The Poem as a Place of Insight

I sleep but the poem’s words
hold their vigil,
a swarm of falcons
turning and turning in the sky within
so much that I feel a little dizzy
as I wake at morn,
their fresh taste wet on my lips,
like mist in the rising sun
quickly fading before
I could capture them,
leaving me with their flame
burning in my bones
and keeping me alive all day
with an ache for the unfathomable,
whispering strange things to my ear
that each day drive me a little closer
to the edge of madness
where I can finally begin to see
the world just as it is.

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Free Verse # 456 (this solitude)

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.

Free Verse # 455 (Naufragé du monde moderne)

Nudity is just another veil.

~

Naufragé du monde moderne, j’ai pris refuge sous le ciel de la poésie.

~

Longing – a word filled with endless distances.

~

رحلةُ الشِعرِ هذِهِ لعلّها لا شيءٌ آخر غير البحث عن لمسةِ امرأة.

This journey of poetry – perhaps it was nothing more than a search for a woman’s caress.

~

معطرٌ بأنفاسها
الدخان من فمها يصعد
ليملأ الغرفة
بحجابٍ رقيق
من الرغبة

~

In his heart
he feels her beauty
transformed into an ink
that he longs to write back
on the pages of her skin

~

Jalouse
une à une
elle empreinte ses baisers
en touchant les lèvres
au bout de ses poèmes

~

Early morning,
the sound of a rooster
crowing in the distance,
the wind stirring in the tall trees
as a bird softly sings,
your head resting on my belly
with my fingers running
through your black hair.
If happiness ever was
it is this moment.

Wandering Thought # 113

I write because the words open my heart to something greater than I am. I write because, being open, I am transformed through the grace of the other. I write as a form of communion, with the world, with the sacred, with love. I write as a poet; I write as a lover.

Love is a form of communion, that would not be possible without this stepping outside of our social roles, this intimate knowing and being known, this raw offering to the other, bare to the bones, this being seen in one’s soul, which fills us with harmony and light, giving us a deep sense of belonging, and giving us back to the world — as what? — as a divine fragment, as something transformed.

Free Verse # 448 (في سكون روحي)

ولكن يا حبيبتي
كل السنين التي أضعناها
وكل الأخطاء التي اقترفناها
لم تذهب سدىً
ما دمنا معاً، الآن،
في هذه اللحظة المقدسة
متشاركين هذا النفس
وكأس النبيذ
وضوء القمر
ككاهن يبارك الخبز والخمر
كصوفي يطوف حول الكعبة
في قلب الله.

~

A man, just by looking
into her eyes
will become a poet,
yet all the poetry in the world
will not help him
express what he feels
when he looks into her eyes.

 أصبح شاعراً
من نظرةٍ في عينيها،
ولكن كلُّ شعر العالم
لن يمكنَّه من أن يعبّر
عن ما يشعر به
عندما ينظر في عينيها.

~

لوْ كانَ للجَمالِ اسمٌ، لكانَ وجهها.

~

هذا الشِعر – رحيقُ الضَوء وهوَ يرتَدّ عَن بَشَرَتِها.

~

I loved her in the stillness of my soul.

أحببتها في سكون روحي.

~

I will write again
when I feel her move
inside my heart

Wandering Thought # 94

Words, they are the geological forces of the soul, pushing against the toughest and most deeply imbedded boundaries and structures, with great patience eroding, stretching, pulling, transforming, and giving us the tools to control ourselves, to rise above ourselves and overcome ourselves, and shape our own destinies.

Free Verse # 434 (she is all the lights)

In your touch
I make transactions
with beauty,
selling each moment
for a veil of your light,
feeling the white
of your perception
shine from my soul.

~

My poetry,
its endless brushstrokes
paint the features
of my face;
look at it,
it has no eyes
but only a silence
with which to gaze
upon the world.

~

When I write
I imagine my fingers
touching her face
the way the moth hovers
around the candle-light,
I feel my hands
dipped in her skin
like oars rowing
in a starlit sea of poetry.

~

Looking at her
the poem tries
with burnings fingers
to describe her beauty,
but then it falls down,
speechless.

~

She is all the lights the city needs.

~

My heart
I feel it connected to yours
by a hidden string,
like night to the day,
like the sky to the earth
and to the rolling sea of stars.

Free Verse # 396 (a life of wandering)

Dawn; the silence a sea
of radiant heat,
a universe permeated
by the want of our touch.

~

Night,
the wind trembles
and in the scatter of leaves
I hear your voice,
an ancient yearning
reaching into me,
opening my soul up
to the clear obscure dance
of desire and poetry.

~

The bird on the branch
sings the end of winter
as a flower slowly
takes shape in my heart.

~

A life of wandering,
taking in the world
in still images distilled
with the lens of poetry.

~

In the shadows of the night
your breath comes to me,
page after page of a poem
burning in my chest,
its words, set free,
buzzing in my veins.

~

In the bonfire of longing
my poems to you burn,
freed from the paper
their words rise,
the wings of a deep intimacy
taking flight
and like a song of praise
covering the world.

Free Verse # 390 (my spring of poetry)

Photographer Unknown

Love was between us
and she was a tailoress,
fitting my poems
to the curves of her skin,
the sinews of her breath.

~

With a breath,
with a word,
with a heartbeat,
with a ribbon of your fragrance
fill my heart to overflow,
grant me your light
as a gift of life.

~

Our poetry…
two birds
to one another
deep in the woods
calling.

~

Wetness dripping…
poetry dissolved
amid her thighs

~

Tyr, South Lebanon, January 06, 2017

The anchor of your breath
once fell into me,
now my skin is all rust
from the salt of your sea.

~

Stirring softly,
a breeze amid the trees
at dawn,
my breath in starseeds
dewing on your skin,
your dark hair
a mooncloud
in my spring of poetry.