Existence
by Fadwa Tuqan the "Poet of Palestine"
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

In my solitary life, I was a lost question;
in the encompassing darkness,
my answer lay concealed.

You were a bright new star
revealed by fate,
radiating light from the fathomless darkness.

The other stars rotated around you
—once, twice —
until I perceived
your unique radiance.

Then the bleak blackness broke
And in the twin tremors
of our entwined hands
I had found my missing answer.

Oh you! Oh you intimate, yet distant!
Don't you remember the coalescence
Of your spirit in flames?
Of my universe with yours?
Of the two poets?
Despite our great distance,
Existence unites us.

Keywords/Tags: Fadwa Tuqan, Palestine, Palestinian, Arabic, translation, existence, love, darkness, star, stars, orbit, radiance



Enough for Me
by Fadwa Tuqan
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Enough for me to lie in the earth,
to be buried in her,
to sink meltingly into her fecund soil, to vanish ...
only to spring forth like a flower
brightening the play of my countrymen's children.

Enough for me to remain
in my native soil's embrace,
to be as close as a handful of dirt,
a sprig of grass,
a wildflower.

Published by Palestine Today, Free Journal and Lokesh Tripathi



Nothing Remains
by Fadwa Tuqan
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Tonight, we’re together,
but tomorrow you'll be hidden from me
thanks to life’s cruelty.

The seas will separate us ...
Oh!—Oh!—If I could only see you!
But I'll never know
where your steps led you,
which routes you took,
or to what unknown destinations
your feet were compelled.

You will depart and the thief of hearts,
the denier of beauty,
will rob us of all that's dear to us,
will steal this happiness,
leaving our hands empty.

Tomorrow at dawn you'll vanish like a phantom,
dissipating into a delicate mist
dissolving quickly in the summer sun.

Your scent—your scent!—contains the essence of life,
filling my heart
as the earth gulps up the lifegiving rain.

I will miss you like the fragrance of trees
when you leave tomorrow,
and nothing remains.

Just as everything beautiful and all that's dear to us
is lost—lost!—and nothing remains.

Published by This Week in Palestine and Hypercritic (read in Arabic by Souad Maddahi with my translation as a reference)



Labor Pains
by Fadwa Tuqan
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Tonight the wind wafts pollen through ruined fields and homes.
The earth shivers with love, with the agony of giving birth,
while the Invader spreads stories of submission and surrender.

O, Arab Aurora!

Tell the Usurper: childbirth’s a force beyond his ken
because a mother’s wracked body reveals a rent that inaugurates life,
a crack through which light dawns in an instant
as the blood’s rose blooms in the wound.



Hamza
by Fadwa Tuqan
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Hamza was one of my hometown’s ordinary men
who did manual labor for bread.

When I saw him recently,
the land still wore its mourning dress in the solemn windless silence
and I felt defeated.

But Hamza-the-unextraordinary said:
“Sister, our land’s throbbing heart never ceases to pound,
and it perseveres, enduring the unendurable, keeping the secrets of mounds and wombs.
This land sprouting cactus spikes and palms also births freedom-fighters.
Thus our land, my sister, is our mother!”

Days passed and Hamza was nowhere to be seen,
but I felt the land’s belly heaving in pain.
At sixty-five Hamza’s a heavy burden on her back.

“Burn down his house!”
some commandant screamed,
“and slap his son in a prison cell!”

As our town’s military ruler later explained
this was necessary for law and order,
that is, an act of love, for peace!

Armed soldiers surrounded Hamza’s house;
the coiled serpent completed its circle.

The bang at his door came with an ultimatum:
“Evacuate, **** it!'
So generous with their time, they said:
“You can have an hour, yes!”

Hamza threw open a window.
Face-to-face with the blazing sun, he yelled defiantly:
“Here in this house I and my children will live and die, for Palestine!”
Hamza's voice echoed over the hemorrhaging silence.

An hour later, with impeccable timing, Hanza’s house came crashing down
as its rooms were blown sky-high and its bricks and mortar burst,
till everything settled, burying a lifetime’s memories of labor, tears, and happier times.

Yesterday I saw Hamza
walking down one of our town’s streets ...
Hamza-the-unextraordinary man who remained as he always was:
unshakable in his determination.

My translation follows one by Azfar Hussain and borrows a word here, a phrase there.



Biography of Fadwa Tuqan (aka Touqan or Toukan)

Fadwa Tuqan (1917-2003), called the "Grande Dame of Palestinian letters," is also known as "The Poet of Palestine." She is generally considered to be one of the very best contemporary Arab poets. Palestine’s national poet, Mahmoud Darwish, named her “the mother of Palestinian poetry.”

