bouhaouel zeineb: Favorites

Oct 2015 bouhaouel zeineb

Laurent

Je fais souvent ce rêve étrange et pénétrant
D’une femme inconnue, et que j’aime, et qui m’aime,
Et qui n’est, chaque fois, ni tout à fait la même,
Ni tout à fait une autre, et m’aime et me comprend.

Car elle me comprend, et mon coeur transparent,
Pour elle seule, hélas! cesse d’être un problème.
Pour elle seule, et les moiteurs de mon front blême,
Elle seule les sait rafraîchir, en pleurant.

Est-elle brune, blonde ou rousse? Je l’ignore.
Son nom? Je me souviens qu’il est doux et sonore,
Comme ceux des aimés que la vie exila.

Son regard est pareil au regard des statues,
Et, pour sa voix, lointaine, et calme, et grave, elle a,
L’inflexion des voix chères qui se sont tues.

In English:

I often have this dream both strange and shrewd,
Of an unknown girl, who I love, and who loves me
And who each time is neither quite the same,
Nor quite someone else, and who loves and understands me

Because she understands me, and my open heart
For her only, sadly, still ceasing to be a problem,
For her only, and the dampness of my pale forehead
Only she knows how to collect herself, by crying

Is she brunette, blonde or red? I am unsure
Her name? I remember that it is sweet and memorable
Like those of lives loved in exile

Her look is just like that of the statues;
And for her voice, distant and calm, solemn, she has
The affliction of voices dear which fall silent

Paul-Marie Verlaine
(30 March 1844 – 8 January 1896)
was a French poet associated with the Symbolist movement. He is considered one of the greatest representatives of the fin de siècle in international and French poetry.

Oct 2015 bouhaouel zeineb

sea at night

Oct 2015 bouhaouel zeineb

beth fwoah dream

sea at night

high over clear-washed stone, faint whispering,
the moon-bright tide cascades, the wild sea rose
has blossomed, nodding where the salt wave flows,
the wide unconquered brines great murmuring.
storm rock, night air, the white foam glistening
on wandering sand, the night's rich harvest grows
as passive as a flower, the sea-breeze blows
above the glassy ocean's thundering.
our love as free as this the windswept wave,
its rhythmic sigh, here in your arms i seek
a treasury of love, exotic gems,
before the folding tide, the current's slave.
the stronghold falls, the sleeping waters speak
of soft goodbyes and watery diadems.

#sonnet #you #loving #vintage

Oct 2015 bouhaouel zeineb

Walking Away

Oct 2015 bouhaouel zeineb

Little Azaleah

Walking Away

She cried as
she walked away.
She couldn't
Bare to see him
Breaking because of her.

{E.I}

#hurt #leaving #breaking

Oct 2015 bouhaouel zeineb

Noticeably Deceased

Oct 2015 bouhaouel zeineb

Brandy Nicole

Noticeably Deceased

Look at them
noticing me,
I think they finally see
through the dark of me,
the demon inside.
I was beginning to
believe I was living.
Possibly breathing
But I was dreaming,
thinking they'd see me.
They believed me
deceased

