The Seventh Room

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‘The ending is water’
Whispered a crow
As I step slow—Out, out of the asylum
My body, which isn’t mine, dragged all way
Needles falling on the grey floor,
Some I took off—
Others were inserted for too long
Hideous as a monster,
The survivor of the one thousand years bloodshed
Finally managed an escape, with a book and papers’ shreds
At the end of the aisle of patients’ beds,
I know there is a staircase leading to an exit
I ran downward.

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امرأة الكُثبان

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في ارضي، لن ترى إلا الفحم و الكُثبان
لا بداية، لها، و لا نهاية
رملا فوق رمل و آلهة من الحجر و غِربان
في أرضي، ستسمع فقط عن جنات عدن و شقائق النعمان
هنا، حيث اللازمان و اللامكان
هنا، حيث عَبدتٌ الحَجر

وحيدةً تمامًا في الفلك
فلا سماء زرقاء و لا قمر
ارضي، هذه التي اكتسح السواد رملها
و جفت نسائها و لقت حتفها
،ارضي
ارضُ الرماد و الفحم
ارضًا ملئتها الذكور أمُم
..ارضي
،ارضُ الصدأ و الموتى
أموطنًا انتِ أم منفى؟

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حُلم

a dream

حلمت بالأمس بأن الامنية قد ماتت
و بأن الاغنية قد عاشت

حلمت بالامس بأن هذهِ الحياة كانت تسقط من اعلى كالمُذنب

مني تقترب و بكَ تحترق

حلمت بغياب الامس
و بطلوع الشمس

حلمت بالسماء و بسكون المطر
حلمت بك… و كنت انت السفر

كنت انت.. و كنت انا
و خلفنا القمر

من اي انتظار قد جئت؟

خشيت ان استيقظ قبل أن اعرفك
خشيت ان تغيب و ان افقدك
!خشيت الحلم
و بإن إستيقاظي سيهجُرك

 

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A Man on a Cliff

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I am a blocked volcanic crater
I burn my own skin
Going dry, going slim
Going all the way to him
I am the waiting siren
At the end of your swim.

I am the stone that kept you
On a cliff
You’d think you’d fall from a breeze,
Or a passing whiff—
But darling, not even a firestorm
Could unleash your tethered feet.

Suffocated in vain—
I prayed for the droplets of your rain
To slowly dissipate my heat
And cover me in mist
And all the feelings I missed.

The man of charcoal and ashes,
Still hanging on a cliff
Blind, deaf, and stiff.

Darling, the lavas are stepping closer
To burning you,
Burning me.

 

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M Train by Patti Smith

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Patti Smith is an incredible writer. She’s such an iconic musician and a very interesting person and all that awesomeness is magnified when she writes. Seriously the amount of her coolness and intellectuality is very admirable and she won’t sound pretentious for reading so many books and knowing so many cool people, she’s just a lovely poet who reflects modern life in an artistic way. She will take you for a walk in her favourite cafes in NY to daydream with her, she will describe the beaches for you and you will almost feel the breeze and the smell of the sea. She doesn’t stop there; Patti also challenges time; yes, you will listen to her talking with the dead. The dead are the writers who influenced her and spoke to her: Mrabet, Bowles, Aira, Bolaño, Burroughs, Rimbaud, Plath, Mishima, Murakami and Bulgakov are almost present and alive. She visits them and talks about them.. With them.

She also masters her words so well; like she can make an old dusty bar seem magical; a room in a Hotel is a scene from a classical avant-garde film, the objects are stories to tell and the places are here for her to experience. Things are NOT just things with Patti; she’s a Buddha who writes proses and verses about normal things and turns them into a guide, a new way of seeing things. A pictorial sort of writing. She makes time stops.

And at last, you won’t hate her because she writes better than you, you will love her because she’s only teaching you to be even better for she will teach you how to feel.

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