Fadwa Tuqan was born into an affluent, literary family in Nablus in 1917. Her brother Ibrahim Tuqan was the most famous Palestinian poet of his day. She studied English literature at Oxford University and won several international literary prizes.

Tuqan began writing in traditional forms, but later became a pioneer of Arabic free verse. Her work often deals with feminine explorations of love and social protest.

After the Nakba ("Catastrophe") of 1948 she began to write about Israel's occupation of Palestinian territories. Then, after the Six Day War of 1967, she also began writing patriotic poems.

Her autobiography "Difficult Journey―Mountainous Journey" was translated into English in 1990. Tuqan received the International Poetry Award, the Jerusalem Award for Culture and Arts and the United Arab Emirates Award, the latter two both in 1990. She also received the Honorary Palestine prize for poetry in 1996. She was the subject of a documentary film directed by novelist Liana Bader in 1999.

Tuqan died on December 12, 2003 during the height of the Al-Aqsa Intifada, while her hometown of Nablus was under siege. Her poem "Wahsha: Moustalhama min Qanoon al Jathibiya" ("Longing: Inspired by the Law of Gravity") was one of the last poems she penned, while largely bedridden.

Tuqan is widely considered to be a symbol of the Palestinian cause and is "one of the most distinguished figures of modern Arabic literature."

In his obituary for "The Guardian," Lawrence Joffe wrote: "The Palestinian poet Fadwa Tuqan, who has died aged 86, forcefully expressed a nation's sense of loss and defiance. Moshe Dayan, the Israeli general, likened reading one of Tuqan's poems to facing 20 enemy commandos." In her poem "Martyrs Of The Intifada," Tuqan wrote of young stone-throwers:

They died standing, blazing on the road
Shining like stars, their lips pressed to the lips of life
They stood up in the face of death
Then disappeared like the sun.

Yet the true power of her words derived not from warlike imagery, but from their affirmation of Palestinian identity and the dream of return.

"Her poetry reflected the pain, loss, and anger of the Nakba, the experience of fleeing war and living as a refugee, and the courageous aspirations of the Palestinians to nationhood and return to their homeland. She also wrote about resistance to Israel’s injustices and life under Israeli military occupation, especially after Nablus fell to Israeli forces in 1967, heralding Israel’s long-term occupation of the West Bank, which remains to this day." - Zeina Azzam

Fadwa Tuqan has been called the Grand Dame of Palestinian letters and The Poet of Palestine. These are my translations of Fadwa Tuqan poems originally written in Arabic.



Enough for Me
by Fadwa Tuqan
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Enough for me to lie in the earth,
to be buried in her,
to sink meltingly into her fecund soil, to vanish ...
only to spring forth like a flower
brightening the play of my countrymen's children.

Enough for me to remain
in my native soil's embrace,
to be as close as a handful of dirt,
a sprig of grass,
a wildflower.

Published by Palestine Today, Free Journal and Lokesh Tripathi



Existence
by Fadwa Tuqan
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

In my solitary life, I was a lost question;
in the encompassing darkness,
my answer lay concealed.

You were a bright new star
revealed by fate,
radiating light from the fathomless darkness.

The other stars rotated around you
—once, twice—
until I perceived
your unique radiance.

Then the bleak blackness broke
and in the twin tremors
of our entwined hands
I had found my missing answer.

Oh you! Oh you intimate and distant!
Don't you remember the coalescence
Of our spirits in the flames?
Of my universe with yours?
Of the two poets?
Despite our great distance,
Existence unites us.

Published by This Week in Palestine, Arabic Literature (ArabLit.org) and Art-in-Society (Germany)



Nothing Remains
by Fadwa Tuqan
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Tonight, we’re together,
but tomorrow you'll be hidden from me
thanks to life’s cruelty.

The seas will separate us ...
Oh!—Oh!—If I could only see you!
But I'll never know
where your steps led you,
which routes you took,
or to what unknown destinations
your feet were compelled.

You will depart and the thief of hearts,
the denier of beauty,
will rob us of all that's dear to us,
will steal this happiness,
leaving our hands empty.

Tomorrow at dawn you'll vanish like a phantom,
dissipating into a delicate mist
dissolving quickly in the summer sun.

Your scent—your scent!—contains the essence of life,
filling my heart
as the earth gulps up the lifegiving rain.

I will miss you like the fragrance of trees
when you leave tomorrow,
and nothing remains.

Just as everything beautiful and all that's dear to us
is lost—lost!—and nothing remains.

Published by This Week in Palestine and Hypercritic (read in Arabic by Souad Maddahi with my translation as a reference)



Labor Pains
by Fadwa Tuqan
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Tonight the wind wafts pollen through ruined fields and homes.
The earth shivers with love, with the agony of giving birth,
while the Invader spreads stories of submission and surrender.

