Archive for the ‘Poems in English’ Category

Rising Sunset

Posted: October 18, 2018 in Poems in English, Thoughts
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There’s no strangeness at this point. I felt the coming, I created it, I reveled in the meeting of this energy, I was wanting it and I attracted it. I’m entirely responsible. Maybe not consciously, but aren’t these accidents delicious? I love creating these kinds of accidents, increasingly aware, as I let the bliss settle into my cells.

 

In the Limit is the meeting point. That’s why people go there, the Limit between the ancient city and the new city, between the sea and the highway, between how we were and how we will be. There’s always a bit of cave in the light, its role is the prism effect and it’s beautiful.

 

The Limit is the present, the eternal perpetual present of being. The limit is presence and flight: a plane, a thought, a bird or a sunset are just modalities of its coming into manifestation. The Limit is surpassing the Limit, is the endless flow and happiness of standing above the peak, of being in the transformation. The Limit is the touch and the shiver of the familiar with a different colour, like the eternal return of the sunset is magnificently enveloping in love and passion every evening with different nuances. How delicious.

 

The age of agelessness has come. I have passed the Limit.

 

That’s why we need to master the emotional, transcendental connection, because words will never be enough to describe the Limit and the passing, that’s why we need to refine our receptors continuously, so we can grow into the understanding of what’s beyond the limit.

 

We are in the living edge of creation, bursting with New life and it is our daily delight to follow the flow into our path.

 

How delicious to walk on the sea side, in the sunset, in the limit of water, our homemost environment, on the edge of sleep, when we are so closely connected to ourselves, to each-other and to the universe. And from time to time looking around and inside, where our realities connect.

 

Welcome home! You were here, but only now you are beginning to see it. So am I.

 

To hold on to your veil like the last handle bar in front of the abyss.

To have the confidence and peace to let go of your veil and stay dead calm.

“Now the Sirens have a still more fatal weapon than their song,

namely their silence…” Franz Kafka, 1917,  The Silence of the Sirens

 

 

No one dares to breath

almost

no one opens their eyes more

than an eye lash, more

than the strictly necessary for the bare minimum

no one opens any opening more than the absolute necessary

light, food, thought, faeces

light, food, faeces

food, faeces

faeces

 

No one dares to do anything else than everyone else.

It´s not just survival, it´s the heard.

 

No one dares because in these times of strain, they have to appreciate the sacrifices that the fore runners and the hounds of the herd are making for them and

continue

enjoying their lives.

 

Their lives are worth living.

Our lives are worth living!

It´s the lives of some of us

only

that are not worth living.

So they can die for our lives to be enjoyed.

 

 

Others

see what happens if they dare!

The others know.

We all know

and nobody dares.

 

Silence pierces through brain.

Siren pierces through the silence.

The piercing sound sounds like a siren

piercing through the brain.

The brain is metallic and the echo of the siren will forever sound piercing a hollow metal sphere which was our brain.

It is the cage of our brain.

The metal piercing metal

and with some sparks

sounds forever in our airtight skull.

 

 

***

 

 

It’s a very tense silence. I walk slowly with my senses wide open. I wear one headphone just in case, to maintain my protection, my visual sign of non-involvement. If I am scared? Maybe a bit more careful and aware than if I had been in tel aviv- depending on the area, naturally.

I arrive at the station, no bars, it’s not closed but no busses. I ask a group of three men, 2 looking westerners, both sunk in their smart phones, another looking Palestinian also sunk in his. I ask in Arabic, I judge it’s wiser, more neutral in the context, had I been in Tel Aviv I would have asked in Hebrew. What a luxury to have differentiated and preferential communication at one´s disposal.

The Palestinian is watching some talk show on his phone and smoking-I smell regular tobacco and two kids are flying balloons: one reading Hope another with Tweety. A 50 year plus lady appears asks about the bus and sits on the edge making the westerners gather together. She lights up her cigarette on the border of social acceptability, with the necessary indifference. Quite vital.

After half an hour of waiting the bus arrives 4 foreigners board, all burnt from the sun, some peeling already, others just looking like crabs. I suspect two are Russians living in the Abraj. Great, they will open the bottom door for me, side smile, I will have to make conversation.
***
I have made a random guy cry various times during a coffee and 3 cigarettes, in East Jerusalem, just after the imaginary border (only Google Maps sometimes knows it). I learnt his life and philosophy. I supported and contradicted him on world politics and in personal affairs. It’s a normal story he said various times. It’s like this:

“I was in prison for a year and a half since I was thirteen and a half. I learnt a lot in prison. I learnt Hebrew and about the world and I read and I understood. About politics, about organization about the world. For me it was a time of growing, I was there with everyone: with hamas and fateah and normal people and with the Israelis and I understood about all of them. This can be done through the schools as well, people shouldn’t have to go to prison to learn. They said I threw stones and I was next to a bus and burnt it, I don’t know if I did it, I really really don’t know, I don’t remember, it seems such a long time ago. Since then I am on the black list and I can’t do anything. I can but always I have problems. Then I started with music and did so much. Now everyone, musicians who come to Jerusalem talk to me and I am a reference. I am very proud of what I did with this and my life. Also in Europe I went to study and did many tours and concerts. A long time ago I could have left and stayed there if I had wanted but why to do this? This is my home and where in feel connected and where I want to live.

