"algerian" poems
There’s an Indian restaurant down the road,
And the owners have a beautiful daughter,
But she’s the apple of her daddy’s eye,
So I really don’t think I oughta.
There was a Chinese takeaway next door,
That did the best fried-rice,
But the authorities came and shut ‘em down,
For infestation of rats and lice.
There’s a newsagents further along,
But it doesn’t do much to dazzle,
Unless you want overpriced cigarettes,
And back issues of Razzle.
The Arab café across the road,
Does the best cappuccinos around,
The sound of Algerian pensioners laughing
Is such a beautiful sound.
There’s a Working Men’s around the corner,
Where the Guinness is dirt cheap,
And in it I’ve had drunken nights,
And memories I’d fight to keep.
There’s a chicken shop on the way back home,
Which I must say is pretty useful,
When I’m staggering home, ****** as a ****
The chicken burgers taste ******* beautiful.
There’s also a chippy down the way,
That does an excellent saveloy,
It got burnt down, and I can’t help but suspect,
It was a sneaky insurance ploy.
There’s an Irish pub next door to that,
Full of drunken, singing Micks,
The Dubliners on the jukebox,
It’s where I get my fix.
But I’m always drawn to the Indian restaurant,
Where the owners have a beautiful daughter,
She’s witty, glamourous, the same age as me,
And I really think that I oughta.
Sep 19, 2013
Sep 19, 2013 at 12:27 AM UTC
I am ashamed that I am Spanish because of Franco
I am ashamed that I am French because of Algeria
I am ashamed that I am Algerian because of France
I am ashamed that I am American because of Bush, Iraq
and the bloodshed once among brothers
I am ashamed that I am Russian because of Stalin, Gulag
and recently of this and that
I am ashamed that I am German because of ****** clearly
(Pol *** appears more and more seldom in the lists, but one is horrified, humanly ashamed, remembering)
I am ashamed that I am English because of football etc
I am ashamed that I am Polish — only when I am not proud
I am ashamed that I am Turkish, but then there are Kurds...
I am ashamed that I am Czech and allowed myself to be stifled
(I am just as ashamed myself — some say, who feel
shame in its extremity and hide weapons in pantries, waiting for that moment
in which they wash away their shame with the blood of traditional enemies)
I am ashamed that I am Orthodox or Catholic and I wedge and split
the mountain on which Jesus bled — before others made even smaller
pieces out of his Golgotha below
I am ashamed that I am Indian because... well, it’s no matter
I am ashamed that being Macedonian I let the Greeks be even more
I am ashamed that I am Korean and one of Kim Ir Sen’s
I am ashamed that I am Korean no matter where, as long as
Kim Ir Sen’s Koreans remain
I am ashamed that I am Serbian, but... let me think
I am ashamed that I am Chinese because: ‘You’re Chinese?’
I am ashamed that I am Romanian because of Ceausescu, Dracula of course
and now, God, all these Romanians all over the world...
I am ashamed of my nation even when I am not ashamed
— but each of us seeks to forget something
I am ashamed because .......... [Everyone: fill in the blanks, write yours here!]
but you, but you — you, only you
you, whose nation filled the desolate earth with life and kindness
you are the man who begins the new day
today
with your first step
Ioana Ieronim
Apr 25, 2015
Apr 25, 2015 at 5:22 PM UTC
A fortnight ago an Algerian masseuse anointed each note of my joints,
spread thumbed cursive over my shoulders and
back around to my chest;
she spelt out how I'd be shivering now knowing you were leaving.
And last week you led me to an acupuncturist where he said,
Rob Frost had quit his job on point duty to become a receptionist instead.
I knew it was ******** by the way you barked in the background.
I knew it was wrong from the rumble through the stud wall,
sound of timpani, of gusto's drawl ringing in my ears:
the resonance of windfall if saved 'in the best ISA for years!'
This has been the best February since records began
and I thank you for being a friend.
Mar 21, 2016
Mar 21, 2016 at 2:31 PM UTC
A working-class culture demands
a Male teacher and a Female learner.
The teacher's framework:
high, counter, shock
(cultural)
The learner's profile:
acceptance, patience, tolerance
(humane)
The medium:
Living in Britain (besides a whole setting of temptation)?
Visiting Britain (with a firm sensation).
The threat of change, mobility, then?
None (a Home).
You are rich (sarcastically)?
I am;
I am the most
average,
common,
person you may ever know in town
(a proud Algerian).
Nov 11, 2021
Nov 11, 2021 at 12:03 PM UTC
Oh, to be cradled in the arms of a stringed quartet, where ancient phantoms tickle forbidden structures and intertwine with my wandering spirit across baron regions of the netherworld.
As the fallacy of alleged progress warms the darkest graves with ambivalent laughter, I now ask for your permission to caress your slippery soul as it seeks to slide into cosmological inertia.
Articulation of the Algerian torso punctuates the pervasive sanctuary where seduction of the King resonates with my Arabic woodwind instruments.
Therefore, let us embrace under the canopy of Ashtoreth, as her velvet hours are forever shortening like the contemporary expressions of a wanton Eve.
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 1:26 AM UTC
Love is the Monday mornings when you don't want to get out of bed and go to school. Love is the Wednesday afternoon when you're stressed over an assignment and life in general. Love is 11:23 am when you're only just awake. Love is 9:58 pm when you hate yourself and wish you were dead. Love is the boy with the broken family but a bright smile. Love is the girl who gets a 93% average on all her exams. Love is when you're 13 and have a crush on the neighbour across the street. Love is when you're 78 and are still dazzled by your lover's smile. Love is when you're 16 and your body is just starting to develop. Love is when you're 78 and all your teeth have fallen out. Love is the Muslim boy who doesn't understand why he's feeling a certain way. Love is the female atheist who is just starting to believe. Love is the Iranian girl who sees herself growing old with the Caucasian from her school. Love is the Algerian boy who sees his future in the eyes of the Italian girl he met in a coffee shop. Love is strong. Love is powerful. Love is limitless.
Feb 26, 2017
Feb 26, 2017 at 1:32 AM UTC
It's only then when you're being swept along by the hands of the clock and the song brings you back to the moment you first heard her and you swear that you met her in an Algerian café, only then you remember it was back in Montmartre where she left you a small part of herself.
The mind plays its tricks but the memory of the meeting sticks and you can't shake the feeling that something is missing and you've been looking for answers in a thousand chorus dancers that took your fancy for an evening somewhere,
but it's her and always has been because she's starred in every dream you ever had.
Jul 1, 2017
Jul 1, 2017 at 3:21 PM UTC