O, Arab Aurora!

Tell the Usurper: childbirth’s a force beyond his ken
because a mother’s wracked body reveals a rent that inaugurates life,
a crack through which light dawns in an instant
as the blood’s rose blooms in the wound.



Hamza
by Fadwa Tuqan
loose translation/interpretation by Michael R. Burch

Hamza was one of my hometown’s ordinary men
who did manual labor for bread.

When I saw him recently,
the land still wore its mourning dress in the solemn windless silence
and I felt defeated.

But Hamza-the-unextraordinary said:
“Sister, our land’s throbbing heart never ceases to pound,
and it perseveres, enduring the unendurable, keeping the secrets of mounds and wombs.
This land sprouting cactus spikes and palms also births freedom-fighters.
Thus our land, my sister, is our mother!”

Days passed and Hamza was nowhere to be seen,
but I felt the land’s belly heaving in pain.
At sixty-five Hamza’s a heavy burden on her back.

“Burn down his house!”
some commandant screamed,
“and slap his son in a prison cell!”

As our town’s military ruler later explained
this was necessary for law and order,
that is, an act of love, for peace!

Armed soldiers surrounded Hamza’s house;
the coiled serpent completed its circle.

The bang at his door came with an ultimatum:
“Evacuate, **** it!'
So generous with their time, they said:
“You can have an hour, yes!”

Hamza threw open a window.
Face-to-face with the blazing sun, he yelled defiantly:
“Here in this house I and my children will live and die, for Palestine!”
Hamza's voice echoed over the hemorrhaging silence.

An hour later, with impeccable timing, Hanza’s house came crashing down
as its rooms were blown sky-high and its bricks and mortar burst,
till everything settled, burying a lifetime’s memories of labor, tears, and happier times.

Yesterday I saw Hamza
walking down one of our town’s streets ...
Hamza-the-unextraordinary man who remained as he always was:
unshakable in his determination.

My translation follows one by Azfar Hussain and borrows a word here, a phrase there.



Biography of Fadwa Tuqan (aka Touqan or Toukan)

Fadwa Tuqan (1917-2003), called the "Grande Dame of Palestinian letters," is also known as "The Poet of Palestine." She is generally considered to be one of the very best contemporary Arab poets. Palestine’s national poet, Mahmoud Darwish, named her “the mother of Palestinian poetry.”

Fadwa Tuqan was born into an affluent, literary family in Nablus in 1917. Her brother Ibrahim Tuqan was the most famous Palestinian poet of his day. She studied English literature at Oxford University and won several international literary prizes.

Tuqan began writing in traditional forms, but later became a pioneer of Arabic free verse. Her work often deals with feminine explorations of love and social protest.

After the Nakba ("Catastrophe") of 1948 she began to write about Israel's occupation of Palestinian territories. Then, after the Six Day War of 1967, she also began writing patriotic poems.

Her autobiography "Difficult Journey―Mountainous Journey" was translated into English in 1990. Tuqan received the International Poetry Award, the Jerusalem Award for Culture and Arts and the United Arab Emirates Award, the latter two both in 1990. She also received the Honorary Palestine prize for poetry in 1996. She was the subject of a documentary film directed by novelist Liana Bader in 1999.

Tuqan died on December 12, 2003 during the height of the Al-Aqsa Intifada, while her hometown of Nablus was under siege. Her poem "Wahsha: Moustalhama min Qanoon al Jathibiya" ("Longing: Inspired by the Law of Gravity") was one of the last poems she penned, while largely bedridden.

Tuqan is widely considered to be a symbol of the Palestinian cause and is "one of the most distinguished figures of modern Arabic literature."

In his obituary for "The Guardian," Lawrence Joffe wrote: "The Palestinian poet Fadwa Tuqan, who has died aged 86, forcefully expressed a nation's sense of loss and defiance. Moshe Dayan, the Israeli general, likened reading one of Tuqan's poems to facing 20 enemy commandos." In her poem "Martyrs Of The Intifada," Tuqan wrote of young stone-throwers:

They died standing, blazing on the road
Shining like stars, their lips pressed to the lips of life
They stood up in the face of death
Then disappeared like the sun.

Yet the true power of her words derived not from warlike imagery, but from their affirmation of Palestinian identity and the dream of return.

