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Lazhar Bouazzi Dec 2017
He dreamed of the silver rays of rain
Kissing the pallid thirst of the desert

He dreamed of a hectic, blue wind
Fluttering - with no sails on orange boats

He dreamed of the stars shining alone
Out of the somber dome of night

He dreamed of his imagination
Re-inventing a color to the sea

©LazharBouazzi (December 2, 2017)
Lazhar Bouazzi Mar 2017
Thank you for
Showing up
In my dream
Last night.

But, next time
Try not to wear
This garment white;

It made you look
So equivocal.

© LazharBouazzi
Lazhar Bouazzi Jun 2017
Thank you
For showing up
In my dream
Last night.

But
Try not to wear
This garment white
Next time.

It made you look
Equivocal.

© LazharBouazzi
Lazhar Bouazzi May 2016
A turquoise fly battered on a red laptop
on whose twenty-inch pane glowed a green apple.
A poet, some distance away from the backdrop,
with the fly and the apple sought to grapple:
What stories? What parables would a laptop
offer Hermes - about an oozy apple
and a fly who understood not that the fruit
on the red laptop is only the image of a copy?

(c) LazharBouazzi
Revision added on May 15, 2016
Lazhar Bouazzi Mar 2018
To the Goddess of morn
who made bread from fire
and taught me how to read
to read the wreaths of coffee
into the songs of dawn.

And to the Mason who
showed me how to hammer,
form out of chaos
and cherish the scent of
the cement on grey-green walls.

© LazharBouazzi
Lazhar Bouazzi Sep 2016
Swarming in the incense, this part  of “The City”
looked like a Turkish bath, and the books, old & cold,
shivered in trays as they awaited their faux leather,
While a wet winter wind whistled in the keyholes.

By the fallen, balmy cloud the fruits of cactus
lay in a red cart like porcupines colored, tired
of being on guard all the time. Their hues stirred
the hunger of the centenary walls, so their fissures
oozed and their latter-day hieroglyphs began
to crumble.
(c) LazharBouazzi
Lazhar Bouazzi Jul 2016
It rained last night while he slept
in the chair, waiting for her -
I mean for the rain to bedeck
the olive tree with her silver perls
and cause a stir
in his reason and imagination -
a spur.
But the rain came while he slept.

She came and came and came -
for nothing.

© LazharBouazzi, Carthage, May 17; revised on July 30, 2016
Lazhar Bouazzi Jun 2017
The moon,
A hollow
Saint Jacques
Shell
Whose kernel
Lovers
And language figures
Had wasted through the flow
Of time,
Came
To this eerie pond
A dry vagabond -
Now a dweller
Of the surface deep.
(C) LazharBouazzi
Lazhar Bouazzi May 2016
No brazen sign
On his smartphone,
No token of friendliness!
What portable solitude,
What mobile loneliness!

© LazharBouazzi, Carthage, May 20, 2016
Lazhar Bouazzi Feb 2017
"Has an Ur-
Tablet
Ever been
Whispered
To a poet -
(Un) like an ancient
Prophet?",

Sang a rubicund
Parrot
Hanging in an apple
Tree.

LazharBouazzi, February 25, 2017
Lazhar Bouazzi Jun 2017
A green pond
In an old park
Clasped his
Stagnant
Equilibrium
Like a mother.

LazharBouazzi
Lazhar Bouazzi Aug 2017
I
To the Prophet-ess
who turned fire
into bread,
And taught me
The wreaths of coffee
To read
Into the songs of dawn.
II
And the mason
Who showed me how
To hammer
Form out of chaos,
And love the scent
Of the cement
On new walls.

© LazharBouazzi, August 13, 2017
To my mother and father in memoriam.
My mother, Jannette, only went to a religious school, that's why she could still manage to teach me Arabic alphabet when I was only four. My dad, Al Houssein, was a small building contractor who built houses for only half of the money he deserved. I miss them so much. The following elegy, even if it is far from being what one might call a masterpiece, is not, to my mind, what one would readily call a technical loss (which means I didn't offer them anything I could lay my hands on).
Lazhar Bouazzi Jun 2016
What is a poet
Who leaves
A green poem
Unsigned
In red ink
unnoticed?

