"tunisian" poems
The first thing I saw early this morning
When I pulled back the light green curtains
Was a hectic blue 'n orange butterfly
Wavering in the fair sun of my garden -
'tween the enclosed well and the laurel tree.
On a sidewalk, red and radiant,
Strutted two maidens together,
A turquoise skirt wore the one,
A chocolate T-shirt the other.
Jubilant they were together,
As the cadence of their laughter
Waved in the air like Tunisian silk.
No harvest did my screen display today,
No mountain range did loom far in the distance;
All that was shown were a laughing sidewalk,
And a quivering sun in a small garden.
(c) LazharBouazzi
Jul 30, 2018
Jul 30, 2018 at 6:57 PM UTC
The first thing I saw early this morning
When I pulled back the light green curtains
Was a hectic blue 'n orange butterfly
Waving in the fair sun of my garden -
Between the enclosed well and the laurel tree.
On the red radiant sidewalk,
Two damsels strutted together;
A turquoise skirt wore the one,
A chocolate T-shirt the other.
Jubilant they were together,
As the cadence of their laughter
Waved in the air like Tunisian silk.
No harvest did my screen display today,
No mountain range did loom far in the distance;
All that was shown were a laughing sidewalk,
And a quivering sun in a small garden.
(c) LazharBouazzi, April 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016
Apr 21, 2016 at 11:27 AM 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 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
when i want inspiration to write poetry
i watch a heaving tempest of kisses
they have a better flavor
than cooking shows
what's prettier than pretty pretty
in pigtails
shaking her delicious
derriere whipped Soufflé?
i'm kissing butter princess
witchy ****
spread lickity splits
eating her
with a big wide **** eating grin
like an open face dagwood
whats more poetic than that hopeful glaring
of
Adonis's plumper in paradise
filling Cleopatra's slathered meringue?
ga-ga-ga-gag me, daddy
merciless, pa-leazze
fluttered big wet talking eyes
like pools of blue honey
getting it zigged zagged
hard against a redraw mouth
throttling fluted gullet
while eager throat gasps
a symphonic music of the spheres
in relentless staccato chokes
lovin her big devil **** splashing
all gym built wonder-boy
a litter of ****** and tongues
licking pig greedy
rapturous milkshake waterfalls
whimpering
mmmmmm
oooh big daddy
oh my ****** god
pillar of colossus
you Tunisian donut you
pierce me like a spoon
through summer guava
who screams like that eating lunch
but a half ate apricot?
better than a football game
I'd rather take her greek
more fun than math or small talk
preferable to a pat on the back at work
or a ridged procession at a funeral
oh beautiful dark fig
squatting crotch candy
bubbling tapioca ***
queen of
spun sugar ****
all pyrotechnics
and fluttering sinews
if you asked most
do they watch ****
they'd grow smug like a senator
or punch you in the mouth
outwardly high-minded
refusing the blessing of a
video **** parade
of pirouetting vaginas
and glistening areolas
for the glory
of the secret ************ ceremony
the *** moralists
only good for a secret ******
living their lives
with passions submerged
and nothing to confess
except for guilty offerings
as they wander through dreamland shopping malls
wanting to know
Victorias ***** little secret
seduced
but not caressed
by
a mouthpiece for castrated dreams
Jun 5, 2018
Jun 5, 2018 at 4:05 PM UTC
Alone the groans of humanity that were once united in love at last. finds its rest .
We wait for a call that never comes ,
and close our eyes in death .
Now the cricket finds its leaf on some Tunisian shores weaves silk
it’s song of love ,
just as
My hand reaches out to yours only for you to flinch and turn from love .
the pebble washed over by the shore finds itself on ship wrecked Oceans of thee .
Where once lovers walked hand in hand their love like the sands of time exposed .
Like pebbles stolen from the beach where once Greek lovers found play ,Their. wedding songs bliss ,
hand in hand on moon set tidel bays .
So the twilight casts its gaze ,
Soon my time moves ever on ,
the midnight flyer i once caught
Only to never find the one .