 

And what happened there that tied him so strongly to this land? (And side question: is the conflict identitarian or for survival?)

 

I was born in the Old City of Jerusalem 34 years ago. I bought a house in Anata, now half in Jerusalem half behind the wall. When I saw it´s behind the wall, I wanted to get another house in Jerusalem. I kept that one for now, because I´m not married, but I built one more floor on top of my parents´ house. It´s nice to be with all the family. And the army came to demolish my house. 10 years I paid lawyers and trials to keep my house, and they came to demolish it. So when I see they start, I come with my brother, I say stop! It´s my house I want to demolish it! And with my brother. And we started and we demolished all of it. And in a week I got a ticket 70,000 Shekel because I didn´t demolish it the right way. So! Imagine! Just think about this anywhere in the world! And if I let them demolish it I have to pay them more to demolish it with their machines!

 

So then I said ok, maybe I don´t marry. And maybe I should just stick to my music and play. So we have an organization and we do concerts and tours and shows, mostly theatre and music. And we have many partners and a lot of people know us.

 

You tell me, do you see peace happening here?

Do you have hope?

 

***

 

At night there is sometimes a plane, watching hungrily over us. There´s just a blanket of cement between us. There´s just a button and a few meter-seconds. There´s just absolute trust between us.

 

Then you sharpen your years until silence pierces through the metallic hollow sound of the spherical cage and you start hearing the sirens across many kilometres.

 

I have listened so hard, that I have heard the donkey wake up.

4.36

She makes signs

Posted: June 14, 2014 in Poems in English
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There is hardly an end to the depth of the slime. One can swim for a while, can float for a while, jump around like a fly in the jar, but in the end understand that the jar is in a jug. The density of water draws arabesques around our bodies. The sun has hidden behind the mountains of the seabed and envelops Jordan in a bright red aura. Floating up and down like the pin of a seismograph is an exercise which breaks the horizontal columns of communication, while keeping them from drowning and later they rearrange freely. Reclining on the divan or sitting cross legged on the tabourette we talk the afternoon away. Privileged view point from the balcony – all the northern part of the sea and our neighbours and cousins.

 

There is hardly anything to says in this placid day: the hour has evaporated, the sky has fused with the desert, the barren creeks might well be hiding a flood in the horizon, nothing would move this thought: it is nice to be stuck in the present. And I open my lungs wide and spread my neurons across the globe, to perceive everything, to digest the world, to bear it all within my aura.  It is nice to be absent-minded in the proximity of you.

 

Again, unadvertedly, the shadows grow. She makes signs in the slime, in the air.

 

The tabs are quite intuitive, and really, anything goes 🙂

There comes a warmth, my baby, when I think of you

There comes a whirlpool of joy into my veins

I lift my candle-stick fingers to Heavens and bruise

Their gate of fire and waters with my verse

I had a glorious youth all around the world – I did so much

I traveled love, joy, pain and sorrow and I learned the blues

But then I looked around: new people, new places, new time

No one I knew: just you

So I gave you my wing and said: Babe, do you cruise?

Wheeaaa-haaaa

Chorus: There comes a warmth, my baby, when I think of you

There comes a whirlpool of joy into my veins

I lift my candle-stick fingers to Heavens and bruise

Their gate of fire and waters with my verse

II. And we drove through the planets, walked around the sun

We made castles in the rainbow

and flew through the forest

and smiled on the terrace

and dived in the mountains

and tanned in the pig-drone

and ate in the bedroom

and tracked through the corals

and we sang the blues.

But then the day of winter came to throw us back to one

and I prayed: Oh won’t you leave us live happy, Lord, just one more day…

Chorus: There comes a warmth, my baby, when I think of you

There comes a whirlpool of joy into my veins

I lift my candle-stick fingers to Heavens and bruise

Their gate of fire and waters with my planes.

Us and the Earth

Posted: November 23, 2013 in Poems in English
Tags: , ,

So many Stars fall tonight.
The devil of night seems to hold the Earth in his hands
and blows in a tinder

to light it sizzling.
Tonight, when so many
stars fall, your young witch
body burns in my arms
like in the flames of a pyre.

Mad,
I extend my arms like fire blazes,
to melt the snow of your naked shoulders
and to drink, to consume with hunger,
your strength, blood, pride, your spring, everything.