#poem #deceased #notseen

Oct 2015 bouhaouel zeineb

Soaked in Yahweh

Oct 2015 bouhaouel zeineb

Ariel Baptista

Soaked in Yahweh

You have heard it said that
A rose is a rose is a rose is a rose
But truly I tell you that
I am that I am that I am that I am
Dripping with Jehovah and stardust we fell to earth
Pieces of atmosphere pieced together
And who can trace the mythology of our chemical compositions
Or rewrite the narrative of our anatomies?
I fell to earth soaked in Yahweh and covered in snakebites
Black holes where the fangs sunk into the astronomy of my freckled skin
All the galaxies of my body each with their own elliptical orbits
Connect the dots to form two wolves in my milky way
Romulus and Remus –
My ******* bear venom white as the purest lamb
Whisper astrology and
Remember the day we built Rome by stacking corpses
Remember the day when all the stars burned red for us
But that was millennia ago and
I’m not your Venus anymore –
I’m nobody’s ******* Venus anymore
It was the age of Pisces and we came out drenched in Messiah
You found me picking painted roses on asteroid planets
With a blonde-haired child and a fox
In the garden green snakes and white roses
Thorns and soft pink ribbon-tongues
Fangs and velvet petals
Two drops of blood in the white sand like Mary,
I bore a son and named him Ares
I named him Mars
I named him Set
Boys will be boys will be boys will be monsters, you know that
I am that I am that I am that I am.
Swim down deep enough into the black waters and you’ll reach the heavens
Keep drawing blood from thorn wounds and you’ll drag out the atmosphere
Stare out intently into the abyss and the abyss will stare back into you
These are the things we knew
When we reached the outer boundary of the cosmos
And realized how hydrogen is nothing but celestial amniotic fluid
We, motionless
Smothered by God and Carbon and perfume and poison
In this ****** we named universe
On this fetus we named Earth
I am that I am that I am that I am
Truly with you until the end of the age
Until the afterbirth of star matter gets tossed out with the baby and the bathwater.
You have heard it said
A rose called by any other name wouldn’t smell as sweet
But truly I tell you
A rose is only as beautiful and fragrant as its thorns are sharp
And if you want to know what fills the space between protons and electrons
The gaps between breaths
The light-years between planets
Then listen to the sound of your own heart beating
Counting down the gestation period of our own reality
I am that I am that I am that I am
I’m more than a Rose.

Oct 2015 bouhaouel zeineb

From the Greek

Oct 2015 bouhaouel zeineb

Ariel Baptista

From the Greek

Diaspora
From the Greek

When I heard the word I felt it
And I looked it up
In my old red dictionary

I could have used the Internet,
I suppose

But I like to run my forefinger down pages
Of words

I read the definition
And I felt it
Oh

Oh
We are diaspora.

Am I using it correctly?

We are a diaspora.

Diaspora
From the Greek

From the green valley of Ottawa
From Scotland
From Ireland on wooden boats

From the French village thirteen children
From the mines in the North
From Poland and from Germany

From the churches and
From the Blueberry patches
From the Island Manitoulin

From the dark lake Kagawong
From Kinburn and Arnprior
From Markstay and from Sudbury

From Waterloo
From Kitchener, Michener
From the Suburbs

Oh

From the Suburbs
From the red bricks, red currants
And geraniums
From green island cabins

From the desert

Oh

From the desert
From the potholes and pipes
From the salty wind
Cracked Caspian Sea
From the middle of the east of nowhere.

From the mountains

Oh

From the mountains
From the crystal water fountains
From the tram bells
On the cobblestone streets
From the torrents of the Rhein

From the white cross

Oh

From the white cross
On the green hill
From the river Laurence
From the French and from the English
Plains of Abraham

We are diaspora
We are a diaspora

Diaspora
From the Greek

How did it end up here on my tongue?

It is diaspora.
It is a diaspora
Diaspora is a diaspora

And I wonder if it misses its other pieces
The way that I miss mine

Ours

There is no
Roping us back together now

There is no
Home to go back to

There is no
Point of meeting
Of reunion

No
White steeple in our old town

No
Yellow slide in our backyard

No
Old folks on an old farm

No
Walled house on a hill

No
Luzernerring 93

No
Familiar riverwater

There is no
Ancient Greek anymore
Diaspora

Only fragments of fragments
Of roots of stems of words
In different dialects

There is no
Place for you to belong,
Diaspora

You’ve been sliced to pieces
And scattered
Into the wind

But
When people ask you
Where you are from

You say simply
From the Greek

Oh

From the Greek

And
When people ask me
Where I am from

I say simply
From the diaspora.

Oct 2015 bouhaouel zeineb

nails

Oct 2015 bouhaouel zeineb

katie

nails

My nails are a mess,
but not a mess like a 2 week perfect manicure 'mess',
a mess like chipped old blue nail varnish
where I have picked away at it.
A mess like peeling skin
when anxiety from deep within
has resulted in me absentmindedly scratching
until I am awoken by crimson blood,
pooling on pale flesh.
I grab a cloth and sigh,
as I realise I will now have to hide
my hands from onlookers,
who will probably tut disprovingly
because I'm a girl you see,
and it's my duty to present myself beautifully.
To be perfect on the outside, but how can that be?
You see my hands bear the scars that are inside of me.
You can't just paint over scars and expect to be free.