| CARVIEW |
Red leaf of autumn…
in its shade we wove our nest
kindled by desire
Chandelle de la nuit…
dans mon cœur la flamme vacille
au souffle du poème
Candle in the night…
in my heart’s its flame wavers
at the poem’s breath
Rising to the stars
my thoughts with the fireflies drift…
a childhood summer
Tender syllables –
wild berries in her mouth, crushed
in his tight embrace
Opening my book
the world falls quiet
outside and within
Opening my book
I enter a wood hidden
in the folds of time
Mon amour pour Dieu
souffle dans le poème
fleuri sur sa peau
We are exile woven into a body by forces beyond our understanding and for a purpose beyond our grasp. Something from the beyond works from within us, calling us in, pulling us out. We are the mystic tear in the fabric of time.
Arching at this touch,
her belly reaching skywards –
ecstasy of light
Opening my book –
a mountain stream, rocks and moss
and leaves whispering
On a moonlit branch
two birds sharing the quiet
of a winter night
I’ll die as I lived –
wrapped in autumn mist, my words
cling to their silence
Through the soul’s inscape
the candle’s light travels farther
than the light of the sun
Each year becoming
more transparent to the light
of the winter moon
I write my poems
only to leave them as leaves
drifting in the wind
Just a wanderer
gazing at the winter moon –
I’ll leave with no trace
Not fearing the cold
the flower gives her fragrance
to the winter wind
Winter night arrives…
in the candle’s flame I watch
my dreams burn alive
At forty-four
I’m no older than when
my heart was a child’s
In my heart a man
dreams his beloved kissing
his face like the dawn
Greece, in the old world, culturally, was part of the middle eastern world.
Whenever in the world you see a statue, you think Greek.
When the powerful speak of peace, they imply peace under the conditions of their hegemony and dominance. Under such conditions, peace is nothing but submission and subservience.
When do we become
the captives of our faces –
masks of polished stone
Leaves in his white beard
the old man of the mountain
whistles with the wind
After the rainstorm
in a small pond by the rocks
blackbirds dip and splash
First days of the year…
the leaves on the ground soaking
in the thawing snow
A new war begins…
sipping my green tea, I gaze –
a world of white snow
The year’s first haiku –
I smile at a leaf, budding
spring green in my soul
Never to come home
out in the fields, my sister
playing in the snow
as winter dreams in white
and chimneys breathe their smoke
Christmas dreaming white –
out in the fields, my sister
playing in the snow
Our last Christmas together was ten years ago. I miss you. I love you. We’ll meet again one day and play as we once did, in the white Christmas snow.
Gathering the leaves
of another year ending –
poems in a book
Our soldered bodies
in the darkness quivering
a white candle-flame
All night long the rain
washing into the corners
of my aching soul
I wait for you
my heart a pond
sizzling with desire
Your kiss has the taste
of sunrise – light gleaming through
the night of my heart
Each month for a few days
the moon disappears
from the night sky,
and in winter
the earth sleeps,
still and silent
full of waiting.
You, too, must cherish
your apparent nothings,
for the time you waste
is the time during which
your soul gestates and prepares;
unbeknownst to you,
in the darkness something moves,
ripening into fullness
once its time has come.
Waiting is an art
the restless soul must master
for it to grow beyond itself,
for it to learn how to unfold from within,
gaining an intimate knowledge
the rational mind cannot understand.
Her fingers in mine
a tied knot, roots unfolding
to become the sky
أتَلَمَسُكِ الآن
عتمةُ الليل في صدري
ترنو إلى النجوم
My poem begins
with an ache to touch her skin
and ends as prayer
Night is a canvas…
with the candle’s light I trace
the lines of her face
I look at you the way a man
goes out to gaze
at the full harvest moon,
then returns, near midnight,
to surrender to sleep—
his heart so full
the night holds him completely,
no doubt follows him inside.
Following the news incapacitates the soul while disabling the ability to act. It’s a exercise in futility, meant only to immobilize your creative impulses. Drawing your emotions and sensations in with a bait, it corners you in frenzy of needing to catch more and more news, leaving you no space to think, feel and experience. You end up gulping in whatever you are fed without being able to form a proper perspective or gain a critical insight. Following the news is the great parroting of the people, great for an age that excels only in consumption and the destruction of the individual.
Astre de mes nuits…
au fils des jours, elle ravive
mon foyer de poèmes
Star of my dark nights…
through the passing days kindling
my poetry’s hearth
A glade in the woods…
winter sunlight falling soft
through a break in the clouds
Over the highway
birds on the wire gathering
for the morning gossip
Highway in the night –
arteries of light, crossing
the dark, quiet earth
Over distant hills
gray clouds glowing with faint streaks
of autumn’s red dawn
In my final breath
your name, a prayer drifting –
incense in the wind
I will always be that boy
Standing by the forest’s edge
Looking back for a moment
Before going in to dwell
In that place of mystery
Love’s most venerable error — elevating the beloved into an idol, a transmutation of one’s longing. But that only means that it is ourselves that we love through the medium of the beloved, our love returned to us, enabling us to experience the world as love’s overflow, to experience ourselves as love.
In the end, we all
become pictures on the wall –
hung there for a while
Cold winter evening…
her face, a soft candlelight
dancing in my heart
ليلةُ شتاءٍ باردة…
وجهها، ضوءُ شمعةٍ خافت
يرتجفُ في قلبي
Restless morning wind…
in the shy birdsong I feel
the incoming rain
My life, a river
carrying its quiet ache
to her ocean eyes
Let me die unknown
my heart held by the river
as it sings my song
On my face, the years
in joy and pain have carved
a single word — life
My face, the poem of the years.
Rooted in Love