Love and death have yet to follow me ,
their paths I know not well ,
the sunshine tomorrow’s ring brings sage of old to tell .
Out of these dark ages Saxon roamed ,
Autumn leaves once green in bloom ,
have turned a golden brown only
now to deaths decay .
Their sorrows winter shall take and find ,
An Ampetheatre of Chicken bones they gorge,
eight thousand demon hoards ,
helmet , belt and sword and my victory is assured .
“ Now set the table honey just mix the salad dear “
“ Look mother an olive all by itself can I have it please ? ”
“Yes , now wash your hands “
and i was swollowed ,
...whole ..
Sep 29, 2018
Sep 29, 2018 at 5:03 PM UTC
Old eyeglasses on wetland.
Deep footmarks in cold sand.
Green tide takes all.
LazharBouazzi, January 11, 2017
Jan 11, 2017
Jan 11, 2017 at 1:56 PM 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
Take off your hands on my Earth
Undisputed minds live in Tunisia
No fights can prevent our glory birth
Inside each Tunisian soul belongs Tunisia
Slaves to your killer minds ill zombies
Always peace will live with our memories....
Mar 22, 2015
Mar 22, 2015 at 1:40 PM UTC
It’s winter
and the radiators make for hot summer bedrooms,
fake heat for a false season,
high humid air in the canopy,
a western, British, Tunisian bazaar.
But outside the window frame into
the rooftop mouth
of chimney teeth and foggy breath,
a pair of speckled starlings,
with deep coffee eyes and rings
of white for plumage decoration,
nest in the wound of this building.
Surely if they migrate,
to warmer climates, past
the Spanish-African gate, they’d
be able to bask in the dawn desert
sun that’ll drift slowly overhead,
raise their young their instead.
I’d like to migrate too,
leave this town for
somewhere new.
Mar 23, 2013
Mar 23, 2013 at 3:59 PM UTC
A crimson boat waives
the flow of the waves
as a blonde damsel craves
an infernal sun.
Next to the maiden
and the dandy-fella,
blossoms a vermillion
umbrella
whose washed out shadow
played the shady cellar
for two green apples
and one apricot
the blonde damsel hungrily
had bought
to quench her own fiery
want
of the lustful monster.
Closing her ice-blue eyes,
the fair woman,
her sinful inspiration
did she summon
to come carve
on her body so sullen
a scarlet picture
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.
Mar 23, 2017
Mar 23, 2017 at 9:57 AM UTC
The first thing I saw early this morning
when I pulled back the blue-sky curtains
was a hectic white and orange butterfly
waving in the fair sun of my garden -
between the enclosed well and the laurel tree.
On the scarlet, bright sidewalk,
two damsels strutted together;
a turquoise skirt wore the one,
a chocolate T-shirt the other.
Jubilant they were together,
for the cadence of their laughter
waved in the air as Tunisian silk.
See?
No harvest did my screen display today -
no mountain range loomed far in the distance -
all that was unraveled were a laughing sidewalk,
and a quivering sun in a small garden.
(c) LazharBouazzi, April 21, 2016; revised, August 17, 2016
Aug 17, 2016
Aug 17, 2016 at 6:40 AM UTC
I am back yet again
in Tripoli, reading
Arabic street signs and
on an evening look
to find that special fish
restaurant of old.
Al-Jameheriyyah
al-Arabeiyyah is and
has always been for me
the land of surprises in
this storied life.
Already, I have been
kidnapped into a long
adventure, taking me across
the Sahara into the rarest
of lands, filled with ponds
and fertile green beauty!
Today, I accompany
contacts from the fishing
fleet into the port.
On the far side of which,
below the British Embassy
is an old black submarine!?
My main contact is
handing me on board a
vessel, when he ages
slack and shakes.
Then, I am pulled back
to be led away.
Hot and held firmly,
we don't waste words.
My jacketed guards walk me
briskly into the harbour,
towards a squat building.
Each alert and thinking - I,
that I'm in the arms of the
Libyan Secret Police,
as each jacket conceals
my confirmation!
