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.

Haiku # 696

Spring evening
my heart is a bell
struck by silence

~

All this poetry…
I forget the words
and keep the silence

~

Cette poésie
à l’écrire je sens mon cœur
battre avec le tien

~

Ecrivant la poésie
se cœur qui bat
surchargé d’amour

Writing poetry
this beating heart
overflows with love

~

As long as it lasts
walking the mists of life
writing poetry

Haiku # 692

In their eyes the stories
we’ve long forgotten –
animals in the wild

~

حتى بعد أن تستحم
تجد رائحتهُ
على بشرتها

~

Mon cœur
à chaque moment du jour
s’envole vers toi

~

وحيداً في الليل
لم يُبقِ الشعر مني
الا قلباً يرتجف

~

If I could choose
one place to touch you
it would be your heart

~

لو كان ليَ أن أختار
أن ألمُسَكِ في مكانٍ واحد
لاخترتُ قلبكِ

~

I do not write for readers; I do not write for the pleasure of writing; I write so I would not forget; I write to remember.

Haiku # 689

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.

Haiku # 671

…أمي
في ظلام هذا العالم يكفي
أن ألفظ اسمك

~

Another winter storm…
in the pot of honey
the frozen kiss of summer

~

The morning after…
on the glass of wine
the red stain of her lips

~

Slow and tender
she sips on the words
he offers to her famished lips

~

His touch kindles in her heart
a fire unknown
since time began

~

Winter twilight…
I’ll wait for you
on the bridge of stars

~

Winter dusk…
in the still air burns
the musk of her breath

~

This solitude…
I keep craving
what I cannot have

~

صقيع الصباح
بدون أذنٍ أطلّ وجهها
ليدفىء شتاء قلبي

~

Haleine du ciel…
un monde enseveli
de brume hivernale

~

الأرجيلة
مع كل نفس أرتشف
نار شفتيها

Haiku # 667 | Tanka # 199

On the occasion of the ending year.

The years passing by…
a chasm deepening
in the cave of my solitude

~

New Year’s Eve…
in the family album
the faces gone by

~

Last night of the year…
another leaf falls
into the fire of my longing

~

At year’s end
I measure the distance
between you and me…
a thousand years
of unquenched longing

وحدتي

لم يعد يعرفني أحد
،ولا حتى قصيدتي
ذلك العصفور
ضاق فيه القفص في صدري
،ورحل
زهرة الربيع على
الغصن الأخضر
تفتقت بذكرى
،لم تعد تعرفني
حصاد السنين
وحدة قاتلة
وريح كلما اقترب نفسها من وجهي
ذوت
وبذور حب
نبتت فوق صدر امرأة
.مجبولة بالسراب والألم

Letter, August 13, 2017

Tell them I spent my life banished amid the pages of books, reading, feverishly, fluttering like a firefly amid words of darkness and light. Tell them that in the pages of books I found myself entangled like a bee stuck in honey, like a lover’s fingers in his beloved’s hair. Tell them that, contrary to what they think, it is no wasted life, it is a life of solitary abundance, a life of living at the source of what makes humanity great, and what makes life worth striving for, worth living. Tell them that I have been blessed, to read, to be able to read a fragment of that which is truly, spiritually great. Tell them that in an age of anxiety, of spiritual crisis, I have dared, through books, to gaze at the future, to imagine a different future, and that through these visions I strived to birth and live my life, my present, my spirit and state of mind. Tell them, beloved, that amid the pages of books I have loved and been loved, made friendships the likes of which are so rare on earth, shed tears, oh so bitter tears, rejoiced and found a joy that is simple like flowers and grass growing in a fallow field. Tell them, beloved.

Wandering Thought # 54

Like a tight bud I closed in upon myself, but that was only the outward appearance of it; in truth it was an inward motion, a closing in upon the self that is an opening up of an inward world, the inward world, the world of the soul; and the most precious thing this gave me? (and this I call poetry, the self-expressive, the inwardly reflexive) — the ability to withstand my solitude so I could deepen myself and give myself back to the world through my heart and from the depth of my soul.