Wandering Thought # 243

I am a mystic through and through. Poetry was never for me an artistic endeavour but a spiritual one. It was my way to go beyond myself, into myself, and touch something of the Eternal that manifests itself through us and through every form that comes into existence, as the movement of existence itself. I am a mystic, a poet of the heart, I am one who listens.

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This November

This November
I want to be a wild field
feeling into my bones
the surge of autumn,
surrendering and letting it all
fall down into the ground
to be cradled in darkness,
to know the meaning of long rest
and unperturbed sleep.

This November I want to go
deep down into my roots
to be acquainted again
with the nature of my being,
the stranger’s face, which is my face,
the face that I once loved
and must learn to love again.

This November I will let the summer wine
brew deep in my veins
with the warmth of its sun,
I will let my dreams
carry me over to the other plain
where spring arrives
with new wildflowers and fruits
and a renewed thirst for life
taking me to the edge of all that I am.

Wandering Thought # 242

A positive thinker is not one who believes in the positive outcome of every situation. Some situations are clearly hopeless, with the outcome bound to be negative.

A positive thinker is not dispirited by the negative event, but still affirms life and sees therein something to learn. He grasps that growth and understanding happen in difficult situations where one is challenged and even defeated.

A positive thinker understands that no defeat is final since life is deeper than all defeats and love is stronger even than death; and since life always finds a way, he puts the defeat to his advantage by learning from it and being reconciled to the nature of life.

A positive thinker does not believe that he will simply get what he wants by adopting a positive mindset, but understands that the important lessons happen when one’s desire is frustrated, and that failures offer the most important lessons and are the true shapers of character.

A positive thinker is one who believes in the transformative power of our attitude towards life. We are not the passive objects of outside events but we have the power to change them by changing ourselves. Our power lies in our response to what happens to us.

Wandering Thought # 241

‏الحبّ هو أن تجد شيئاً جميلاً في الذي تُحبهُ كلّ يوم.

Every lived life rises on the foundation of an unlived, imagined life that could’ve been but never did.

The idols are big in proportion to the smallness of the faith.

Science can purge God from the human imagination the day it can vanquish poetry.

It is our spiritual vacuum that we attempt to fill with pleasure, without succeeding.

Solitude is the virtue of the strong.

The moth does not give up until it is burned.

You can win every very battle but still lose the war.

There is no suffering that cannot be surmounted by death; there is no death that cannot be vanquished by love.

بعضُ الأشخاص بلسمٌ للروح.

Haiku # 722

Autumn begins…
lying in the grass I guess
the shape of the clouds

لوجودها في حياتي
رائحة الأرض العطشى
بعد مطر الخريف

للذكريات حفيف
أنصت إليها وأنا أتأمّل
تساقط أوراق الخريف

You speak my heart better
than all their words…
moon in the sky

Looking at her hurts…
so much love
I can not speak

First days of autumn…
writing poetry
to the light of the moon

My heart melts
with infinite softness
as I look at you

Though apart
between us a thread
weaved by the moon

Autumn begins
and my heart wanders
in dreams of endless white

Summer evening
what the stars whisper
I hear in my heart

‏هذا الشعر
ضوءُ شمعةٍ بهِ أتلمَّس
تفاصيلَ وجهكِ

Wandering Thought # 240

The self is not an isolated atom; it is only a self in relation to others and to the world; it is not a state, an identity, but a locus of interdependent experiences where the external commingles with the internal, a process in which both are modified. It is modern madness to confuse self with personhood. For it spells our isolation from other people as well as the world, cutting us off from life and its flow. The psyche is not merely individual, but the individual is an expression of it, which makes the psyche communal, .incorporating even nature and the inanimate. Therefore our modern psychological diseases are not problems occurring only within us, but we are the site in which what is ill in society and our way of life expresses itself.

To the modern madness we must oppose: myth and poetry.

Kissing Her Neck

Like fresh morning dew
my kisses sink into her neck,
from her chin down
to the hollow above her chest,
going around to her collarbones,
then to her nape at the back
as I lift her dark hair,
falling slowly to the expanse
between her shoulder blades…

…my kisses circle her neck
like a Sufi turns
ecstatic and feverish,
lost in prayer
as with each turn
he falls deeper
lost in God.

Wandering Thought # 139

You will feel happy to work less only if you feel that your work is imposed on you, that it is a bane. But in a world where work is a source of joy, where it is beneficial for yourself and the community, it is nonsensical to work less or more, for work, then, is an expression of your being, and is at one with life, it is a passion. As it now stands, we suffer work as an affliction, and as something that separates us from life and from true community. We are ridden with feelings of guilt if we do not perform and submit to the norms, and to perform we feel that we need to sacrifice ourselves, burning ourselves on the altar of the work-god.