"Her poetry reflected the pain, loss, and anger of the Nakba, the experience of fleeing war and living as a refugee, and the courageous aspirations of the Palestinians to nationhood and return to their homeland. She also wrote about resistance to Israel’s injustices and life under Israeli military occupation, especially after Nablus fell to Israeli forces in 1967, heralding Israel’s long-term occupation of the West Bank, which remains to this day." - Zeina Azzam

♦   ♦   ♦

She was an earnest devotée.
Her ideals, birthed in Chardonnay
were globally diverse (read: white).
A liberal bark preceded bite.
Her crystal clearer than her vision;
she provoked bemused derision
as she breathed intolerance
toward all who would not dance her dance.
She swooned for distant pagan tribes,
attuned to their exotic vibes –
rapt in multi-culti piety
strangely deaf to her own society,
judged by her as abomination;
unredeemed. The background station
always stuck on N.P.R.
(the soundtrack of her culture war,
Pacifica News and Democracy Nows,
and other progressive holy cows)
Her motherland a shameful mystery:
guilty first, and void of history –
its origins defiled, corrupted…
while she enjoyed uninterrupted
freedom to pursue her whims:
misguided one-world global hymns.
The sisterhood of hu(man) kind
was foremost in her earnest mind –
even should that same sisterhood
be sealed by her well-meaning blood.
Out on a date with global death
she hoped to unify the earth
in solidarity with causes
led by killers, warlord bosses,
thugs she never knew existed
who, if she’d met she’d have resisted.
Her theory landed far from her praxis
spun, by default, on an evil axis.
Hot with zeal she fumed and stormed
quite certain she was well-informed,
at benefits, non-profit functions
rallies, boycotts, left-wing luncheons;
warm with righteous spite for Israel,
aiding and abetting Ishmael
with fellow-travelers, like-minded
similarly hateful, blinded,
rattling sabers, scimitars, axes…
(lunacy never wanes, but waxes
hotter with the passing years
as activists confront their fears).
She finally shilled for the Intifada
(stopping short of reciting Shahada),
reaching out to the terrorist
with righteous raised progressive fist…
offering thus her neck to blade:
collateral to be repaid
by murderers who couldn’t care less
about her open-mindedness.

First they decentralise
secondly they marginalise
then they criminalise
and all the lies make you
believe
that you're the
bad guys.

Nothing changes what is and can be,
democracy
was a pipe dream in
Ancient Greece
which was sold on and we hold
on to the dream.

Criminal records play a very poor tune,
the sooner you realise that what lies
ahead is not what you thought of,
you'd  be better off dead, but
the triumph begins when our sins are absolved by the abolishment of parliament and the reinstatement of choice, what choice do we have?what more do we need?

How about enough food to feed the family?

If I could weave you a story then I'd spin you a yarn.

The potter and his pottery,
dull clay on the wheel
can you feel how the spin turns and starts to begin
when a shape takes its form and
is that not sheer poetry by the potter
and his pottery?

No one kills you with kindness, but with kindness they will and the World will become a still place ruled over with one face, stern, unartistic, sick and pliable the people are liable to fall under the wheel again,
can you feel again,
is this not another poetry by the famous,
is it some adultery by the nameless,
add 'lise' on the ends of all words and
are they not shameless?

Blameless?
I don't think any of us are.

More a French shave than five o'clock shadow,
the young artist's way of backing off,
announcing danger, an air of the unexpected,
as the King snake has evolved to feign the Coral.

Yet, where camel hair touched canvas calm,
where quintessential light met quotidian ennui,
not the advertised blackened rose or orchid,
rather the sizzle, the honeyed-heat of azalea.

Each stroke portended floral intifada,
pastel yellows and oily greens igniting
upon a fired-umber background,
threatened to melt the easel into tar.

I stood gape-jawed, nodded approval,
eyeing the second creation within a single flower.

the scientists joined ranks with artists who, with un-complimentary depictions of humanity, like the weavers of the bayeux tapestry, decided to paint queens as ******; the scientists came along with monkeys instead of jealous and shaky hands... that’s like so totally debased, who said i was flat-nosed by a klitschko forearm uppercut and hairy to boot? you want a baboon **** smear with my buttocks to suit a smile on that observation? i’ll just fudge pack that **** between my baboon cheeks for the paintbrush and use your face as the adequate ‘smiles all round’ canvas - gentler than a baby's bottom in sinatra's cheek to cheek take 5.*

