"carthage" poems
it was me who destroyed carthage of the ancient worlds in 1300bc. the way i destroyed carthage was this. my mother was a persian queen and carthage wanted persia destroyed. my mother did not want her husband killed so she sent me, her eldest child, to the war. i told them that if they looked into my right eye they would think it was very beautiful but if they then looked into my left eye, which was my most beautiful eye, for i was left-handed, even as most creative people are even back then, they would notice it was even more beautiful.
i then said if i wanted to be a little kind to them they would want to be very very kind to me. they liked me and tried to show me their great kindness but the truth was that they had been so unkind to their children with bad magics involving rings that they died instantly. that is how i destroyed carthage.
Jan 3, 2020
Jan 3, 2020 at 11:57 AM UTC
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
May 15, 2017
May 15, 2017 at 7:00 PM UTC
she was shedding tears
what's wrong little dove he said
i just realized
i'm no queen of carthage
nor the heir of england
i'm no khaleesi
i can't slay no dragons and
i can't free no men
but you are much more babydoll he said
no i'm nothing but
the queen of sorrow and sadness
the heir of sin and guilt
i'm a useless creature
and a heartless *****
i lead a meaningless life and
i deserve to be butchered with a keen edged knife
Sep 7, 2014
Sep 7, 2014 at 4:25 PM UTC
In the yellow,
cold light
of the wine-dark
night,
'tween the brand-new mall
and the Roman Site,
he staggered
alone,
drunken
with "Magon"*
and memories.
Vast,
so vast is the night -
vast
as the memory
of an English
prairie,
and an emmer-haired
maiden
he'd walked
to the ferry
on a summery day.
Vast,
so vast
is a night
masquerading
as a want of sight.
© LazharBouazzi
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 12:18 PM UTC
“Rain for my words,”
Cried the poet.
But the rain would not acquiesce;
For she dreaded a languagekiss.
© LazharBouazzi, Carthage - Tunisia, May 14, 2016
May 14, 2016
May 14, 2016 at 6:46 AM UTC
she was shedding tears
what's wrong little dove he said
i just realized
i'm no queen of carthage
nor the heir of england
i'm no khaleesi
i can't slay no dragons and
i can't free no men
but you are much more babydoll he said
no i'm nothing but
the queen of sorrow and sadness
the heir of sin and guilt
i'm a useless creature
and a heartless *****
i lead a meaningless life and
i deserve to be butchered with a keen edged knife
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 8:57 AM UTC
/ as i am pretty sure all americana
feels about "us":
oh 'ook, 'ere comes old man
europe,
no hemmingway,
and no so: as the casual english
expression solidifies exchanges:
just across the atlantic:
the, pond...
haven't the foggiest...
i'm "new" here,
and even i find these english prims
& pomps and idiosyncracies
a bit debilitating...
today i walked from my home
with a knife in my pocket...
why... why?!
apparently it's worse
than new york,
a belt as a qusimodo boxing
glove won't cut it,
given that that:
requires a formal introduction,
prior to a fight...
guns guns guns...
over 'ere we 'ave knives knives knives...
and politicians can't exactly
ban them... no, not really...
ban knives, soon you'll be banning
forks, then spoons...
and then...
the whole ******* kitchen...
we'll all be eating out,
in public, cheap cheap cheap,
cheap restaurants
like the slovakians eat in...
can you even imagine that while
in st. petersburg i didn't see,
not one mcdonalds...
same so in moscow:
not a single mcdonalds...
it was like a: relief...
a bit like only seeing africanos
only, but not elsewhere other than warsaw;
erm: afro-saxons?
sure! we have them in england,
plenty of afro-saxons...
so now afro(x)
is not pop-up frizzy hair,
bundled into a french bun...
type of... "thing"?
**** yeah!
hit the spot!
oh old man europe...
tired and yet, and yet tired
of his riches,
how craving the old trenches
of Ypres...
the belgian mud, the rain,
the rats and crows...
europe: lament over libya...
or even pseudo-neo-rome
lamenting over carthage being destroyed...
in reverse -
abbrv. into - orior carthago!
was it cato the elder
who persisted counter to this?
as heidegger would have put it:
that's not even question-worthy.
Jul 19, 2018
Jul 19, 2018 at 7:26 PM UTC
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.
Jul 25, 2016
Jul 25, 2016 at 6:36 AM UTC
A crimson boat waives
the flow of the waves
as a blonde figure craves
an infernal sun.
Next to the maiden
and the dandy-fella,
blossoms a vermillion
umbrella
whose role was to play
a timid cellar
for two red apples
and one apricot
the blonde damsel
could have brought
to quench her burning
want
of the lustful monster.
Closing her ice-blue eyes,
the fair woman,
her sinful inspiration
did summon
to come carve
on her body so sullen
the orange vision
of the new Benzart bridge.
© LazharBouazzi, Carthage, TUNISA
*"Benzart" is the Tunisian name for “Biserta” or “Bizerte”- a beach town on the northern coast of Tunisia.