Haiku # 721

‏قصيدةٌ غيرُ مُنتَهية…
مرتجِفاً كورقة خريف
سأتركُ هذا العالم

‏حرُّ الصيف
لا يدفئ عظامي
التي تتوقُ اليكِ

This life is a dream…
opening our eyes
the fog dissipates
into an endless white

‏الحياةُ حلم
نفتح عينينا ليتبدد الضباب
على نورٍ لامتناهي

‏هذهِ الكلمات
قصيدةٌ صداها
يعودُ إليَّ فقط

Haiku # 720

‏القمرُ في النافذة
ضوءهُ يُعيدُني
إلى بيتِ الطفولة

À l’abri du monde
mon cœur est un bourgeon
sa fleur un poème

‏من نافذةِ المكتب
أُراقبُ عصافير الحقل
كم هي حرّة وسعيدة‏

‏المعبدِ القديم
أحجارهُ أزهارَ لوزٍ
تناثرت في الريح

‏وحيداً عند المساء
منصتاً للصمت
الذي يلفُّ أيامي

‏صمتُ الظهيرة
أستمعُ لزيزِ الصيف
وأنتظٍرُ الخريف

‏حرٌّ لاهب
أُحاول أن أقرأ
وأنا أمسح عرقي

‏‏في صومعتي
أقرأ وأكتب
منتظراً ظهور القمر

‏الأيامُ التي مرّت
وتساقطت كأوراق الخريف
ما زالت تلمعُ أحياناً
تحتَ ضوءِ القمر

‏قلبيَ الضائع
عصفورٌ أرسلتهُ
إليكِ

مهما فعلت بك الحياة
لا تهمل قلبكَ
وتنسى أنكَ شاعر



Haiku # 719

‏سبعُ سنينٍ يا أُختي
ما زِلتُ أبكي كلما
رأَيتُكِ في حُلُمي

‏حُبُْها في قلبي
برعمٍ أبيض نضِر
مكسوٍ بحبيبات الندى

‏قصيدة الهايكو
وحدها تنصت
إلى سكونِ روحي

‏خفيفٌ كالغيم مرورَكِ
لكنَّهُ يجعَلَني أَحلُم
بما وراءَ الجبال

Wandering Thought # 137

If the commandment that the Oracle of Delphi once gave to Socrates was to “Know thyself,” then, it seems to me, the commandment the Modern Oracle is giving us is to “Forget thyself.” Any philosophical or religious inquiry being nonsensical in a capitalist/technological age, what remains is the pragmatic use of the moment, whatever life is alloted to us, without it having any meaning beyond itself. But the self cannot simply be forgotten, for it resides on a gruesome rift of anxiety, and this is solved – the awareness of the self is snuffed out – by its constant dilution in pleasure and busyness. One must always be busy, never have a moment to sit with oneself. Solitude, in the modern age, becomes the ultimate anathema, the unforgivable sin, for it is a sign that one still considers his self, still has a self to cultivate and know. And yet, though in constant company, though constantly on the go, in the deepest sense, we have never been more alone, more secluded, and more without the ability to articulate our deep isolation, which we must constantly deny.

We birds of solitude are now few and far apart scattered across the wilderness, and our songs do not reach other’s ears. We converse with past and future ages, and shield ourselves from the constant noise surrounding us. We pity humankind, for its soul has never been more lost, rootless and perturbed. There is no meaning in their eyes, only a constant dizziness hidden with a smile, a photograph filter.

Wandering Thought # 136

It was enough to drink poetry just once for its wine to seal my fate. Like seeing a light so strong that it burns itself in the consciousness of the soul. It is a truth one cannot unsee, but it’s not exactly a truth — what, then? It is a spaciousness in the heart; an understanding of the interconnectedness of everything in life, its full circle; it is the dwelling in the eternal, the absolute, and the viewing of linear time for what it is, an illusion; it is the revival of the old myths of perpetual creation – life, existence, and consciousness as being created every single moment, with every single breath, and the feeling of the sacred and the divine as inhabiting and channeled in this moment and breath; it is life with passion and intensity to the utmost, yet it is a simple life, a life of duration of simple yet deep feelings, a life lived close to the essence of things; it is a life that gives voice to things no one sees or cares about; it is a life that dares to shed off itself all the falsity and illusions of modern society, a life that dares to live by itself, a world contained and overflowing in its own solitude. Our fate chooses us and we earn it when we have the courage to choose it in return. So I choose, again and again, this life of poetry.

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.

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.