no, i wouldn’t trust islam in the mouth of an egyptian,
nor in the mouth of the copt,
no more than i’d trust the conversation
of a prince of egypt with god in hebrew with god’s friendliness,
which isn’t to say that god didn’t say: my people are suffering,
the pharaonic lineage are building pyramids!
i need to punish their leaders to redeem the people,
wait a minute, why would the hebrew building those architectural
monstrosities hijack my servility?
ah i know, i’ll just have to wait for the one to be crucified.
a prince talking the language of slaves...
must have had tea parties with the stonemasonry class
of fanning those bothersome flies away ponces.
but as i was doping myself on the ultimate escapism
watching the gambler (2014),
i spotted this one line that broke me:
this heavily addicted gambling professor of english
who could only shakespeare and albert camus
came across a grey matter criticism: ‘but that’s
only a subjective observation, we’re all bestseller authors!’
no... and objectivity is so overrated,
i mean it implies being one among the many
talking as the many,
there’s no heraclitus in objectivity - where’s the flow
in objectivity, moving from one particular to another
signalling artistry whether that’s the dumb statistician
clothed in the baseball player looking lost in the faded out
lad culture missing in the concert hall of talk,
and the basketball player more interest in quicksilver words
pixelated, and that longing blonde who inspired the english
professor to peddle-stool her to the position of the faded gem
of hopes of the carbonated water of a writer?
speaking objectively would only provide an inactivity,
a sort of ant’s **** hole: well we’re all here... how’s that?
good enough? no! no, it’s not good enough!
there is no heraclitean river in objectivity -
it’s no good enough to feed subjectivity of seeing many different faces
going about their daily business and feeling nothing of yourself
making a choice to pick something out... there must be
some sort of kantian per se in all this.
so then i stumbled into tescos, watched the first gangsta gathering
in the car park and in the shop i talked to the would-be cashier
about those failing auto-checkout machines
that now ask for ‘approval needed’ on bottles of whiskey
and five pence plastic carrier bags...
‘you type in 0 and still the machines want approval,’
‘silly, isn’t it? they were so innovative once,’
‘you’re a hoodie with an accent? where you from?’
‘st. petersburg, lived there for a month and came back a changed man,
i was caged and told to not try and get into a nightclub
to see the unappreciative beauties that couldn’t never cry at
an opera like la triviata,’
‘must have been terrible,’
‘it was, i heard of the russian-chinese axis of evil pact
and drank non-alcoholic kbac!’
then at home i picked up a newspaper and started to kinda reap
a weeping over the 3rd intifada next to
an article about how an american auntie sued her 8 year old
nephew for breaking her wrist at the blackjack table
with the stakes as high as $127,000.
it made sense at the time to be sufficiently coordinated enough
to drink and read, which always adds up to: sermo potator potor non sum.
so i thought about as to why the 30 silver pieces
sold jesus christ into a slavery of a very different kind -
the “intellectual” one at the pearly gates where he greets
all the ***-kissers with the church pay-check back-lingo,
even though human history would be better off
without a few hours of the last supper morphed into a sunday
service for 2000 years... when joseph would have seen
the little babylonian kid do something monstrous on the last sabbath,
which would also be akin to that famous opinion section of the newspaper:
yes comrade frankenstein (fickle think shine, alternate spelling of the columnist's surname), capitalism is unshakeable,
there is no alternative to capitalism...
but i thought there was an alternative to the marshall plan?
did i miss something - am i really supposed to stand “outside of all space
and time” in classical philosophical practice? i can’t do that with the slogan:
there’s no alternative to the marshall plan! yes there is, communism.
the syrians will tell you that in a few years, fingers crossed,
no foreign investors will be able to impregnate the resurgence
of civilian trust within monochromatic ethnicity;
but of course i’m getting ahead of myself with hopes.

Another wake and one more lake of consternation
I must cross,
at night I toss and turn as if the dreams I have are
sent to burn these images I see,
into my brain.
Another station and one more train,
lots of steam to burn again.
Every time I start to tire my imagination
catches fire.

I smoulder,
ignite,
and the older I become
I realise
I'm not the smoking gun but the bullet
in the chamber,
I am a danger to myself.

☭ ⛧ Ⓐ ⛧ ☭ ⛧ Ⓐ ⛧☭ ⛧ Ⓐ ⛧ ☭ ⛧

Incensed by mighty Milo, you act brave
then rage and bludgeon, shutting down dissent
while Mario Savio shudders in his grave.
Behold: another shameful sad event.
Youthful useful idiots on the attack,
pawns of global capital dressed in black:
Bernie's Berserkley: raze it to the ground
and Donald will be twenty-twenty bound.
Georges Sorel, amused, looks on in silence
at your half-baked proletarian violence,
infantile intifada, civil war,
a glimpse of what the future has in store:
you are the fascists you've been waiting for.

Why this never ending hate
Where impressionable young men swallow jaundiced bait,
To **** and maim - all in the name of their one prophet,
Unleashing burning mayhem with rocket after rocket.

Has discourse and humanity disintegrated to this point,
Where the only leaders they invariably anoint
Preach such hatred and revenge,
With glaring eyes and fingers tightly clenched.

