Adonis Diaries

Posts Tagged ‘Poems Mine

It smelt the beast; it felt primitive

Their eyes met in a flash;

A pair of old acquaintances:

They recognized the event.

They made one step forward and ran into one another arms.

They are embracing; they are sniffing one another,

Slowly, softly sniffing, reminiscing youth.

They are smelling rapidly, inhaling big gulps of body whiffs,

Smelling energy, the wild life.

They fell on their knees, smelling of the beast.

They are clutching hands, kissing fingers, finger nails,

One finger at a time, slowly and respectfully.

Kissing fingers haphazardly, mindlessly, distractedly.

It felt of heart beating wildly;

Of life marching on: timeless.

Misty eyes blinding sights;

No need to observe details:  They knew.

Primal, primitive senses made it all clear and comprehensive.

“I feel stupid” he said

“I smell awful” she said.

“I feel so lucky:  I am experiencing falling in love” he said

“I smell terrible; I look tragic” she said

“I love you; I love it all; I love everyone; I love me” he said

Two expanding stupid smiles

Redesigning two plain, very wet, intelligent faces.

Puny avatar; why in the name of God?

Show me a single religion condemning

As blasphemy, the biggest sin of all,

Speaking in the name of God.

Puny avatar;

Why in the name of God?

Allah, Jehovah, Krishna, Buddha

Show me a single religion

Not inaugurating a President

In the name of a God.

Not haranguing the troops

In the name of a God.

Not persecuting other religions

In the name of a God.

Puny avatar; why are you hiding your weaknesses

In the name of a God?

Are you scaring me with eternal fire?

Is a candle burn not bad enough?

Are you frightening me to obedience by eternal pain?

Millions are suffering constant pain in hospitals, tents, in open air;

Of curable diseases, famine, thirst,

No pain-killer powerful enough to let go in peace.

Isn’t a single case bad enough to you?

Are you enticing me for immortality?

Anything scarier than boring immortality?

Puny avatar; why are you heaping your ignorant arrogance on me

In the name of a God?

Is there a single religion with enough imagination?

A total silence preceding a major cataclysm as God.

A complete darkness, not a candle flickering.

A world devoid of the feeling of touch;

Not a single soft breeze, not a wet loving kiss.

A world odorless and tasteless as God

Any one of that kinds of Gods would scare the hell out of me

And you won’t have to preach in his Name.

Puny avatar; talk in the name of God

And stay this dwarf: petty, mean, and coward.

Mankind! Stand up; wake up.

Dare speak in the name of Man.

Take on your responsibilities in the name of mankind.

Embrace your countless limitations;

Develop your limitless potentials.

Pray your God in the solitude of your heart;

Give grace to your God in the many ways to enjoying life;

For the opportunity to working with passion and sweating labor.

Puny avatar you were and is

In the name of God.

Try speaking in the name of man

With respect and humility to your fellow co-survivors

Sharing the same boat, the toil, hardship, and labor.

Sharing the smiles, joy, laughter, and compassion

Sharing what earth has in reserve to us all.

Singing with birds, the breeze, the sea wind.

Avatar you are and will be

And puny no more.

The Book. Burning The Book 

Note:  This poem was written more than 10 years ago and is relevant any time, anywhere.  

In any upheaval, books are burned first.  Next comes burning of people.  

1. Friend, I don’t resent that you found the Truth,

The whole truth, in a book, The Book, or a few books.

I don’t mind that your book is

About faith, sciences, or philosophy.

2. I want you to know that

I do enjoy total Certainty,

Certainly not for a lifetime.

I do enjoy complete comfort in the mind,

One night at a time.

I cherish reading a different book a day,

To disturb my soul a bit longer;

To sharpen my suspicion,

In your stand, a tad deeper.

3. I hear that you don’t mean

To abridge my liberty for seeking knowledge,

To impinge on my freedom of opinion,

To impress your truths on me,

To burn down my libraries,

To limit my range of personalities.

I like to believe that you don’t mean it;

But if you don’t, what do you really mean?

Face off: Gilgamesh against Storm

Important note: This is a liberal translation of an epic poem by late Syrian poet Mohammad al Maghout.  It was written over 30 years ago; way before Desert Storm on Iraq in 1991.

I sent this poem to a new site (opened last month with only four members) that invited me to join and share my poems.  After “approving” a dozen poems and commenting laudatory on them, the “administrator ” amazed me by demanding clarification:  He wanted to know if this poem refers to American soldiers!  I replied that this story is about the epic struggle of mankind against calamities; natural and man-made.