Jun 27, 2017
Jun 27, 2017 at 5:09 PM UTC
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
Aug 23, 2016
Aug 23, 2016 at 6:23 AM UTC
did you, even now, hope
to shut your eyes to so huge a crime,
my treacherous one, to think you could
stilly withdraw from my kingdom?
did our love not once hold you?
our ardent vows? or even I, Dido,
preparing to succumb barbaric death?
how could you, callous you!,
take wing to prepare your fleet in winter
—i’m sure to run aground—
when Boreas thrashes against the heavens?
but, if you weren’t pursuing unfamiliar soil
or incited to father a distant nation,
if ancient Ilium sturdily grimed through the war,
would you keep piercing the
wave-washed oceans in your armada?
why do you elude me; is it
because i have acceded irreality?
am i worthless, now?—i implore you!
by these tears, and your troth,
by our wedding vows, and this oath
before ***** we began:
if i deserve anything good from you,
or if you think, i was good enough
for you; pity this household
decaying before us! it was once yours, too.
and if my prayers are still yours,
gut them from my mind!
for now the Libyans and Numidians
hate me! dear Tyre is virulent!
as my honour and once-righteous
stature has vanished, just as i was
about to touch my constellated infamy.
for what destiny, my foreign one,
do you set me aside; ever-knowing
my imminent death?
seeing that only your name endures
from this union, why do i bother to keep living?
am i waiting for my brother, Pygmalion,
to destroy my Carthage’s walls, or a
Gætulian Iarbus to make me his concubine?
if only you gave me a son,
a little Æneas to play in my courts,
a boy to remind me of you;
only then, perhaps,
would i not be so utterly
violated, and
consumed.
Nov 7, 2014
Nov 7, 2014 at 1:06 PM UTC
I
The rain falling now
In Carthage -
A nectar
Of rainness -
Is like the grains
Of couscous
Made the day of
Celebration.
II
In Carthage now
The scent of rain
Is like the sound of
Pain
Memory has lost
To imagination.
© LazharBouazzi
Dec 4, 2018
Dec 4, 2018 at 4:46 PM UTC
Now that I have cooled to you
Let there be gold of tarnished masonry,
Temples soothed by the sun to ruin
That sleep utterly.
Give me hand for the dances,
Ripples at Philae, in and out,
And lips, my Lesbian,
Wall flowers that once were flame.
Your hair is my Carthage
And my arms the bow,
And our words arrows
To shoot the stars
Who from that misty sea
Swarm to destroy us.
But you there beside me—
Oh, how shall I defy you,
Who wound me in the night
With ******* shining
Like Venus and like Mars?
The night that is shouting Jason
When the loud eaves rattle
As with waves above me
Blue at the prow of my desire.
2.2k
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
Jun 30, 2016
Jun 30, 2016 at 10:11 PM UTC
when her ocean sounds
rang the pallid chandelier
i felt my blood cook
and disappear
the pool-house hummed
in the veil of night
i wanted to speak with her
beneath a canopy of lights
i miss her bathroom floor
(the meadow of clothing)
buried like carthage salt
and the hymns she half-sings
into thin air
May 1, 2017
May 1, 2017 at 9:59 PM UTC
Old poisons bake from the soil;
Pluto, underworld god, pitches
Plutonium, god of dirt and death.
What was it ****** cried --
Judische Physik? His lucky hate
Kept Dybuk in the dust,
The devil inside uranium.
But, ****** left us behind:
his U-Project,
The creatures who salted Carthage.
Aug 24, 2011
Aug 24, 2011 at 2:41 PM UTC
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
Jun 8, 2017
Jun 8, 2017 at 11:25 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'm bored of love, and bored of loving you, equating it all with cats and Carthage... whatever... something meowed something stressed a sound requiring a human artefact; yawn.
a six pack never made a difference
anyway, tiresome Ibiza
either; so fatty ooh ooh
and the required hash tag
worth of Soho,
so the **** fits a king-sized bed
puff-up of cushions.
well, let's face it, a completely detached,
Sri Lanka
Orff Corfu, twang twang Haiti!
Jun 14, 2016
Jun 14, 2016 at 11:01 PM UTC
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
Jul 30, 2016
Jul 30, 2016 at 10:10 AM UTC
The wind reminds me of her timeless touch
Memories of roads traveled with heavy heart
Always the pull from an unknown source
Calling me out to uncharted waters
As the familiar fades like a sun baked tear
My spirits take flight on a late summer charge
Bursting into the unknown as if a bull tired of antiquities
A new adventure whispers to me
Across the mighty Mississippi
I catch my breath, knowing this is kismet
All roads have led to this one road
This bridge to a new chapter
Full of the freedom of choice
The freeing notion of doing something
For sheer love
Finding passion growing out of cracks in walls
No moment unnoticed
The world is alive and wants to live!
As I want to live with it and embrace every atom
Every heartbeat tapping and pounding
Like a homeless drummer’s bucket in Pioneer’s Square
I’m everywhere
For a few fleeting seconds of time
Then back to this harp-shaped bridge
To meet new eyes, and hear stories from old souls
To create something collectively
Leaving our painted tattoos etched inside one another
And our mark on the wall of the world
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 7:56 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
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.
Aug 10, 2016
Aug 10, 2016 at 1:58 PM UTC
The palm tree died,
the blackbird sang.
how else would a blackbird hide
from an unbearable pang?
(c) Lazhar Bouazzi, Carthage, Tunisia
Apr 10, 2016
Apr 10, 2016 at 5:50 PM UTC
A tale of dawn where
my genius at play for her beads
if thunder hie will quicken quinine
why Doeville surely nigh and on route yon
that bare a drove her handkerchief spar
in field with hills to make her rich still clad in negligee
and between her steps arose Carthage in antiquity
a lore of ages to unfold Spain today
with a guitar strumming this spicy song of quest so inane
Oct 30, 2017
Oct 30, 2017 at 12:29 PM UTC