Generations go to die leaving mother's sadly wailing,
The guns they hold no longer just for playing,
A dream of glory as yet another blessed martyr,
The sad byproduct of this never-ending intifada.

Were only calmer minds at play,
Leaders who knew the words they had to say,
To avert such bloodshed that's never a solution,
The only outcome despair and persecution.

Violence is a twin, a spawn of the same seed,
Destruction not discourse it's destiny to lead,
Strength is shown by character, tenacity and grit,
Mandela proved the adage to never ever quit.

Jews and Palestinians cousins by another name
So very different and yet so very much the same,
Two thousands years of sharing this small land,
A differing religion but surely the same band.

Enough this constant slaughter tearing families apart,
Let wiser minds prevail in making a new start,
Nothing is impossible when truth and will combine,
A path to coexistence is what each must define.

Will it be easy no, but clearly it's a must,
It starts with creating empathy and a modicum of trust,
The alternative unthinkable, impossible to bear,
As misery and death the only certainty they'll share.

Over and over again

the ongoing psychosis named reality

throws at us the vile complications of existence

like a rigged tax funded snowball war in which you are forced to enroll

when you are born among proletarians

and concrete orphans more twisted than Oliver Twist

like ghetto kids with knives and narcotic nights

men that walk the same sidewalk as you

the same asphalt dreams and latent ambitions

trapped in the same staircase of materia

causing the universe to circle reason

and stomp the ant man with work boots of international negligence

like something out of an Ingmar Bergman film

as the saints will prevail like the flickering candle in an artic snow lantern

battling it’s ice ceiling like flying intifada rocks in glass houses

while the chess game of psychoanalysis continues

like the sorrows of young Werther

in the blood of your martyred nightmares

Through this old city to fly
to look down and weep from
on high
at the poverty stricken who kick at the doors of cathedrals and food banks
at those who just want to get by,

at those who give thanks to an imaginary creator
at the makers of myths.

On the magazine racks girls on their backs, men with no briefs on, how long does this go on and who really cares?

and it's the pharmaceutical industry that made this machinery and we are being ordered to take two pills of lethargy
four times a day.

Intifada?
it's
harder to break chains than make them.

Filling up land with the landfill and the overspill's dumped far out to sea,

bring it on home to me that we as society are solely to blame.

'I came
I saw...'
swear I'll never
go there again

cross my heart and hope to die
which I probably will
at the end.

Naturally
tranquillised or
desensitised by
outside interference
and here
around the circumference
I'm being discussed in
some great conference
by authors of the
intifada

a guard rail and thank god for it
stops me from falling into **** creek
next week I may not be so lucky
as the outcome of said conference
might just be about to **** me.

and anyway these people **** me
every day I lose a little more of the
will I owned and many times before
I die
I'll die and die until even death turns around and asks me, why oh ******* why?

I shall overdose
go comatose
I suppose that's what
they'd like to see, but
being me I won't,
I'll stick around to be a
constant thorn
make them ******* wish
to have not be born

I can be a *****. a butch
a screaming Lord ******* Such
and if you don't know that
you don't know me.

Indiscernible language orations
A prayer
Almost palpable now
In the air
Is it fear
Of a God
That compels their devotion
The spoken word utterance
Faithful awoken
With all of the vehement
Furor of man
Dispossessed of his land
Grippin’ tight to his chest
A pulled pin full of sin
Intifada Quran
Understanding his place
In the maker’s good graces
Mistaken intentional flawless
Creation
My ritual suicide serpent
Salvation

Forlorn; bereft of golden
(slippered) opportunities I weep;
Three score and four years
replete with mailer daemons,
hence mindset adrip
with self denouncing expletive filled bleep
unwritten expressed recriminations
wielded upon figurative head of wimpy blip;
decades elapsed at light speed clip
as the world turned days of mein kampf

exhibited slow psychologically
torturous analogous intravenous slow drip
during emerging adulthood
approximately half life of mine,
when yours truly painstakingly
besotted with unrequited love
accursed extreme introvertedness
severely hobbled coping ability
gifted at birth with congenital weakness
mama's boy lacked ways and means
integrating himself among peers,

no supportive services to equip
shy lonely lad devoid of fellowship
palmar hyperhidrosis affected slippery grip
in tandem with being diminutive
aiming to experience childhood's end forever
son of a gun flailed with dating later in life
compromising, forsaking, and issuing
counter productively undermining
potential heterosexual relationships
invariably shooting from the hip.

Eight different prescription medications
allow umpteen combinations to yield
against bombardment that fate doth wield
delivered, signed and sealed
courtesy the grim reaper
able, eager, ready and willing
to maneuver across pitted minefield
accessing exiled soul whisking same
to idyllic place named Edenfield.

