Poetry, my one faithful love, the only one who keeps watch over me and waits and waits to touch my face and fill my heart.
Not just the earth, touched by autumn’s rain even this longing exudes poetry
The moon’s light dissolves all memories of past and future, and ties everything in a silent knot that whispers: “now.” Nothing exists outside this moment, nothing lives outside your heart.
Je t’aime, il lui a dit, chaque jour au lever du matin, chaque jour au coucher du soleil.
أحبكِ، قالها لها، كل يوم عند طلوع الضوء، كل يوم عند مغيب الشمس.
In the end, logic is the death of man; it’s where the poetry in his soul goes to die.
For a poet, it is enough, in this world, to have a little corner in which to sit with a book, a desk and some paper, to read and write to the light of a candle, lit by the impassioned flame of longing.
There are many who preach hate in the name of love.
كثيرون هم من يبشرون بالحقد باسم الحب.
I value a heart by how much longing it is capable of holding.
My life – I measure it in moments of poetry.
This solitude – without it I would not recognize my face.
The thing which affects artists more acutely than regular people is how greatly they feel the weight of loneliness. This weight is so tyrannical that they seek out many ways to shed it, mainly through their creative impulse. But it is a process which never succeeds, for, apart from the momentary orgiastic feeling in the moment that art is expressed and in which the artist jumps out of himself, the loneliness returns. Art and artistic expression deepen the feeling of loneliness through time, but it is not a loneliness which severs and isolates the artist from his or her surrounding, on the contrary, it enables a greater and more intense and attentive form of relationship with nature and life. Loneliness is a weight that constructs painfully through many many years, but it strips to the bones and makes the artist shine in the light of their truth. Blessed are the lonely who turn their loneliness into art.
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.
لم يعد يعرفني أحد
،ولا حتى قصيدتي
ضاق فيه القفص في صدري
زهرة الربيع على
،لم تعد تعرفني
وريح كلما اقترب نفسها من وجهي
نبتت فوق صدر امرأة
.مجبولة بالسراب والألم