(c) LazharBouazzi, June 12, 2016
Lazhar Bouazzi Oct 2016
Full Moon speaks the last word tonight -
Casual-recherché and light.
In the absence of the sun she
Leafs through the pages of the night
And shoots a side-look at the pond -
Her desire stretches far beyond
His specular contour.

© LazharBouazzi,  November 28, 2016
Lazhar Bouazzi May 2017
The moon says the final word tonight -
Casual-recherché and light;
She, in the absence of the sun,
Leafs through the pages of the night
And shoots a side-look at the pond,
As her desire stretches far beyond
His specular contour.

© LazharBouazzi, Carthage, Tunisia
Lazhar Bouazzi May 2018
The moon says the final word tonight -
Casual-recherché and light.

She, in the absence of the sun,
Leafs through the pages of the night

And shoots a side-look at the pond,
As her desire stretches far
Beyond his specular contour.

(c) LazharBouazzi
Lazhar Bouazzi Dec 2017
Half-buried in the sand, lay some rocks in the sun ,
Whom nature had mocked in the shape of sea dogs;
Their wrinkled coats say they’d been too long in the sea.

Next to them, as sunrays kissed a dormant crab,
Traces of some bare feet started to crumble
Under the silent, liquid weight of a tide within.

Now let the amphibious Historians rejoice
In interpretation thereof a dark green hog
Comes forth from the mountain to the shore - to sun
Himself and send the frightened rocks back to the ocean.

(c) LazharBouazzi (December 7, 2017)
Lazhar Bouazzi Jun 2018
A mock pack of sea dogs
Lay on the hot, white shore;
Their wrinkles said
They'd been too long
In the sea.
Next to them dozed a tyrian crab
Whose sleep in a foot-trace deep
Commenced to crumble
In the green rumble
Of a lecherous tide.

Then a dark, awkward sound  
(Not too far from the drowsing crab)
Was heard.
He came forth from the mountain
To sun himself on the shore
And send the frightened rocks  
Back to the deep.

(c) LazharBouazzi, 11 June, 2018
Lazhar Bouazzi Aug 2016
A cabin that had once been white
Stood, peeled, on the shore of Carthage.
It looked like a drunken scarfaced knight -
Eyes shut to Dionysian carnage.
A pack of lost dogs roamed around it,
Their pangs of want they sought to manage.

The lone cabin stood on the wrinkled sand
Like a young tree on Shott el Jerid's* white pale
Whom the white monster forced to speak with the hand:
Basta, no stubborn resistance from me will avail.”

The fuming sun displayed his festival of fear
Over dogs who could handle their thirst no more;
While the salt has now made its white task clear:
Gnawing the sapling and gnawing evermore
Until the only mark on the Shott will disappear.

And the poet who has only half-chosen the vision
Half not knowing what to do, tried to listen
To the trickle of his obstinate, patient cheer
Oozing through the new orange laptop,
He had purchased from a Chinese peer.

(c) LazharBouazzi, August 10, 2016.
“*Shott el Jerid” is the largest salt lake in Tunisia and the Sahara desert, with a surface area of 7OOO km2. As far as the poem is concerned it would perhaps be helpful to say that the gigantic dry salt pan has the shape of a wolf.
Lazhar Bouazzi Jun 2017
A cabin that had once been white
Stood, peeled, on the shore of Carthage.
Looking like a tipsy scarfaced knight-
Eyes shut to Dionysian carnage.
A pack of lost dogs roamed around it,
Their pangs of want they sought to manage.

The lone cabin stood on the wrinkled sand,
Like a young tree on Shott el Jerid's* white pale
Whom the white monster forced to speak with the hand:
“Basta, no stubborn resistance from me will avail.”

The fuming sun displayed his festival of fear
Over dogs who could handle their thirst no more;
While the salt has now made its white task clear:
Gnawing the sapling and gnawing evermore
Till the sole mark on the Shott shall disappear.

Now the poet who has only half-chosen the vision
Half not knowing what to do, tried to listen
To the trickle of his one obstinate cheer
Oozing through the new orange laptop,
He had purchased from a japanese peer.

