She didn’t feel
the frost on her skin
until it melted
under the warmth
of his fingertips
~
مشّطتُ شعرها على مهل
وقبّلت الندى على كتفيها
ثم جلست بينما استلقت هيَ
وأمسكتُ القلم وسال الشعر
حبرا على بشرتها
~
Things break,
people die,
friends and lovers
go into the night
and return no more.
This being human
a sheen of dew left
by dissolving mist
~
With poetry
everything I touch
is her skin
~
الشعر كان صلاته
ادخله متاهة الشوق
وأهداه إلى التجلي
What is an ideology?—it is a thing propelled by an absolute faith in its own prerogatives; in other words, its blind spot forbids it from seeing itself for what it is, and this is essential for it to go on preaching its faith.
Une soirée d’hiver
je la passe à contempler
l’âme d’une chandelle
Le corps de la flamme d’une chandelle, ce souffle de lumière, est si transparent qu’il est, en même temps, son âme. Cette métaphore, je la trouve convenante pour décrire ce que c’est le poème.
Everything begins
as I utter your name,
yet it is a name
that cannot be pronounced
as it is not made of letters –
it is an inner name,
one that dwells inside
the prayer, the music, the art,
it is an inner vessel,
to utter it is to feel
an opening in the heart
too immense to contain,
a sky and a sea blooming inside.
Regardant la pluie
tomber sur les champs
mon cœur se rempli d’une paix
que je n’ai jamais connu
entre les hommes
~
Regardant la rivière
j’ai vu ma vie
glisser vers la mer,
du temps il ne restait
qu’une feuille amère.
Like wine in a cellar
this art of touching her
is something that has brewed
for a lifetime within me;
now and then it comes out
as poetry,
now and then
when it cannot be contained
and its flashes
flood through my veins
and its wave carries me
to the wood where we always met
in the deepest recesses of my memory.
I remember to come back
to the future where we are
and I complete the circle
as I write to you know
this love that is within me.
أمسكت حبها
بقلب مرتجف
لم يعرف هذا العالم
الا كقصيدة مكتوبة
على ورقة خريف
~
Falling rain,
its sound
in my heart takes
the shape
of longing.
The rain is falling…
in silence we sit
listening to the rain
~
كالتائهِ في الليل
بين الكلماتِ أتبع الضو
الات من بعيد
~
Winter evening –
in my heart the slow burn
old memories…
~
Everyone have left
the road of my life
deepens into the sunset
I lost my sister to cancer on February 03, 2015. This week the doctor told me that my mother’s cancer is terminal, and that her life expectancy is a few months at best.
Contemplation has always had to battle against the values of the market, but in no age did these values reign absolute as they do today. They are upheld religiously — and therefore, invisibly — and have sneaked in to transform every institution and discipline, including that of philosophy, from the ground up. In addition to having made the life of man uninteresting and small, they have also made him increasingly stupid. Soon he will have to relearn his most basic skills — seeing, hearing, reading, thinking. They never allow him a moment’s rest as he is constantly pushed to perform and produce. They are the ultimate tyranny, seen by none, upheld by all.
When you remember, which comes first, the image or the feeling? I venture to say that it is the feeling that calls out the image and frames it, giving it its depth, hue and texture — it sears it, as though in fog. Many feelings remain after being uncoupled from their original images, and so they create images of their own. This is well known to all poets and artists.
Rooted in Love 