"bluegreen" poems
As the shape all sun
tore up the curtain
of blood and ululation,
everything in Tunisia,
as stricken by a wand,
came to a standstill,
and slipped away
from the senses -
Even rivers stopped.
Medjerda* froze
halfway
through the descent
to his destination,
as he realized
he’d been making a fatal error:
pouring forth all his passion
into the ocean.
So he stopped,
retracted his course,
re-collected himself,
and started flowing backward,
toward
the source
in the Atlas
that had bidden him
farewell.
In his spear head
there was a design:
start a new chaos
in the valley,
in which there would be
a sweet-water lake
and sailors drunk
with sunbeams, sweat
and pleasure.
Butterflies would flutter
around the scent of mint
and bluegreen rosemary.
Sweet Moon to Sweet Lake
would come, unannounced,
In the rays of the nightlight
of the fluttering night
to watch her self
shoot
the scene
of representation.
The river, now swimming
in his own water,
carried the sky on his shoulder,
while an ant and a grasshopper,
holding a basket together,
watched the new scene.
As the figure all sun appeared ,
reason melted;
imagination
her hazel eyes opened.
*Medjerda is the most important river in Tunisia. Length, 460 km; basin area, 22,000 sq km. It flows out of the Atlas mountains into the Gulf of Tunis.
© LazharBouazzi, June 16, 2016
Jun 16, 2016
Jun 16, 2016 at 1:35 PM UTC
As the shape-all-sun
tore up the curtain
of blood and ululation,
everything in Tunisia,
as stricken by a wand,
came to a standstill,
and slipped away
from the senses -
Even rivers stopped.
Medjerda* froze
halfway
through his descent
to his destination,
as he realized
he’d been making a fatal error:
pouring forth all his passion
into the ocean.
So he stopped,
retracted his course,
re-collected himself,
and started flowing backward,
toward
the source
in the Atlas
that had bidden him
farewell.
In his spear head
there was a design:
start a new chaos
in the valley,
in which there would be
a sweet-water lake
and sailors drunk
with sunbeams, sweat
and pleasure.
Butterflies would flutter
around the scent of mint
and bluegreen rosemary.
Through the flutter
of the midnight hour
Sweet Moon to Sweet Lake
would come, unannounced,
to watch her self shooting
the act of representation.
Now swimming
in his own water,
th river
carried the sky on his shoulder,
while an ant and a grasshopper,
holding a basket together,
watched the new scene.
As the figure-all-sun appeared ,
reason melted;
imagination
her hazel eyes opened.
© LazharBouazzi
*Medjerda is the most important river in Tunisia. Length, 460 km; basin area, 22,000 sq km. It flows out of the Atlas mountains into the Gulf of Tunis.
Feb 16, 2017
Feb 16, 2017 at 1:19 PM UTC
Nobody in the lane, and nothing, nothing but blackberries,
Blackberries on either side, though on the right mainly,
A blackberry alley, going down in hooks, and a sea
Somewhere at the end of it, heaving. Blackberries
Big as the ball of my thumb, and dumb as eyes
Ebon in the hedges, fat
With blue-red juices. These they squander on my fingers.
I had not asked for such a blood sisterhood; they must love me.
They accommodate themselves to my milkbottle, flattening their sides.
Overhead go the choughs in black, cacophonous flocks --
Bits of burnt paper wheeling in a blown sky.
Theirs is the only voice, protesting, protesting.
I do not think the sea will appear at all.
The high, green meadows are glowing, as if lit from within.
I come to one bush of berries so ripe it is a bush of flies,
Hanging their bluegreen bellies and their wing panes in a Chinese screen.
The honey-feast of the berries has stunned them; they believe in heaven.
One more hook, and the berries and bushes end.
The only thing to come now is the sea.
From between two hills a sudden wind funnels at me,
Slapping its phantom laundry in my face.
These hills are too green and sweet to have tasted salt.
I follow the sheep path between them. A last hook brings me
To the hills' northern face, and the face is orange rock
That looks out on nothing, nothing but a great space
Of white and pewter lights, and a din like silversmiths
Beating and beating at an intractable metal.
5.4k
I
I stole my brother’s car and drove to Phoenix in the dark.
The blue-green glow of dashboard gauges, the biting scent
of roadkill and desert marigolds. Tap. Tap. Tap.
Insects slapping the windshield, incipient rain.
Keep driving. Drive until the sun blooms.
II
Some days were more dire than others. CCTV footage confirms
I pawned a shotgun, a Gibson guitar, and my wife’s engagement
ring at the pawnshop next to Fatty’s Tattoo parlor on MLK Boulevard.
The typographically accurate Declaration of Independence
inscribed on my back also confirms this.