I insisted that the eagle does not represent a symbol to any State or tribe, religion, or any culture.  I have a mind to ask this tight administrator what in the animal kingdom is convenient for his imagination to fight a storm. I received no reply and the poem was not shown on the site.

Excellent poets perceive invariants in human history and rephrase them in indelible images.

Epic story of Storm and Old Eagle

Waiting for the storm to hit

How could anyone cope with a storm?

What could you do in a desert storm?

Where is the storm?

It is on the horizon, hesitating;

A tramp at the hotel entrance.

Old eagle, maybe the last of his species,

Lonely, quiet, waiting for the storm;

A chauffeur waiting for his master.

Old eagle is tired of tasting occasional serene clouds;

An old chef tasting the remains of a banquet.

Queen storm is taking her time in front of the mirror.

Old eagle is ready to chase out the storm up front;

What could he do with a worn out beak?

Decrepit and turned straight from frequent shattering to pieces on rocks.

How could old eagle hurry to meet the storm?

A tottering bicycle crossing river bed?

For years, old eagle’s white feathers have been dirty;

Dirtier than an old waiter’s apron.

A gentle breeze nudging old eagle from rock to rock,

From plain to plain;

A bored old soldier in a camp

Anxious for his last battle, confronting a fly.

A soothing breeze floated over old eagle;

He fluttered, a youth touched by the first girl.

Old eagle heaves a sigh; he is reminiscing youth

Strong wings spanning the valley, glittering with sweat.

Tiny birds, out of breath, trailing valiantly behind,

Mobs running after the King’s horse,

Chants hoarse, hallelujah feeble.

Old eagle is back dozing, in the scorching sun;

Epoch stretching out.

Suddenly, the universe blackened;

The world is still;

So still that the silence created religions out of fear;

Old eagle’s tail is waving.

Old eagle is hopping in circle;

A baby lamb welcoming its mother.

The storm thundered and hastened;

An ice skater showing off.

Old eagle is whispering an old victory song;

An eagle fallen off mountain tops,

A bride with no pendants and no cries.

Old eagle opened his old beak and retreated

In respect of his old master and teacher.

Old eagle is spinning amid his broken plumes,

His shouts clacking like rifle bullets

A mass of blood proudly lecturing

On the art of thirsting and ripping apart enemies.

The storm danced around old eagle and sneaked away.

Old eagle is mad; he is jumping cat-like;

A frightened baby stumbling for the door knob;

A drunkard coming back in the bar

Kicked out a hundred times and coming back.

Old eagle is wailing like a baby.

The storm lost steam on the sea-shore,

Medals and crowns scattered.

The bludgeoned face of a boxer;

A drunk washing his face.

Mighty storm is aching:

It recollects that a tiny creature fought to death.

Mighty storm is sprawled on the beach:

A monstrous tent shrinking to a headgear;

Tears dropping in eagle’s shape.

Note: After approving another half a dozen of my poems I sent this unpoetic voice site the following poem:

It was approved and then immediately the site “suspended” me without providing reasons.

It is to be noted that the site never presented any constraints beforehand for joining or the kind of poems “satisfactory” to their “ideology”.

What if ruins talk no more?

So many ruins

Stones, dying languages, ethnic minorities, religious minorities

All kinds of new ruins piling up


Archeologists are becoming scarce.

Ethnologists are dwindling:

Modern customers no longer care for the past.

The past resembles the present so strikingly;

A past turned shameful any which way the story is retold.

God of Time, Space, Places

How can we remember you when your ruins

Talk no more?

You have a steady job of Eternal Reservist

The soldier not having to wait long

To be called upon in times of wars and calamities.

A symbol of mankind domination falls;

They have got to build another monument to hide the ruin.

What a better memorial of man’s futility

Than a horrible gigantic ruin?

God of Time, Space, Places

You are resurrected every second

By someone, somewhere

For no reasons

And that is your Sacred Power:

Nobody knows why they have got to resurrect You.

You the Eternal Mute favoring a few crazies

Interpreting your coded languages

Speaking in your name, divulging your secret purposes

To the billions of hapless souls:

Your less fortunate offspring

Dying every second of famine, curable diseases, and collateral war damages.

A few crazies not knowing how their day will end

But knowing perfectly well how their night will unfold:

Steams of nightmarish dreams

Of the worst kinds of horror movies.

