سيرة ذاتيّة لِلحُمَّى


أرِيكَةُ صفراءُ، وملاءة مُبللة، وقِنديل بِلا فتيل،

وَبِضع ذِكرى مِن أزِقَّة طُفُولتِي،

تَطفُو وتلتوي أمَامِي مِثْلُ خُيوط دُخَانٍ:

سَرَابًا مِن ذِكرَى أو حُلْمٌ،

فلا أَدري، أَأَنَا مَن يُصَوِّرُ الْحُلْمُ؟

أَم أَنَّ الْحُلْمَ يُصَوِّرُني؟

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The Heroic Life of a Pseudo Hippie

He wakes up in a fleeting bed,
In a far away motel
Preaching strangers on the art of living:
It’s all about a loaf of bread,
And health and physical well-being.

A world-class intelligent
Living like a gypsy in most of his ways
Home and intimacy flow at random—
And he floats at ease,
Just like all the members of the Minimalism fandom.

Growing some traits of McCandless
An ever-lasting bravery,
Glorifying whatever signifies “less”
Committing his life to what seemed like an idea of celibacy,
Refraining from settlement and harmoniousness.

His worship lacked a god,
So he philosophizes his figure, instead.
Joylessly watches things slip away;
People that needed to be fed,
And a girl he once loved.
A hippie nomad facade
To cover up a need to be led
Oh, what a great life he lived.

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The Butterfly Cycle


A larva growing rapidly,
A butterfly to become
Flying free, propelling air.
Those fair, innocent wings that I shall soon wear
When I am to be wed to the moonlight, the honey
And the nectar of the flowers.
A dream so fragile, I must not err.

I hid it.
I hid it all.
My growth is hampered by fear
Unleashing those wings would disturb my man,
Here he rests; obsessing over video games
And humans’ lifespans.
I must always shrink for him to tolerate
My wisp of hair—and the mediocre life
Inside the cracked pictures’ frames.

Love is a season in between,
It will eat you up, even if you didn’t
Allow its rainy gales to be seen.
Honey, haven’t you yet learned that only the rain
Will render the plants with intense green?

I have suffered the cruelty of his changing moods
Flat and hidden,
I cannot move without dislodging the weight of a decade
Of a love-forbidden,
Of a man who lived and died
In me—lonely, unreal and forgiven.

I falter,
A lonely butterfly facing gusts.
It hurts to become,
But when the air pushes under those wings,
May there be nothing left but a handful of dust.

Now I could only fancy the thought of him:
Running through the roads,
Escaping the weights of reality, foolishly happy, not
Including me.

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                                                                                                                    A Short History of Harem

The harem dance, oil on canvas, 65 x 115 cm
The harem dance, oil on canvas, 65 x 115 cm

The sky looked at me with shame,
I felt it gazing on my body
It heated my skin,
Burned it.
Punished—I am
For Man’s fall.

Dark is the night now
I breathe air and bow
Today—no one ate me.

There are hyenas that are stalking me;
I couldn’t run for I am tied
They smelled my blood from a distance
Greedy steps and lustful eyes—
Their haunt is over.
They awaited now—mouths wild open
Concealing their claws
Acting civil before the auction starts.

Put on a bid of Gold—
At my father’s doors
An auction I made so I could be sold.

They take my gown off,
For me, thousands of Gold
Pushed, turned, touched
I warmed them despite the night’s cold
Shouting more—

I am a property,
Bought and sold on Gold.

The hyenas came closer,
Dancing as they move,
Teeth made of bones.

A wreath of daisies and lilies,
Wearing a white gown and a smile.
I’m accustomed to this, at least I’m told
That I’m beautiful and fair.
They sing and I sing along,
A lullaby,
A chant to the passive present.
Howbeit, I’m pulled from
My melodious lay.

I walk, and the songs are
Descending to lustful utters
And loud howls,
Their bodies needed a cure, a healing
To sneak up, again
And pounce on their prey.
What a pity to choose life
This life– each time.


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،وُلِدَ كبَقيّة الأطفالِ
لم تُشرِقَ الشمسُ مِن مَغربِها حِينَ وُلِدَ ولا اهتَزتِ الجِبَالُ
،خَرجَ لهذه الحياةِ مِن رَحمِ صَحراءٍ قاحِلةٍ
،لا نَباتَ فيها ولا مَاءً
صَحراءً عَشِقَت السَرابَ وشَرِبتِ المَوتَ أقداحًا حتى الإغمَاءِ
،وِلِدَ كَبقيةِ الأطفالِ
ورِثَ جسدًا يَسجنُ روحَه ومَلامِحُ أمَواتٍ
،اخُتيرَ له اسمٌ وهوية،ٌ وكُبِلَ بِبضعِ أغَلالٍ
،غِلًا التفَ حَول رقَبتِه ليَخنِقَهُ
وغِلًا حَولَ يَدَيه يَجتَرهُ أينَما ذَهبَ

وُلِدَ كبقية الأطفَالِ
رَتَلوا في أذُنهِ اليُمنَى الأذَانَ
،وصَبوا فَوقَهُ المَاءَ ليَتوبَ
رَغمَ أنهُ بعدُ لم يُذنِبْ
،وُلِدَ كبَقيّة السُجناءِ
خُدَّرَ وريدُهُ وخُيّطَ فَمَهُ وصُمّتْ أذُنَاهُ
قَتَلهُ الجُبَناءُ
وهو بَعدُ لم يَكُنْ