III
I ran the tilt-a-whirl at the Ashtabula county fair,
fattening up on fried Oreos and elephant ears,
twisting behind tent ***** with a one-armed
contortionist with strawberry-blonde hair.
IV
I derailed in a dive bar.
V
I disappeared in a city lit by lavender streetlights,
where buildings blotted out the stars and the traffic
signals kept perfect time. I picked through trash bins.
I paid for love with drugstore wine.
VI
I closed my eyes on a mountain road.
The sheriff extracted me from a ****** snowbank.
VII
I holed up for weeks in an oceanfront motel, dazed
by the roar of the breakers. Each morning I drew
back the curtains and lost myself
in the crisscrossing patterns of whitecaps,
the synchronous flight of sanderlings above the dunes.
I dreamed of dead horseshoe ***** rolling in with the tide.
VIII
The moon over my shoulder
tightened into focus like a spotlight.
One night the barking dogs undid me.
I caved in to the candor of a naked mattress.
I grew my beard, an insomniac in a jail cell,
clinging to bars the color of a morning dove.
IX
I coveted the house keys of strangers.
X
I opened and closed many doors.
I sang into the mouths of storm drains.
I stepped out of many rooms only
to find myself in the room I just left.
Despite all my leaving, I remained.
Sep 21, 2018
Sep 21, 2018 at 1:45 PM UTC
I do not turn to poetry
to rescue me from memory;
on the contrary,
I conjure the red humming bee
on the bluegreen rosemary tree,
I teased when I was a carefree
boy, in the backyard,
only to roll with the punches -
aye, with the punches - of synecdoche.
© LazharBouazzi, May 2016
May 22, 2016
May 22, 2016 at 2:19 PM UTC
A reminder of the shorter days
the orange globe sinks into haze
no longer casting warming rays
but shadows into night
the coolness of softest sand
beneath my back and in my hand
from where I lay there
breathing
taking in this awesome sight~
fighting sleep and fascinated
I face the setting sun
and every stroke of the painter's brush
lingers
before it's done.
firey red excites the soul
and set the mood in motion
orange and pink elicit sighs
like a full moon upon the ocean
streaks of purple are always fun
and bring on the bluegreen hues
a symphony for the setting sun
but gimmee the midnight blues
I want to gaze into the glory
tell me another story
oh bring on the colors
don't let me sleep too long~
I want to sing of your greatness
inspite of all my lateness
and whatever else my troubles
you see in me no wrong~
oh Lord, You are amazing
all creation should be praising,
I'll wait for you forever
or 'til the sun sets on my song.
daylight has passed quickly
that sunset was the best
in the darkness now, we hear the waves
which won't disrurb our rest
Sep 2, 2013
Sep 2, 2013 at 11:12 PM UTC
Her heart, beguilingly florescent, spoke to mine,in signs invisible
when the night wore her darkest cloak,making me lose my way
when I didn't know which way to turn and stood perplexed
her love spreads magic, emits colors, eloquent and sincere
pleasing not only to my eyes but heart too in tune with my beats.
Some times we were birds,wings lift us involuntarily above winds
we would climb up through dark dark clouds, that wore thunder bolts
her love takes me by hand , navigates, her fluorescence was in full play,
love makes us favorites of winds,raging waves, sprays and water.
Under water love showed us magical colors,melting drops of bluegreen
tinged light, spoke tales of love to our entropic hearts, that listened,
across the seas we swam propelling mind through incredible depths,
underwater castles waited for us , but in each other we were lost.
Jul 8, 2015
Jul 8, 2015 at 3:34 PM UTC
Does the kept dog howl at the moon,
or does the stray?
I am astray from you,
and my moon is bluegreen and shines like forgiveness when you smile.
The vagrant hound remembers when he was a wolf;
I remember when I wasn’t.
Like him, I eat and sleep and ****
beneath even my own notice. Like him,
I remember every night of comfort and
every kick, and am confused when I find both in the same doorway.
I wasn’t a cur until you called me one – does that count?
When the rains come, I think of your
soft golden warmth, these mongrel legs start to pull me back – don’t
let me in unless you mean to keep me – and my howl is
sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry and I
don’t know which of us I hate.
Jul 7, 2016
Jul 7, 2016 at 7:39 PM UTC
i am nothing but
meat, pinkslick pockets of what
the stars have wasted
nestled rosytight
galaxies swimming in my
bluegreen dust channels
let the rest of me
rot, fraying bits slowly peel
back to show the bone
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 2:54 PM UTC
quiet little library
memories in my mind
Coastal California
San Francisco signs
i like misty mountains
oceans gone bluegreen
David Markson books
she and i between
i might sleep till 2
don't know what I'll find
for my future friends
water worlds unwind
Johnny 99!
