Free Verse # 461 (one moment with you)

أجلُسُ وحيداً معكِ ولو كانَ بيننا ألفُ شخضٍ وشخص.

~

You pull me up when the whole world is pulling me down, and that is enough.

~

Rien ne réchauffe sans amour.

~

نحنُ دائماً مُغَلَفين بِأنفُسِنا.

~

قليل من الشعر ليروي عطش الليل.

~

Everyday
life flows a little more
into my veins
at the thought of touching you…
this life becomes fire
and has the name of poetry

~

In my dreams I wander
solitary as the moon,
only her eyes call me on and on
to hidden horizons,
to poetry, to wine,
to madness,
to a love so great
it tears open
the whole sky.

~

Though I come
with a laden heart,
one moment with you
empties me
of all my burdens.

~

Light touching her skin
A halo of poetry

~

When I touch you
even in thought
I am relieved
from that dreadful weight
pressing on my chest

~

Stripped bare
by this music;
a leaf
left trembling
in the passing wind.

~

Between his hands
her body swayed…
a violin aching
to weep
the sweetest music

~

The kiss he plucked from her mouth
a ripe fruit, red and bitter sweet,
filled with so much longing that
a tremor traveled between them
shaking the old fault lines and roots
and shaping them anew,
forged along the outlines
of their merging bodies.

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Haiku # 717

النمَش على بشَرَتِها
خريطةٌ إن تَبِعتها
وَصَلتَ إلى النُجومْ

The freckles on her skin
a map guiding you
to the endless stars

~

كلّ من قرأ قصيدتي
تنشقَ قليلاً
من عطر حبيبتي

~

Gazing at the stars
for a moment I remember
my true name

متأملاً النجوم
للحظةٍ تذكرت
اسميَ الأول

~

عصفور الفجر
من نافذة إلى نافذة
ينشر الفرح بأغنيته

~

Lost in my book
through its clouds I glimpse
the hills of her body

Lost in my book
I navigate the stars
strewn across her body

Wandering Thought # 135

A poem is built on the premise of not getting its subject — being overwhelmed by it — which, in the end, it leaves shrouded in a deeper veil of mystery than it first found it — it handles it as something sacred, it sanctifies it. Yet this process, seen in the right light, is revelatory, is the conduit of the proper living, and shows a deep intimation of life that reason, insisting on its tyranny, can never understand.

Wandering Thought # 134

We are happier when the radio plays our favorite song, without us having to play it ourselves. There is always a special flavor for the gratuitous and unsought when it enters our life, whether it’s a song, a thought, a bird, a poem, or a love.

If our society could have a nickname it would probably be this, “society of the spectacle.” We are nothing if we don’t appear, if we don’t show, and the more we appear and show the more we are. The self is constructed in the act of being projected for others to see, otherwise, alone, it is non-existent. We are addicts to the image, and cannot fathom the value of something without the aim of it ultimately being shown, reflected to others. This is the true tyranny of our age, unrecognized and practiced by all. Nothing is more alien to us than the spirit and the intuition of the sacred.

In time disappointments become blessings, as they disillusion us and bring us to the truth of the matter and of ourselves. They are the occasions through which we know ourselves deeply, through which we change and become who we are more intimately. They are the flavor of life.

The whole world can chain you, deceive you and frustrate you, but it cannot break you if you maintain your inner freedom. It can bring you to your knees, but it cannot prevent your triumph, as you choose to live with openness and joy in your heart, sucking to the full the marrow of each moment, turning its vinegar into honey and wine.

In our modern world the most widespread pandemic is a silent one, anxiety.

Life is no closer to the infant than it is to the old man.

May God grant me the joy of birds as they sing at and at dusk.

Wandering Thought # 133

There is no outer salvation for a man trapped in the web of his own thoughts.

Dreams are also events in one’s life, and at times more important events than the ones that actually happen, for they hint at a deep shift in one’s inner life.

They do not know the depth and fullness of love those who have no intuition of the sacred.

Out of tune with the spirit of the age, I read books and write poetry.

Not wealth or social status, what separates one man from another, what elevates one man above the other, is his spiritual depth and knowledge.

If you don’t know what you want, you will waste every opportunity you get.

One of the ironies of life is that we can well spend most of it until we figure out what we actually want, and once we do life has already been mostly spent.

A poet’s longing is not for everybody; if he compares it with that of others, he will only feel acutely lonely.

A man will not stay with a woman for sex, no matter how good it is.