تَكلَتْ أكوامُ بَشرٍ حَولهُ
،رآهم مُقَيدَةٌ أعنَاقَهُم وأقدامَهُم بأغلالٍ مِن حَديدٍ
يُصَلّونَ للخُبزِ والنُورِ الذي لا يُبصِرونَ
،رجالًا ونِساءً تمرُعَليهِم صورُ حَياةٍ لا يَعرِفُونَ
يُصلّونَ ويُرتِلونَ خَوفًا مِن الحُلمِ والسَعيّرِ
،قَتَلوا أنفُسَهُم أحيَاءً
خَوفًا مِنَ المَصيرِ

تَكَتَلوا أقوامًا وأقوامًا
يَأكُلونَ ويُصَلّونَ ويَقتُلونَ ويُنجِبُونَ
ولا بِشيءٍ يَشعُرونَ
تَكَتَلوا أجمَعَ أمَامَهُ، أكداسًا مَحبُوسِينَ

،ارتَطَموا بِهِ ولكِنَهُ ما ارتَجَفَ
انعَزَلَ مِن بَينِهم وبِنَفسهِ التَحَفَ

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The Seventh Room

Mary Magdalene in the Cave

‘The ending is water’
Whispered a crow
As I step slow—Out, out of the asylum
My body, which isn’t mine, dragged all way
Needles falling on the grey floor,
Some I took off—
Others were inserted for too long
Hideous as a monster,
The survivor of the one thousand years bloodshed
Finally managed an escape, with a book and papers’ shreds
At the end of the aisle of patients’ beds,
I know there is a staircase leading to an exit
I ran downward.

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امرأة الكُثبان


في أرضي، لن ترى إلا الفحمَ والكُثبانَ
لا بدايةً لها، ولا نهايةً
رملٌ فوق رملٍ، وآلهةٌ من الحَجَر والغِربانِ
في أرضي، ستسمع فقط عن جنات عدنٍ وشقائقُ النُعمانِ
هُنَا، حيث اللازمانُ واللامكانُ
هُنَا، حيث عَبَدْتُ الحَجرَ

وحيدةً تمامًا في الفلكِ
لا سماء زرقاء ولا قمرَ
،أرضي، هذه التي اكتسح السوادُ رَملَها
وجفت نسائُها ولاقت حَتفَها
أرضُ الرَمادِ والفَحمِ
أرضٌ ملأتها الذُكور أُمَمًا
أرضُ الصدأ والموتى
أموطنًا أنتِ أم منفى؟

لأَلفِ سَنة، لم يمر نجمٌ في سَمائي
ولم تسمع الآلهةُ أيًا من الأغنياتِ والأماني
حَفرَتُ، فَدُفِنتُ
تَسلقتُ من قَبلْ، وعلى الصَليّبِ تَعلقتُ
لم اقرأ في أرضِ الكُثبانِ
لا توراةَ ولا إنجيلَ ولا قرآنَ

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a dream

،حَلِمتُ بالأمسِ بِأنَ الأمُنيةَ قَد ماتَتْ
وبِأنَ الأغُنيةَ قَد عاشَتْ

حَلِمتُ بالأمسِ بأنَ هَذهِ الحَياةُ كانَت تَسقُطُ مِن أعلى كالمُذنَبِ

منِي تَقتَربُ وبِكَ تَحتَرِقُ

،حَلِمتُ بِغيابِ الأمسِ
وبِطُلوعِ الشَمسِ

،حَلِمتُ بالسَماءِ وبِسُكونِ المَطرِ
حَلِمتُ بِكَ وكُنتَ أنتَ السَفَرُ

،كُنتَ أنتَ وكُنتُ أنا
وخَلفنا القَمرَ

مِن أيّ انتِظَارٍ قَد جِئتَ؟

،خَشِيتُ أن استيقِظَ قَبلَ أن أعرِفَكَ
،خَشِيتُ أن تَغيبَ وأن أفقِدِكَ
،خَشِيتُ الحُلمَ
وبِإنَ استيقَاظِيَ سَيهجُرُكَ

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A Man on a Cliff


I am a blocked volcanic crater
I burn my own skin
Going dry, going slim
Going all the way to him
I am the waiting siren
At the end of your swim.

I am the stone that kept you
On a cliff
You’d think you’d fall from a breeze,
Or a passing whiff—
But darling, not even a firestorm
Could unleash your tethered feet.

Suffocated in vain—
I prayed for the droplets of your rain
To slowly dissipate my heat
And cover me in mist
And all the feelings I missed.

The man of charcoal and ashes,
Still hanging on a cliff
Blind, deaf, and stiff.

Darling, the lavas are stepping closer
To burning you,
Burning me.


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M Train by Patti Smith

patti smiths II

Patti Smith is an incredible writer. She’s such an iconic musician and a very interesting person and all that awesomeness is magnified when she writes. Seriously the amount of her coolness and intellectuality is very admirable and she won’t sound pretentious for reading so many books and knowing so many cool people, she’s just a lovely poet who artistically reflects modern life. She will take you for a walk in her favourite cafes in NY to daydream with her, she will describe the beaches for you and you will almost feel the breeze and the smell of the sea. She doesn’t stop there; Patti also challenges time; yes, you will listen to her talking with the dead. The dead are the writers who influenced her and spoke to her: Mrabet, Bowles, Aira, Bolaño, Burroughs, Rimbaud, Plath, Mishima, Murakami and Bulgakov are almost present and alive. She visits them and talks about them.. With them.

She also masters her words so well; like she can make an old dusty bar seem magical; a room in a Hotel is a scene from a classical avant-garde film, the objects are stories to tell and the places are here for her to experience. Things are NOT just things with Patti; she’s a Buddha who writes proses and verses about normal things and turns them into a guide, a new way of seeing things. A pictorial sort of writing. She makes time stops.

And at last, you won’t hate her because she writes better than you, you will love her because she’s only teaching you to be even better for she will teach you how to feel.

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