cold night
finishing a book
and starting another

Wandering Thought # 100

The years move on, and the things which seemed so important become trivial; time and loss have a way of distilling life to its essence. The years move on, what remains now are the simple things that were there all along, waiting in the quiet. The years move on, and we start making friends with our own disappearance; how well can we dance the dance before saying goodbye?