Oftimes methinks how cessation to breathe
spirit buoyed aloft, where garlands wreath
to escape hell on Earth,
where neurosis and psychosis seethe
within mine sixty plus shades of gray matter
symbiotically flourishing at expense of sanity
case in point being:
anxiety/ panic attacks
obsessive compulsive behavior,
schizoid personality disorder,

long in the tooth fellow
his sustenance similar to pablum
constituting imperial diet of worms
of the Holy Roman Empire -
called by Emperor Charles V
fit for grown baby,
especially when removing dentures
cuz he must resort to eat soft foods
unless by some miracle I teethe
for the second time.

Homegrown destructive force
muscles, tussles, wrestles,
et cetera within me
likened to (but separate from) Intifada,
(thus no insinuation this wordsmith
linkedin to any militant group)
grips mine soul asylum,
a recalcitrant doppelganger
within windmills of my mind
doth insidiously, poisonously,
and unpleasantly drum
palpably affecting writer
of these words to feel glum.

No respite whether I repose
in deep slumber or lightly awake
inescapable melancholic woes
haunts these lonely bones,
whereby system of the down
houses reticent persona constituent feature
characterized courtesy anhedonia
linkedin with passive suicidal ideation
accentuated when severe crisis erupt
analogous to smoldering volcano.

Fortunate for me the missus keenly aware
plus (despite every now and again
contention between us),
she makes crystal clear
communicating her displeasure
mixed with genuine fear
bantering deadpanning facetiously
gallows humor I half heartedly asseverate
gibberish spouting jargoneer
gravely alarms wife helpless to orienteer

conversation away from my demise,
thus figuratively switch horses
in mid stream and jockey
to calm her down
and lightening verbal exchange
by ******* from the waist down
revealing laughing stock of skinny legs
(easily mistaken for spindleshanks)
poking thru underwear
charging on imaginary steed

feigning being loco
despite NOT smoking ****,
energetic cavorting courtesy
nursing high test coffee,
nevertheless ineffective battling fatigue
despite flitting to and fro,
hither and yon bumbling along
(skeletal) joints of mine smoking hot
suddenly after sipping strong brew,
I temporarily shuck off lethargy

long enough break to out dancing
while simultaneously overtaken
to sing a song of sixpence
while wings flutter at the speed of sound
buzzfeed appetite for consumption
Ecclesiastical History of the English People,
one of our best-written sources
for early English history
authored by Venerable Bede.

versus being alive
predicated victory videre licet lunatic
if Trump ******* Kamala Harris
and stole 2024 presidential election,  
(whereat Musk bribed
significant number of voters
handing out wads of cash)
courtesy underhanded modus operandi
and devious and sinister schemes.

Forlorn; bereft of golden
(slippered) opportunities I weep;
Three score and five years
replete with mailer daemons,
hence mindset adrip
with self denouncing
expletive filled bleep
unwritten expressed recriminations
wielded upon figurative
head of wimpy blip;
decades elapsed at light speed clip

as the world turned
days of mein kampf
exhibited slow psychologically
torturous analogous intravenous slow drip
during emerging adulthood
approximately half life of mine,
when yours truly painstakingly
besotted with unrequited love
accursed extreme introvertedness
severely hobbled coping ability

still reeling after being scammed
gobs of greenbacks
approximately sixteen months ago
gifted at birth with congenital weakness
such as being gullible to ruthless conartists
mama's boy lacked ways and means
integrating himself among peers:
no supportive services to equip
shy lonely lad devoid of fellowship
even as grown man
lost in space whereat

maximum head room cramped
with obsessive compulsive thoughts
social services slated for chopping block
if Project 2025 implemented
and if father or mother
were alive they would flip
at the course of political divisiveness
sowed by MAGA
onymous nasty brute,
where palmar hyperhidrosis
affected slippery grip

in tandem with being diminutive
aiming to experience
childhood's end forever
son of a gun flailed
with dating later in life
analogous to psyche
subjected to fracking
compromising, forsaking, and issuing
counter productively undermining
potential heterosexual relationships
invariably shooting from the hip.

Nine different prescription medications
allow umpteen combinations to yield
against bombardment that fate doth wield
delivered, signed and sealed
courtesy the grim reaper
able, eager, ready and willing
to maneuver across pitted minefield
accessing exiled soul whisking
vis a vis grim reaper same
to idyllic place named Edenfield.