On entering their blockhouse,
I am led and followed up the
stairs to confront a facing cell,
wallpapered entirely in
the heavy folding scissor-ed
steel closure of the Souq,
jewelled in locks!
The first jacket stoops to unlock
my cage. Likely, sharing my confidence
that once in, I'm here to stay - I
drift slightly left. Thence, to roll
left, behind and around a second jacket,
to swiftly enter the office to my
rear. A man stands, surprised!
Shaking hands, I greet him warmly.
I am asked to take a seat and
the audience at the door
to give explanation!
I am now the honoured guest
and have no intention of
leaving my seat! Afraid,
the chairman and his shocked
staff are invited also. Four
hours later my past involvement
in supplying the Libyan Tunisian
Fishing Cooperative with eighty
eight marine propulsion engines
is confirmed.
I leave them last, as
one might part from friends.
.
Jun 6, 2010
Jun 6, 2010 at 11:54 AM UTC
Eyeglasses old on wetland,
Footmarks deep in fissured sand,
Tidegreen takes all.
(c) LazharBouazzi
Jul 11, 2018
Jul 11, 2018 at 11:24 AM UTC
free as a bird I found myself out of the cage of love
a display of unrestrained delight
released from physical obstruction
only to realize freedom smelled like floral notes of sambac,
jasmine and tunisian orange blossom just like you
May 6, 2020
May 6, 2020 at 9:43 PM UTC
The revolution that burst out the rose of wind in the sand,
And for which Anemone bled in the field
Is now led by grave wisdom
Filling our lungs with incense’s rotten fume …
Birds are alarmed by the hissing of the leaves
The mole broadens the strategy of the pit,
And announces today the birth of his (nightly) ninety-ninth party
While, from a thousand sheds, echoes Surat The Merciful.
Feb 8, 2014
Feb 8, 2014 at 1:15 PM UTC
.
.
.
Hello ex-Hubby,
I meant the handsome dystopian boy,
currently, I'm writing you the sin
I remembered that craved the most,
when I dared to
penetrate my colorful virtue spot again.
to ride the last whole night car with you
in a hurry,
and forget about the evil you,
hating women, dressed in your dark flurry.
I embraced those tiny white palms in my head.
when they refused to touch me back and ride ahead.
instead of losing interest
and forget about reverence you physically,
I kept my fingers crossed secretly,
under the car seat,
next to the prestigious scent of yours.
Your North African amber eyes
that refused to match mine,
to get lost between their depressed universes and shine.
I prayed along this magnificent time,
to God so he could with his 99 mercies
make you fully mine.
The lava that burst divinely
out of your Tunisian delicate betrayed my senses
and lit the full hungriness towards your beguilement.
I encouraged my half stability
to make it through
a little bit far from you,
my hallowed brew
with every single meter that we've passed
I fluctuate amid the idea of capturing you devilishly or sacredly, between making some blood contracts with the devil itself,
or donate as much money as I could,
for the sake of being together,
burring ourselves on an old bookshelf.
trichotillomania; the colorless ferocious ogre,
that used to assault my bright aesthetic soul,
as a tight fatal choker
to remind it chastely,
of the imperfection portrait of mine.
and pursue its pride with a fiery scourge,
matted with brine
when I started to rise my jaded fingers
to covet those golden cheeks.
I failed!
the deficiency is capturing me
The keloid I hated the most
as I carry my dramatic havoc away,
a little bit away,
from your inner fray
pathetically, I turned my whole feelings
against my well ignoring the idea of
love Subliminal and its spell
facing the windscreen
that harshly afford me a great frustration
trying to cover my hope with trash sack and provocation.
I failed,
escaping the life blackmail,
convincing me to practically disbelief on you.
But I kept myself as holy as I dared to.
despite of my Viscera's beating,
crumbling and shrinking.
I kept my grin harmfully, blinking.
under your realm seeking for a light of your anger that will
console me again. and bring me home.
Happy Birthday!
.
.
.
Apr 12, 2024
Apr 12, 2024 at 12:03 AM UTC
She sips tea with her son in a Tunisian tent
Orange and blue scarves sun-bright in summer
Mitsubishi motors mandatory for desert trek
Sardinia is two hours and a lifetime away.