(c) LazharBouazzi
“*Shott el Jerid” is the largest salt lake in Tunisia and the Sahara desert, with a surface area of 7OOO km2. As far as the poem is concerned it would perhaps be helpful to say that the gigantic dry salt pan has the shape of a wolf.
Lazhar Bouazzi Nov 2017
A dark rim hugs an acre of
A zinc ocean - no fish, no birds,
Save a pure body, no soul,
No words, fluttering on a bro-
ken sea, and grimacing
From time to time, from
Wave to wave, in lieu
Of lifting an imploring hand.
©LazharBouazzi (2017)
Lazhar Bouazzi Mar 2017
Across the leaden sky
A gull shooting a cry,
Hastens to his final task
Before the sky puts on his mask.

No one knew what his final task was
Except that his time drew to a pause
And that he had to hasten because
From the open he had to retreat.

This the bird knew, but he was wayward;
He swam in the airy waves, beak forward,
Skating-flying, but always eastward,
Heedless of the dark - like a poet.

©LazharBouazzi, 2017
Lazhar Bouazzi Jan 2017
Across the oozy leaden sky
A seagull with a battle cry
Hurried to his ultimate task
Before the sky puts on his mask.

Nobody knew what his task was
Except that his time drew to a pause
And that he had to hurry because
From the open he had to retreat.

The bird knew that but he was wayward
Swimming in the airy wave beak forward
Skating flying but always eastward
Heedless of the dark like a poet.

LazharBouazzi, January 20, 2017
Lazhar Bouazzi Jul 2018
Across the leaden sky
A gull shooting a cry
Hurried to his task
Before the sky puts on his mask.

Nobody knew what his task was
Except that his time drew to a pause
And that he had to hurry because
From the open he had to retreat.

The bird knew this but he was wayward
Swimming in the airy wave, beak forward -
Skating, flying, but always eastward -
Heedless of the dark, like a poet.

(c) LazharBouazzi
Lazhar Bouazzi Mar 2019
Shooting a battle cry
Athwart the leaden sky,
A gull hurried to his task
Before the sky wears his mask.

Nobody knew what his task was
Except that his time drew to a pause
And that he had to hurry because
From the open he had to retreat.

The bird knew this but he was wayward
Swimming in the airy wave, beak forward,
Skating, flying, but always eastward,
Heedless of the dark, like a poet.

(c) LazharBouazzi
Lazhar Bouazzi Jun 2017
I
On the canvas of the Sky,
As high as can see the eye,
Two figures hung : a cowbell
And a sailing boat as well.
II
On the canvas of the Sky,
As far as would reach the eye,
Bell on bell, boat on boat, high
They linger for a moment
Then they all wave good-bye

Like a choir of echoes.

(C) LazharBouazzi, June 20, 2017
Lazhar Bouazzi Jun 2018
On the canvas of the Sky,
As high as can see the eye,
Two figures hung: a cowbell
And a sailing boat as well.

On the canvas of the Sky,
As far as would reach the eye,
Bell on bell, boat on boat, high
They linger for a moment,

Then they all wave good-bye,
Like a choir of echoes.

(C) LazharBouazzi
Lazhar Bouazzi Jul 2018
Azure was the sky, and leaden was the sea;
Not surprising would the discord be
For him who has read Wordsworth.

What ailed his thoughts were the debris
Of broken glass fishermen-in-boats
Might have thrown into the ocean
On a night of 'Celtia'* with no pairing,

Or the sight of a woman’s dress
Whose swollen darkness was
A sea urchin, whose quills
Were plucked by the greenness of rust;

Or a German parachute
Over Kasserine pass**, my thyme nest
And the center of Tunisia.

