"berber" poems
Harsh unyielding sunset, buries me against the page.
I won't be lazing on a couch, left to rot and waste away.
Wormy plush Berber carpet soft against the afternoon.
Debts are pile high and the company picnic is this June.
The pages are vellum paper covered in ancient Egyptian script.
I've loved you methodically ever since we met inside that crypt.
The dregs brings me solemn hope that one day we'll breakthrough.
Works calling in on Sunday for some overtime that's overdue.
Its a 5 past 4 the glass lays arrhythmic, shattered at my feet.
We found each other down beside the casket of the diseased.
Heartfelt words never came out of a mouth that were so pure.
How could you take me for interesting, in life I'm just a bore.
Down. I've already ruined the letter meant from me to you.
Life is not a fairy tale to broker marriage for us two.
Bloodletting's an aphrodisiac to keep me at the brink.
Why'd I write this silly thing when I spilled my drink.
Nov 23, 2016
Nov 23, 2016 at 2:55 AM UTC
I
He was intoxicated
by the scent of coffee
dancing in the morning
to his mother’s humming.
II
Then a blacksmith - his father -
taught him how to hammer
form out of chaos
in the muddle of force
and a sweaty anvil.
III
Now if he wished to see
the sunness of the sun
and the greenness of the tree
he would summon the image
of Fatma - an Arab maiden
who was once Berber,
to come write on his face
with her soothing finger:
“Salam, my anguished lover.”
IV
When green-eyed Fatma comes
the wreaths of coffee
Would come with her,
writing in the air;
and all the songs of history
would come marching too,
in battle array,
like an army dressed
in civilian clothing
for a dance in Rio.
V
Fatma’s hair –
a still cascade
of light goldness,
a tide of watery fire,
a flight motionless
of a millon birds who
sing in tongues
and laugh
to the stone unlettered
of his fidgety cenotaph.
© LazharBouazzi, Carthage, TUN
Mar 7, 2017
Mar 7, 2017 at 3:54 PM UTC
I
He was intoxicated
by the scent of the coffee
dancing in the morning
to his mother’s humming.
II
Then a blacksmith - his father -
taught him how to hammer
form out of chaos
in the muddle of force
and a sweaty anvil.
III
Now if he wished to see
the sunness of Sun
and the greenness of Tree
he would summon the specter
of an Arab maiden - Fatma -
who was once Berber
to come write on his face
with her soothing finger:
“Salam, my anguished lover.”
IV
When green-eyed Fatma comes
the wreaths of coffee
Would come with her
writing in the air;
and all the songs of history
would come marching too,
in battle array,
like an army dressed
in civilian clothes
for a dance in Rio.
V
Fatma’s hair –
a still cascade
of thin goldeness,
a tide of watery fire,
a flight motionless
of a million birds who
speak in tongues
and laugh
to the stone unlettered
of his fidgety cenotaph .
© LazharBouazzi, Carthage, TUN, August 27, 2016
Aug 26, 2016
Aug 26, 2016 at 6:04 PM UTC
I wait for the crashing fight.
for the tire screech,
the door slam-
for the lava words
that roll magnificent red from my tongue
and slowly drip ashen black onto the wooden floor between us.
I wait for the broken flute,
tiny bubbles, tiny dreams-
all absorbed by Berber Carpet
and mailbox stuffed
with molehills of mountains.
I wait for the heaving pressures
that blow things upwards,
that blow things inwards.
That makes canyons
and mushrooms
I wait for the fury that turns my eyes
cast with doubt, cast with coal dust.
my lungs puffed with indignation-
so little room to breathe
that I am high from venom.
I wait for the disgust to
wrap around me like a Sunday School wrap-skirt
colorful and gay,
and dropped to the floor without
consideration.
I wait for the hate to be early.
with hope already so foolishly spent on each other,
with faith so carelessly blown away
riding in invisible
paper airplanes-
such are the kisses sent across busy roads.
Waste, waste all these desires of the mundane
when lust drives
outside forces divide,
heat and sinner unite us
and I wait,
I do.
I wait for it to pass.
So as to get to the stuff a day beyond the splintered wood
past the love,
past the lush.
past the lace on my forehead.
I wait for it all to past so as to get myself wholly to you.
For it is not the very last of days
I wait to spend with you,
It is the very all of days I wait to spend with you.
Sahn 3/16/15
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 12:02 AM UTC
The Mediterranean Sea
caught the moonlight
as you wandered the beach
with Mame
she grabbed your hand
and kissed your cheek
isn’t it out of this world?
she said stopping
and looking into your eyes
and breathing out
her peppermint breath
you smelt the sea salt
felt the slight breeze
coming across the sea
wouldn’t you rather be
with one of the other guys
than be here with me?
you said
gazing at her fuzzy hair
her light blue eyes
oh **** the other guys
it’s you I like
she said
brushing a hand
through your hair
pulling you in closer
to her small tight *******
don’t you like me?
she asked
I thought you fancied me
the way you kept staring at me
on the coach and in Tangiers
you heard the Berber drums
and voices from the camp base
coming on the wind
and wondered if the others
would guess she’d taken you
down the beach
for something romantic
or tumble in the sands
with all lips and hands
well?