Pensive thoughts on a desert dune heaven
Life can slip through the fingers like sand
Grasping the chance to live in the moment
Arabian nights’ stories for next week’s kids.
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 9:25 AM UTC
A new Tunisian poetic genre is born.
What is a "Kasserine"?
Structure:
A Kasserine is a new poetic genre created on July 9, 2017. In it all is condensed in two lines with a sum total of thirteen or fourteen syllables. Its first line cannot exceed seven of them.
The title of a Kasserine must be an integral part of the poem in terms of interpretation. The number of its syllables must not exceed seven.
Subject matter:
In a Kasserine nature and imagination perform the same poetic activity. Nature ceases to be a mere mirror reflecting the feelings of the poet, the political or social situation, etc., and becomes symbolic in the very moment it renounces representation as a one-to-one correspondence . Nature in a Kasserine has no existence prior to the pricking into action of the imagination by the self of the poet. For, even though it is groundless (it does not belong to the self), the imagination has no intentionality of its own; this is why it needs the intentionality of the subject in order to be operative.
Samples of a Kasserine
Ruby Sun
Among amethyst silk clouds
She flirts with the sapphire sea
(c) Paula Swenson, USA
Tunisia
A fair island of light
in my imagination
(c) Jeffard Ster, USA
Red Giant
A star inside her implodes
Heavens of chaos unfold
(c) Stefan David Sederscog, Sweden
Voyeurism
The sea kisses the sky
Imagination beholds.
© LazharBouazzi, Tunisia
Note: Friends and acquaintances are cordially invited to start writing sublime (marked by repression of meaning) Kasserines.
(c)Lazhar Bouazzi, 9 July, 2017.
Jul 9, 2017
Jul 9, 2017 at 4:27 PM UTC
A crimson boat waives
The flow of the waves
As a blonde damsel craves
An infernal sun.
Next to the maid and the dandy-fella -
Blossoms a vermillion umbrella
Whose washed out shadow - a pallid cellar
For two green apples and one apricot
The blonde damsel on the way had bought
To quench her want of the lustful monster.
Closing her ice-blue eyes, the fair woman,
Her sinful inspiration did summon
To come carve on her navel so sullen
A blue picture of the new Benzart bridge.
© LazharBouazzi, Carthage, June 5, 2016
*"Benzart" is the Tunisian name for “Biserta” or “Bizerte” - a beach town on the northern coast of Tunisia.
Jun 4, 2016
Jun 4, 2016 at 7:02 PM UTC
PART II – THE CATALYST
Mohamed Bouazizi –
He who lived as a prisoner of poverty, and died a martyr.
His last moments
Were eighteen days of a comatose state,
A body burned all over, twisted with hate
Hatred for those who chose
To oppress and control, to steal and cajole
From people who could barely afford
What one needs to survive.
Mohamed
Died as a symbol of resistance –
It was his insistence,
His dissatisfaction at living like a slave
That served to dislodge
The Tunisian nation from its slumber.
Suddenly, the agonising death of one man
Was all that was needed to ignite a revolution,
It was not a solution but rather a convolution
Of pain that was already existent –
He was a catalyst of sentiment
A man who gave up his life so everyone else could open their eyes and realise
That we are all victims of a system that does not care.
“Farewell Mohamed, we will avenge you,”
Is what the people chanted.
Like a nest of hornets
They angrily took to the streets
A populace enraged to this day
Eight years of delay, a delay
Of justice being served, of the dire recalibration
That Tunisians now demand
Of their corrupt nation.
Apr 4, 2018
Apr 4, 2018 at 4:30 AM UTC
In Tunisia's embrace sands unfold
Whispers of stories in sunsets told
And Tunisia is the place to be with warm
Olive trees that dance in the golden rays
Timeless beauty in ancient maze
Tunisian colors shine bright with
Starry nights beneath silver light
Waves kiss shores with a gentle sigh
In Tunisia's heart dreams will
Forever soar.
Sep 9, 2025
Sep 9, 2025 at 7:30 AM UTC