When the night descends on my house I will brew it chamomile tea Or bitter black coffee I will tell it a story of love and discard I...
Take this body/ Cover it/ carefully/ It doesn’t call for blankets/ You just need to wrap your arms around it/ for things to start/ You’ll find gaps and big holes/ Don’t let this worry you/ or scare you away/ They are small embers that have fallen/ and no one has picked them up/ It might seem rather cold to you, and dark,/ it’s no more than the fallout from a continual autumn
One of the neighbours said,/ while I was trying to throw out last week’s newspapers/ for recycling:/ “Would you believe it/ ?Larry’s dead./ ”It seems my face did not reflectthe/ expected expressions of grief/ and she started talking about Larry/ and his wife Linda:/ “They were on the West Coast/ escaping the perishing cold of New York./ On the way back,/ before reaching the gate/ he dropped dead on the terminal floor/ holding the boarding cards.”
Suffering Syrians, beautiful Syrians, Syrian brothers fleeing death. You won’t reach the shores on rafts but will be born on beaches with the foam. Lost gold dust you are, melted gold dust, scattered, dulled. From abyss to abyss in the hollow of the sea of the Rum, with the star fish and her brother, the roving squid, the waves convey you under the light of Ursa Major, the Daughters of Na’sh.
In the kitchen thirst fell down. His dreams trembled. The window was torn open, stabbed by lightning scattering in the hallways. His hands settled down and his soul reclined but there was nothing to lean on. They dived into clouds, drowning caught them and salt followed suit. Water flowed, sobbing until the walls were dry. The pictures flaked off the walls and glass leapt out of the wooden frames. The estrangement of his bed subdued, it makes him a nightcap.
The secret of the Incarnation I am the son of the earth and the sailing stars in a jelly-like space. I dream like a star...
Oh, don’t bother yourself with it, my boy, don't bother. The English beat Hitler and the Axis powers while we were still suckling our mother’s milk. So I think they can fix the defects of Bedford trucks and these Land Rovers. It is their craftsmanship, and we learned it from them, then mastered it in Baluchistan and in the garages of the Sultan’s Special Forces, which would not have won over the imams if it hadn’t been for those vehicles, despite their numerous defects.
Doing turns around the same spot in the same place will never lead to anything. Every day you need what’s new and extraordinary. Set off then: run through impossible pathways so you touch limits, so you’re the first to make a discovery and reach the truth
On the same bench Sits an old woman, a red hat on her head, Chewing a slice of plain pizza As she gazes away, far, far away As she mumbles words to herself or someone Seen by no one but her She has seen better days Her left hand shakes As she holds the paper plate When she stands up And slowly disappears
Happened to be there once And only saw fat cats, lounging —in the neighborhood. He told the young female guide, Excuse me! My country is full of ruins And now I would like to sit By the bank of the “Smyrna” bay And ask the Aegean Sea, Which deserted Ephesus— Thanks to consecutive earthquakes For a new catch To be blessed by the deities Under a skittish sun In winter!
The dirham had been transformed into a smooth piece of metal with neither head nor tail. My sipped his beer as I inspected the dirham. Then with his right index finger he prodded me hard on the chest, and pointed to the flattened dirham and to the ground. I understood what he was telling me: “If you stay in this country you’ll end up like this dirham.” He tossed the piece of metal high into the air and broke into loud laughter."
Death is my elder brother Who left home the hour I was born To never, never come back. .. He left, they say, A...
BEFORE I SLEEP Although I/ no longer care about anything,/ and squander most of my time out of the house –/ for days / I haven’t changed the water of the flowers,/ and the books/ and cups/ and cigarette ends/ are content with a layer of dust – yet,/ I find time/ to feed the wolves of your absence/ before I sleep.