Oftimes methinks
how cessation to breathe
spirit buoyed aloft,
where garlands wreath
to escape hell on Earth,
where neurosis and psychosis seethe
within mine sixty plus five
shades of crumbling sheet rock
think scree ming atrophying gray matter
symbiotically, dramatically,
and alphabetically flourishing
at expense of sanity
case in point being

anxiety/ panic attacks
obsessive compulsive behavior,
schizoid personality disorder,
long in the tooth fellow
his sustenance similar to pablum
constituting imperial diet of worms
of the Holy Roman Empire -
called by Emperor Charles V
fit for grown baby,
especially when removing dentures
cuz he must resort to eat soft foods
unless by some miracle I teethe
for the third time.

Homegrown destructive force
muscles, tussles, wrestles,
et cetera within me
likened to (but separate from) Intifada,
(thus no insinuation this wordsmith
linkedin to any militant group)
grips mine soul asylum,
a recalcitrant doppelganger
within windmills of my mind
doth insidiously, poisonously,
and unpleasantly drum
palpably affecting writer
of these words to feel glum.

No respite whether I repose
in deep slumber or lightly awake
inescapable melancholic woes
haunts these lonely bones,
whereby system of the down
houses reticent persona constituent feature
characterized courtesy anhedonia
linkedin with passive suicidal ideation
accentuated when severe crisis erupt
analogous to smoldering volcano.

Fortunate for me the missus keenly aware
plus (despite every now and again
contention between us),
she makes crystal clear
communicating her displeasure
mixed with genuine fear
bantering deadpanning facetiously
gallows humor I half heartedly asseverate
gibberish spouting jargoneer
gravely alarms wife helpless to orienteer

conversation away from my demise,
thus figuratively switch horses
in mid stream and jockey
to calm her down
and lightning verbal exchange
by ******* from the waist down
revealing laughing stock of skinny legs
(easily mistaken for spindleshanks)
poking thru underwear
charging on imaginary steed

feigning being loco
despite NOT smoking ****,
energetic cavorting courtesy
nursing high test coffee,
nevertheless ineffective battling fatigue
despite flitting to and fro,
hither and yon bumbling along
(skeletal) joints of mine smoking hot
suddenly after sipping strong brew,
I temporarily shuck off lethargy

long enough break to out dancing
while simultaneously overtaken
to sing a song of sixpence
while wings flutter at the speed of sound
buzzfeed appetite for consumption
Ecclesiastical History of the English People,
one of our best-written sources
for early English history
authored by Venerable Bede.

.                                 M     S      M
                          Mono Sanitised Media

I am frequently asked, Ryan, what is your news source,

you have a very different interpretation of world affairs

than the majority of people? Before I delve into replying

first I feel it necessary to let you know that I am and have

been a (organic) vegetarian for almost forty years now.

Perhaps you are wondering what this has to do with my

daily diet of political commentary and current international

affairs. Well, right now this minute 17:42 pm 10/11/2024

I am house minding in Bourn Cambridgeshire. There is a

local shop, but it is not organic, so, I go by bus twice each

week to Cambridge where there is an organic store and

also bio-bread, I like sourdough brown heavy bread, not

the anaemic sliced impersonated supermarket *******.

We are getting close to an answer now, bear with me SVP.

When I was living in Mallow County Cork, I went twice a

week to Cork city by bus or train (30 minutes) to buy my

groceries at Quay Co-Op which is an organic city store.

Incidentally, Cambridge is 30 minutes from Bourn also.

                                  <>

Ok, here we go. Just as there is nothing in supermarkets

for me ( with the exception of toilet paper ) I can say the

same about Main Street Media. I am now going to give

you a shopping list of my media preferences. But do be

aware, just as I have to put a ruck sack on my back and

go search for organic produce, the same applies to these

names I am about to give you.

                                  <>

Democracy Now

Eoin Jones

John Meirsheimer

New Atlas

Dialogue Works

Max Blumenthal

Middle East Eye

Kernow Damo

Through The Eyes Of

Scott Ritter

Colonel Douglas MacGregor

Norman Finkelstein

Noam Chomsky

Redacted

Chris Hedges

Judge Napolitano

Lowkey

George Galloway

Ezra Levant (Rebel News)

Eva Bartlet (Electronic Intifada)


                         <>

Ps

I can tell a MSM person in 30 seconds of meeting one and in

case you happen to not know what MSM actually is, then you

will never comprehend why non pesticide herbicide fungicide

food is so important to me, but do be aware that we are what

we think every bit as much as what we consume. Let me start

you off by asking you to google Eva Bartlet and read what WIKI

has to say abut her, then try M.O.A.T.S. which is well worth

subscribing to, Mother Of All Talk Shows, George Galloway.


Ps x 2

Hopefully this answers your question.

Ps x 3

The only piece of literary value in most

MSM is the date.