©LazharBouazzi, July 15, 2018
*'Celtia' is the oldest and most popular tunisian beer
**The Battle of Kasserine Pass was a battle of the Tunisia Campaign of World War II that took place in February 1943. Kasserine Pass is a 2-mile-wide (3.2 km) gap in the Grand Dorsal chain of the Atlas Mountains in west central Tunisia. The Axis forces, led by Generalfeldmarschall Erwin Rommel, were primarily from the Afrika Korps Assault Group, elements of the Italian Centauro Armoured Division and two Panzer divisions detached from the 5th Panzer Army, while the Allied forces consisted of the U.S. II Corps (Major General Lloyd Fredendall),[5] the British 6th Armoured Division (Major-General Charles Keightley) and other parts of the First Army (Lieutenant-General Kenneth Anderson).
The battle was the first major engagement between American and Axis forces in World War II in Africa. Inexperienced and poorly led American troops suffered many casualties and were quickly pushed back over 50 miles (80 km) from their positions west of Faïd Pass.[5] After the early defeat, elements of the U.S. II Corps, with British reinforcements, rallied and held the exits through mountain passes in western Tunisia, defeating the Axis offensive. As a result of the battle, the U.S. Army instituted sweeping changes of unit organization and replaced commanders[5] and some types of equipment.” (Wikipedia)
Ironically (or, correspondingly), West central Tunisia (notably Kasserine mountains) are now being used by what is left of Islamist terrorists, whose colors are green and black, as their headquarters in their battle against democracy. (my note)
Lazhar Bouazzi Mar 2018
The good thing about a tortoise
is that he carries time on his
shoulder
and does not have to run
to cry.

He is like a river
flowing backward,
climbing the rocks on which her mother
had bitten
to un-feel the pain of origination
(so as to cast a glimpse on her nest
in the mountain).

He is a figure, a language, a sun
whose force is sustained by his own spirit -
unrelated: unlike a star,
a night, a candlelight.

He is his own version
of the light and the rite
and the fight sisyphean.

© LazharBouazzi
Lazhar Bouazzi Jul 2016
The good thing about a tortoise
Is that he carries time on his
shoulder
and does not have to run
to cry.
He is like a river
flowing backward,
climbing  the rocks on which her mother
had bitten
to un-feel the pain of origination,
so as to cast a glimpse on her nest
in the mountain.
He is a figure, a language, a sun
whose force is sustained by his own spirit -
unrelated, unlike a star,
a candle, a night.
He is his
own version
of the light,
and the rite,
and the fight
Sisyphean.

© Lazhar Bouazzi, Carthage, TUN, July 18, 2016. Revision made on July 25, 2016.
Lazhar Bouazzi Jun 2017
The good thing about a tortoise
Is that he carries time on his
shoulders
and does not have to hide
to cry.
He is like a river
flowing backward,
climbing  the rocks on which her mother
had bitten
to un-feel the pain of origination,
and cast a novel glimpse on her nest
in the mountain.
He is a figure, a language, a sun
whose force is sustained by his own spirit -
unrelated - unlike a star,
a candle, a night.
He is his
own version
of the light,
of the rite,
and the fight
Sisyphean.

© LazharBouazzi
Lazhar Bouazzi Jul 2016
I' ve cut my way through life on camelback,
Halting only punctually by the track;

Yes, “punctually” indeed, to sleep and feed
On what was placed with care on my steed:

Sun-dried Thoughts & Language for me; the fruit,
For those I met on the opposite route.

© Lazhar Bouazzi, Carthage, TUN, July 1, 2016
* "sta, viator, heroem calcas: Stop, traveler, thou treadest on a hero's dust." (Epitaph inscribed by Conde over the grave of his great opponent, Merci.)
Lazhar Bouazzi Nov 2016
I took a walk in La Goulette yesterday
From the “Bridge-of-the-Casino” to the port.
The things I saw on my sun-bathing way
So simple they were, here is a report:
II
Sea snakes under a blue bridge did frolic
As hardware stores displayed paint in their windows.
The water snakes performed some dance symbolic
And the paint braved the dark rust from a distance.
III
And I, hastening to my liquid address,
Shot a side look at a man in a dress,
And hoped the blue water in the White Sea*
Would wash the wound bleeding in my memory.

© LazharBouazzi, 16/11/16 (revised Nov. 17)
*The Mediterranean is called in Arabic The White Middle Sea.
Lazhar Bouazzi Jul 2017
I
I took a walk in La Goulette yesterday,
From the “Bridge of the Casino” to the port.
The things I beheld on my shiny way
So simple they were, here is a report:
II
Sea snakes under a blue bridge did frolic
As hardware stores displayed paint in their windows.
The water snakes performed some dance symbolic
And the paint braved the dark rust from a distance.
III
At a green grocer’s cart a lady in jeans
Sought peas, artichokes, & broccoflower;
Two lovers, each tried to explain,
As a cat miaoed, what love was to the other.
VI
And I, hastening to my liquid address,
Shooting a side look at a man in a dress,
Was hoping the glazing port in the White Sea*
Would wash the bleeding wound in my memory.