she asked
standing there
in her flowered
two piece bathing cloth
sure I do
you muttered
sensing her hand
reaching down
your jeans
seeking an ********
a sign of interest
do you ever think
of those ancients
who may once
have stood
where we now stand?
you said
how they too
may have stood
beneath a sky
and stars
and moon like us?
she stood back and stared
and uttered coldly
no I haven’t
and couldn’t give a cuss
and off she went
up the beach
to the base camp
on smooth sands
and rough tufts of grass
and oh how she knew
to wiggle
her small tight ***
Feb 28, 2012
Feb 28, 2012 at 4:00 AM UTC
Welcom my new year (2965-2015) by boubkar chelh
Welcome my new year
This is your celebration
The remembrance of your triumph
Let’s enjoy this moment together
To burn candles
To sing
To discuss the victory of chichonk
It’s time to say goodbye to 2964
Full of misery and scars
Welcome my new year
To live this occasion alone
I sent invitations to my neighbors, but they didn’t join the party
They told me, you are only a bony body drifted by the waves of history
No one cares of your story
Welcome my new year
Come to revive our past memories
Which lost in centuries of wars
Intolerance
In my country
Where the injustice spread
Where my forefathers killed under the hourses’shoes
The wheel of time registered all my sacrifices
I am official along time ago. Still creeping on my wounded knees
Toward schools and administrations,
I realized that they aren’t satisfied to use my name
Welcome my new year
To be witness, to have knowledge of my status
I am a ball of hatred inside the souls of my neighbors
I can smell it from their breath
I can see it in the white teeth of laughing hyenas
I become only an ornate writings on posters
My issue is waiting for my democratic turn
Because the world is busy with other issues
Welcome my new year
This is our chance
Hand in hand for change
And demand this new world to give support
Aug 31, 2015
Aug 31, 2015 at 8:42 PM UTC
I came across an old house,
In the tumult of the Marrakesh Medina,
Cluttered with a frenzied pace
And mutterings of Berber foreign to the Western ear.
Yet, this old house, which was anything but a
grain in the midst of the chilly hustle,
Possessed my curiosity as only mud was the floor,
Drifting to decay
As the wind howled through its door.
There, an impoverished family dwelt,
In a space so dismal and rude,
And though gnawing sadness they felt
They had not a morsel of food.
The children, dressed in tatters and rags,
Cried to their poor mother for bread
Of which she held none.
Cupping their faces with looks of despair,
She said "Do not cry, or my soul will not spare"
Well then, let the wealthy and merry
See such a scene!
That in an old house in the depths of a medina,
They may know miseries are declared.
Jan 7, 2019
Jan 7, 2019 at 9:36 AM UTC
It’s dry and still in the house this afternoon,
The way houses are at 4:00 in December.
I feel a little itchy and claustrophobic,
Sitting on the floor.
I hate this ******* carpet.
Berber.
I know you love me,
But sometimes I wish you would let me destroy myself completely.
Darkening winter gray settles over us in a dull film,
Berber carpeting the world.
It seeps into the house through cracks in the doorframe you kicked down when we were locked out that night.
Into me too, coating my brain and joints and dreams in liquid fog.
The streetlights will be dark awhile yet.
Cotton ***** fill up my mouth
And I’m fine, just fine.
My grandmother’s favorite color was gray before people awarded points for such things.
It’s nearly night, now, and the sky swirls with peek a boo pink and blue where the clouds are thin and blowing.
No streetlights yet.
The shadows gather at their feet.
I pull out the spaghetti;
Time to start dinner.
Dec 18, 2024
Dec 18, 2024 at 4:45 PM UTC
Probably it doesn't make sense
But I still pray
At times
Even when I can't believe in God
I like Albert Camus
My favorite French atheist
Unde Malum?
North Africa. Berber Mother.
Me at JMU
Lonely as the rain
Her boyfriends studlier than I
Might place Life of Pi
The Shinkansen is impressive
Chesterton aggressive
I tend toward confessive
Like Augustine. But still shy.
Thank you, Ry.
Jun 9, 2023
Jun 9, 2023 at 4:42 PM UTC
Sprawling hills interspersed with trees
Ah it felt like home
Like driving down a barren road
Cities aren't for me
Don't get me wrong
I like the hustle and faces I see
But I'll take the quiet land
No matter the nation it is,
I call the country home
From the cliffs of Gibralter
To the ruins of Gobekli Tepe,
And back round to the massive Red Wood trees,
I'll roam
Down to the burning sands of Berber lands,
I'll stay in the country
Leave the cities to the people
And listen to the trees.
May 22, 2020
May 22, 2020 at 12:24 PM UTC
On Spring street where one
sees the dunes
from the kitchen windows
her first place in a long time
small, old, life stories
with new bathroom fittings
took time to prettify
yellow wardrobe, blue settee
and she remembers sitting
on the Berber rug looking
around, thinking
renting out is nice.
Aug 23, 2019
Aug 23, 2019 at 11:46 AM UTC