At dawn, as the day will light up the night,
when the ashes of night would be taken away
by a wind towards sunset;
at dawn, I would like us to be
the ashes,

too, us and – the earth.

—Lucian Blaga—

Image

It has been said time and again that negotiations are not just official dealing between states or companies, but rather is a daily exercise that all of us practice, mostly without knowing. Negotiation of all kinds is totally dependent on communication of all kinds and the ¨First Instinct¨ is important.

In the beginning of any acquaintance there is always a moment of truth, when both people drop for an instant every mask or acquired configuration and appear truthful and pure in front of the other. This occurs when one has sufficient desire to know the other that all conscious and unconscious energy is focused on infiltrating through every pour of the other in order to decode them and translate the basic meaning in one’s own terms of reference – essential deconstructivism.  In that particular moment self-awareness becomes so low that the other is almost free to do the same. This coincidence of moments of weakness or purity is the basis of any meaningful communication.

Of course it is possible and even likely that one of the two participants doesn´t sense the moment of openness and wastes it. This will give the other person an edge of understanding, but will not help the relationship in the long run.

A. Badiou: ¨Love between two people is the minimal form of communism.¨

Akko PortEver unfinished buildings, without windows or doors, a cemetery of self-contained, hallucinogenic houses. This is how we all lived, knowing our thresholds and those of humankind. Thus we hid of the sun and of the cold, of men, hoping that the right anger stretches tomorrow the spines of our children. Spring morning in the trees which we now plant in Gaza. The flowers of our instants. The res cogitans becomes fluid in the temporary differences, we don’t cross in order to be on the other side, we are fragmented in the living so that the recomposition of our great body be opened to the light. Unity in expansion, in the regaining of the branches and trunk of our land.

Spatial disintegration, temporal strain, natural conjunction of consequences in all the accords of the jazz which was closing our walnut nights in. This enjoyment in the second, in the instantaneous touch of reality is not simple mystification for lack of words, but for lack of psychological buttress versus the despair of nothingness. The god has imploded.

Flash with pieces of (dis)pair

Posted: February 20, 2013 in Poems in English
Tags: , ,

The city at dusk

I sit myself better, with the head leant on splinters – metal with a taste of blood, of life, of past. This will be my final poem, a confession, a word extended in a million shreds, a substance so uncertain like the now, the I and everything else. Some signs in other horizons of meaning, in some dead languages, uselessly pick up from the valleys of desperation. Gathered with the hope that you could walk the last hundred meters up to the top, come back to the height of all that null sense, the only one able to satisfy now, by being absolute.

This here, there, is the fire bath, that there, here is our present perfect. The referentiality will stop having an object, objects, the sequential logic which is building our time, building us, leaves.

Leaves for a while, for some hours, leaves while you don’t realize that the despair for the nothingness is not leaving, but this time, for us it’s forever. Do you imagine the explosion of light that we will be, both of us bathing naked, beautiful in this light that sanctifies, curses, you exploding in me and me exploding.

The noise storm doesn’t pass through the flesh, don’t worry, what you hear are my last heart beats. If only I could take you out of there, but what would you do swimming in the blood of the world, it’s better if you drown in ours. A man has brought me water, you are almost dead already, I have a few seconds left to finish the poem, I told him to spare the effort, he drank it in a second. You see, this world is not worthwhile.

The angels pass.

**** For Operation Pillar of Cloud ****

Fa-te samanta, lacrima de dor; din samanta floare, din floare fecior…

Si cenusa se uda cu lacrima iubirii si se transforma in floare. Si udata cu lacrima divina, prin ploaie si din pantecul noptii se renaste fecior sub ochii lunari ai fetei. Feciorul astfel renascut rascumpara dreptatea prin niste tineri reporteri la al-jazeera:Din samanta, floare, din floare fecior….

It seems a crucial moment in time and frames, in understandings and positionings.  The world will understand a little better how it functions: a looking in the mirror exercise for the un-blind(ed).  And thine eyes are made for the seeing and thy spirit for the understanding and thy blood for the fighting. If it is to happen in the near future, it happens. Animo, heroi!

The sect of the Phoenix – the age long secret which has become unveiled, desacralized by modern media. For we all are mud and to mud we shall return. Like a pure Arab blood rising from the slime of the tide, the horse trotting me about is rising from the intoxicating roses. The stallion will forever guard the entrance to the empire of the future, and the grass blades have the choice of following the hierarchy and allow for the trotting or be grazed. There are also those who may grow roots away from the path of the gatekeeper and away from the promised land of future which he majestically guards.

The kids tricked me again. I have prepared a nice presentation, slides, stories, food for thought and only four came to watch poor Antigone. She cried again over the tomb of her brother, about the other world and about the sunshine and then they all went their ways.

And then again this man comes howling from afar, I try to lure him to see his face, to poke his eye balls and trap his tail under my rocking chair, but he keeps a respectable 1km distance and keeps howling. The night is young!