© LazharBouazzi, Nov.16, 2016, revised Nov. 17, 2016, elongated July 8, 2017
* The Arabic name for the Mediterranean is the "White Middle Sea."
Lazhar Bouazzi Apr 2016
The first thing I saw early this morning
When I pulled back the light green curtains
Was a hectic blue 'n orange butterfly
Waving in the fair sun of my garden -
Between the enclosed well and the laurel tree.

On the red radiant sidewalk,
Two damsels strutted together;
A turquoise skirt wore the one,
A chocolate T-shirt the other.

Jubilant they were together,
As the cadence of their laughter
Waved in the air like Tunisian silk.

No harvest did my screen display today,
No mountain range did loom far in the distance;
All that was shown were a laughing sidewalk,
And a quivering sun in a small garden.

(c) LazharBouazzi, April 21, 2016
Lazhar Bouazzi Jul 2018
The first thing I saw early this morning
When I pulled back the light green curtains
Was a hectic blue 'n orange butterfly
Wavering in the fair sun of my garden -
'tween the enclosed well and the laurel tree.

On a sidewalk, red and radiant,
Strutted two maidens together,
A turquoise skirt wore the one,
A chocolate T-shirt the other.

Jubilant they were together,
As the cadence of their laughter
Waved in the air like Tunisian silk.

No harvest did my screen display today,
No mountain range did loom far in the distance;
All that was shown were a laughing sidewalk,
And a quivering sun in a small garden.

(c) LazharBouazzi
Lazhar Bouazzi Sep 2016
The citrus trees grow grey with fear
As the fierce wind they could overhear
Reminds them of a fact so clear:
That the badlands are not where they belong.
© LazharBouazzi, September 23, 2016
Lazhar Bouazzi Jul 2017
I
On the canvas of the sky
Tow figures had been executed:
A rugged boat coming to a halt,
By several dunes of salt
(A verse looming
In the folds of haste
And the sameness of waste).
II
Like the seeds of pine
Tearing a tree line,
Dried, black grains of rain
Riddled our “Peugeot"
Sailing like a flow
Of camels - on the asphalt.
III
In “Peugeots" and grace an expert,
Not in camels & the desert
Where the night no dune can avert,
For it falls at once like a curtain.
© LazharBouazzi, Carthage, TUNISIA, July 30, 2017
Lazhar Bouazzi Jan 2017
Old eyeglasses on wetland.
Deep footmarks in cold sand.
Green tide takes all.
LazharBouazzi, January 11, 2017
Lazhar Bouazzi Jul 2018
Eyeglasses old on wetland,
Footmarks deep in fissured sand,
Tidegreen takes all.
(c) LazharBouazzi
Lazhar Bouazzi Aug 2016
An oblique path cutting in two a blue hill,  
bathed in a cobalt ocean of morning glories.
On the blue hill there were also a red mill,
Crickets, ants, bees, and many-hued damselflies.

A haven was the fresh upside-down coquille
For long stories untold and movements still
Of difference and dragonflies of fluttering
Over a bluesky ground of mute uttering.

On a dry log pitched not too far from the mill,
Rose an artless sign in the hushed sound of the hill;
Each of whose letters was written in blueberry -
Surely placed there by a traveler in a hurry:
“No matter how often a road is traveled by,
It never tells twice the selfsame story.”

(c) LazharBouazzi, Carthage, TUN, August 23, 2016
Lazhar Bouazzi Jun 2018
An oblique path cutting in two a blue hill,  
bathed in a cobalt ocean of morning glories.
On the blue hill there were also a red mill,
Crickets, ants, bees, and many-hued damselflies.

A haven was the fresh upside-down coquille
For long stories untold and movements still
Of difference and dragonflies, of fluttering
Over a bluesky ground of mute uttering.

On a dry log pitched not too far from the mill,
Rose an artless sign in the hushed sound of the hill;
Each of whose letters was written in blueberry -
Surely placed there by a traveler in a hurry:
“No matter how often a road is traveled by,
It never tells twice the selfsame story.”