Jul 26, 2023
Jul 26, 2023 at 12:47 PM UTC
there is poetry inside of your skin. find the madness that forms words and cling to it.
find the girls with soft skin, all pink and wet and meatslick on the inside. open them up again and again and again, between her thighs and a thousand smiles to god.
find that fuckery inside you which gives off the airs of someone holier than thou and strangle it. give up on affectations and disregard your own thoughts of superiority.
watch the shadows in your veins, watch them bleed darker and darker between the crooks and corners of your hand and follow them into the depths of your elbows, into the folds we cannot reach or see. do not be afraid of these dark creatures that are swimming in your bluegreen dusk channels. they buzz under your skin and you must cut them free.
do not be afraid, for you are nothing but this body.
May 5, 2015
May 5, 2015 at 2:50 PM UTC
Bluegreen complexion taught ‘round listless soul.
I guess you weren’t there to catch me.
Gray is the sky of my mind, blue out my sill.
Let’s sit down and tell each other the stories,
Omit the part with tears,
Note the laughs and kisses,
Grapple with the time frame.
Nodding off inside boxes of strange gazes
Only for ever, even off the train.
Where to place my eyes today?
Jul 3, 2013
Jul 3, 2013 at 12:07 AM UTC
windows to the soul indeed
in my mother's golden brown
and my beloved's oceanic bluegreen
i see ghosts that will never find peace.
in others,
changing hazel and sky blue,
i see sparkling rays of sunlight;
no shadows, no ghosts.
i can't bear to look.
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 8:08 PM UTC
by margaret atwood
I would like to watch you sleeping,
which may not happen
I would like to watch you
sleeping. I would like to sleep
with you, to enter
your sleep as its smooth dark wave
slides over my head
and walk with you through that lucent
wavering forest of bluegreen leaves
with its watery sun & three moons
towards the cave where you must descend,
towards your worst fear
I would like to give you the silver
branch, the small white flower, the one
word that will protect you
from the grief at the center
of your dream, from the grief
at the center. I would like to follow
you up the long stairway
again & become
the boat that would row you back
carefully, a flame
in two cupped hands
to where your body lies
beside me, and you enter
it as easily as breathing in
I would like to be the air
that inhabits you for a moment
only. I would like to be that unnoticed
& that necessary.
Feb 18, 2014
Feb 18, 2014 at 8:33 AM UTC
Sometimes it is not easy to give
up. You want to know what or
who to belong to. Darkness envelops
hidden parts to this patholigica.
If I cannot see myself, then who is
it that I am residing with? She calls to me
from behind the glass, love is my own
to behold from inside clear eyes.
What do I (want to) know? Who does she
long to be, when only half of the darkened side
decides to rush out these noises. She
watches me as she sleeps.
How can I know what this obscure
creature needs (to be)? Long hair drapes
from the edge of the violet pillow, washed black
from auburn, curls ever pointing down.
The empty is like the clear bluegreen inside
my darkness. She has her own voices, is lonely
from the silence I gave her. It is time she knew again
what their shapes sounded like.
© March 30th 2014
Apr 6, 2014
Apr 6, 2014 at 10:42 AM UTC
i sit in the low afternoon
sun
the warmth of it's rays negligable, but the colours
of it's farewell glorious.
in the lilac bush, still holding
green, the bluewrens chitter,
gossip, chirk and flirt away..
as they dart and flicker from twig to twig.
i think what a bluegreen end to a greyblack day....
and the sun shines,orange
and peach and the horizon
takes that lavender hue.
as the sky fades to deepest
blue.... my thoughts my friend, settle on you...
farewell my sunny friend
farewell.
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 4:32 AM UTC
I used to float
Weightless and free
In a sea of blue green
But now I'm just drowning
Slipping father under
There's no way out
Of this blue green
Abyss
Nov 16, 2013
Nov 16, 2013 at 8:34 PM UTC
4:00 a.m again.
The bluegreen lanterns fly the sky,
Guding me home.
My eyes fall like bricks.
Sinking into the water,
The overflowing madness in my mind.
Salted by the drops within my eyes.
As the water begins to stir,
My mind becomes a blur.
Blackened liquid waves rage in a craze
Winter winds blow.
Send ice and snow.
As i toss a match to set the wave
Ablaze.
This clawing red monster,
I let her grow stronger.
She takes my hand,
Tell's me she'll show me the way.
A turn of the wheel,
A press of the foot,
And all i know
Turned to soot.
And then my friend.
That winter wind.
Turns back the wheel once again.
The ash and gloom,
My blazing doom.
Only the beast of my heavyset eyes.
That bluegreen mist, lighting the skies.
And those lanterns float, my guides.
Tighten my grip on the wheel,
While gently caressing the pedal.
It's 4:01 a.m again.
Nov 18, 2018
Nov 18, 2018 at 4:00 PM UTC