God of Time, Space, Places

You archaic decrepit F of an entity.

You can’t even follow-up on the updates of your creations;

Can’t fathom the many theories of how you have created and what is your nature.

Old theories that keep recurring as if Time Space, and Places

Never changed.

Your creations seem never to learn much of anything.

God of Time, Space, Places

You archaic decrepit F of an entity;

You can’t manipulate the latest inventions of your creations

Ever more “performing”

Ever more confusing,

Even to the intelligence of your most Sacred Power.

I have a quick simple question to ask your Entity

“Are you at least having fun?”

Say YES  my Eternal Mute and I will be satisfied.

I say. Is it time to ask the two questions?

There is this time when we seriously ask the two fundamental questions:

First, are we still healthy? And

Second, is our physical handicap not very painful?

Then, smile to life:  Whatever comes during the day is fine.  You are among the living.

Before this time, we don’t have eyes or ears to listen to words of wisdom or advices.

It is not that we lack intelligence or the will to learn, but life has demands on our energies to worry a lot, a strive to fulfill whatever dream we think we have.  This is best strategy to mankind.  I had written this short poem in 1999 and I don’t think I was that conscious of getting the wiser.

I Say  

I say, every one must have his identity:

Death has forced on us the I.

I say, what exists must be discovered:

Death impressed on us to know.

I say, every feeling must be experienced:

Death created stages for us to grow.

I say, there must be a meaning to life:

Death did not leave us a choice in that.

No matter, with a little talent… 

I was immersed, involuntarily, since I was born,

In sacred rituals,

Family, religious sect, schools, and political party line.

Unlike most, I escaped marriage ritual:

I am Not that pretty, tall, or rich enough

For the beautiful opportunistic girls.

I valiantly rebelled much later, involuntarily, and mostly unconsciously first.

I attempted to be freed of the coded moral restrictions,

To free my life of the accepted sacred rituals.

I have been fleeing ever since, haphazardly, of aspects of the sacred.

I cherished the egoism of my freedom to be “nothing much for others”,

And free of everything in my mind.

No matter, with a little talent,

To keeping me busy,

I might have been swooped in the turbulence of social life.

I would not have noticed this powerful bipolar tag of war:

Freedom and the sacred.

Social intelligence, perfected through millennia,

To control and teach its select members to control.

Perfected through millennia

Has closed all loopholes

In this universal web net for controlling every aspect of social interactions,

From birth to death.

We have been revolting;

We have been reforming;

For so many abstract reasons;

Observing human injustices.

All the while, we failed to point the finger to the main dragon;

Too powerful to grasp its devilish control schemes;

Too well aware of our weaknesses, brutality,

Meanness, ignorance, and hatefulness,;

Too powerful to even mention its name,

Sacred rituals for our survival as human kind.

No matter, with a little talent,

With a few sacred links to society

I might have noticed nothing that important.

Rare catastrophes might have opened my eyes,

Eyes, to be shut close instantly to resume my daily habits.

I spared the ground floor

They spared the ground floor; wide open to winds and nature, bare of walls, doors, and windows.

They spread on the dirt floor a carpet of dry leaves, dry nuts, hay, straw, and chaff; a couple of buckets of fresh water in corners.

The neighboring animals have the tendency to pray a lot in a shelter; most of their prayers are for the kindred spirits.

Animal have acute subconscious:

A caged canary sings for the hunter to remind him of its hopeless

And its unnatural conditions to be ended.

The first line in a poem should be the gift of grace.

The remaining lines a proof of skills: only skills are materially rewarded.

Details, describing living details are the art of writers;

Only when the writer feels the approach of death should he focus on distilling the honey of wisdom.

A liked poem has already conveyed an act of resistance for capturing human dignity.

Note: I read an article on imagining  the roles were reversed between the Palestinians in Gaza and the Zionist State.

Then, how the world community and the US and the European Union would respond to a 3-month siege of famine and air strikes if the Palestinians of Gaza had cut off Israel from the world; in what terms the war would be labeled (genocide, war crime, holocaust…) and how quickly the US would have maneuvered to end the war?

The death toll of the Palestinians in Gaza, after 13 days of Israel savage genocide, climbed to 1,500 (half of them babies) and over 4,000 seriously injured.

This genocide is mainly targeting the next generations of Palestinians and the Bush Junior excuses are beside the point.




December 2021

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