(c) LazharBouazzi
Lazhar Bouazzi Jul 2017
A new Tunisian poetic genre is born.
What is a "Kasserine"?
Structure:
A Kasserine is a new poetic genre created on July 9, 2017. In it all is condensed in two lines with a sum total of thirteen or fourteen syllables. Its first line cannot exceed seven of them.
The title of a Kasserine must be an integral part of the poem in terms of interpretation. The number of its syllables must not exceed seven.
Subject matter:
In a Kasserine nature and imagination perform the same poetic activity. Nature ceases to be a mere mirror reflecting the feelings of the poet, the political or social situation, etc., and becomes symbolic in the very moment it renounces representation as a one-to-one correspondence . Nature in a Kasserine has no existence prior to the pricking into action of the imagination by the self of the poet. For, even though it is groundless (it does not belong to the self), the imagination has no intentionality of its own; this is why it needs the intentionality of the subject in order to be operative.
Samples of a Kasserine

Ruby Sun
Among amethyst silk clouds
She flirts with the sapphire sea
(c) Paula Swenson, USA

Tunisia
A fair island of light
in my imagination
(c) Jeffard Ster, USA

Red Giant
A star inside her implodes
Heavens of chaos unfold
(c) Stefan David Sederscog, Sweden

Voyeurism
The sea kisses the sky
Imagination beholds.
© LazharBouazzi, Tunisia



Note: Friends and acquaintances are cordially invited to start writing sublime (marked by repression of meaning) Kasserines.
(c)Lazhar Bouazzi, 9 July, 2017.
Lazhar Bouazzi Apr 2018
As I look back into my life
I think to myself:

"I sped when I was a boy. I sped
To out-distance time."

But now when I look at the dark-green rocks
In my neighborhood, by the trembling docks,

I say to the rocks: "I go, you stay.
You stay for the winds to breathe upon thee."

(c) LazharBouazzi
Lazhar Bouazzi Nov 2017
As I look back into my life
I think to myself:
"I sped when I was a boy. I sped
To out-distance time."

And when I look at the dark-green rocks
In my neighborhood, by the azure docks,
I say to the rocks :
"I go. You stay. You stay for the winds
To breathe upon thee."
(c) LazharBouazzi, November 10th, 2017
Lazhar Bouazzi Jan 2017
An ashy weeping willow,  
Lay in my wobbling garden.
Like a cosmic silver pigeon.

Up: the still, leaden flow
Sailed - a cold, prowling woe,
Charging to pounce on Carthage.

In: the wreaths of smoke letters
Gather as leaden fetters,
Then dart like Irish setters,
Released after a game.

LazharBouazzi, January 6, 2017
Lazhar Bouazzi Jun 2018
"My words
For a rain !"
Cried the poet.

But remiss
Was the rain,

For she dreaded
A kiss

From Judas -
With the tongue.

© LazharBouazzi, 19 June, 2018
Lazhar Bouazzi Jul 2018
Writing is
the frozen music
of an ellipsis -
a silent song
of a lonesome poet
who sings in the dark
between howling winds
crossing swords
in the white shades
of unseen things -

a winter on the pole
on whose  obverse side
there's Rio,
and mirth,
and dancing,
and the sun's critique
of hegemony.

© LazharBouazzi
Lazhar Bouazzi Aug 2016
Writing is
the frozen music
of an ellipsis,
the silent song
of a lonesome poet
who sings in the dark
among howling winds
crossing swords
in the white shades
of unseen things -
a winter on the Pole
on whose  obverse side
there's Rio,
and the Sun,
and the Samba
and the revenge
of the color.


© Lazhar Bouazzi, May 31, 2016; revised, August 5, 2016
My contribution to the Olympics in Rio.
Lazhar Bouazzi May 2016
Writing is
the frozen music
of an ellipsis,
the silent song
of a lonesome poet
who sings in the dark
among howling winds
crossing swords
in the white shades
of unseen things -
a winter on the Pole
on whose  obverse side
there's Rio,
and dancing
and mirth
and the sun's critique
of hegemony.

© Lazhar Bouazzi, May 31, 2016

— The End —