A summer in Constantine

There’s no summer as best summer
In my achromatic life;
However, I’ve remembered
When I was Dani’s guide.

One of my friends, if there’s any,
Came to me in Algiers;
Checking the white Africans,
And facing all his fears.

I showed him the world of Aladdin
That he couldn’t see online;
Wonder after wonder,
Like the mountains of Constantine.

                     ***

Like the wrinkles of a stone-giant,
The place was super-high;
Forest camping at a school’s scout
Was a must to try.

Dani fell in love with Islam,
Having no stirrup;
He said Salam, labas, bismlah,
And Hamdullah to burp.

Mocking people everywhere,
We were Hungarians;
Like superior intruders,
We conquered the lands.

                     ***

Breakfast of the morning sunshine
With some cafeteria
Burnt the freedom to our mind
Through that utopia.

How could one forget the hot wind,
The cold lake of the hollow;
The lost billiard matches at night
As our only sorrow.

Now, that time flew far far away,
As far as Constantine;
But I still keep the memory,
Till it’s no longer mine.

Benyamin Bensalah

19.04.2018

It just happened

And there was a woman,
with the finest scent in her hair,
with thoughts that mortals barely dare,
with the smoothest skin that angels wear,
with strong heart and face, but lightsome silhouette,
who made me forget to regret,
not a minute, not a violated ettiquette,
not our past, and especially not our present duet.
Juli, Júlia, Julika and Juliette,
only names inside the mind of a poet,
but what the readers cannot read in that,
is that, my heart found peace, peace, peace the moment we met.

Benyamin Bensalah

26.07.2019

A day without poetry

No mellifluous lightbeams of the morning sun,
not even heated kissing of Helium atoms;
No crowing alarms waiting like a loaded gun,
not even deceived asleep minutes of cogs.

No rythmic murmurs of labour-heading steps,
not even monotonous capitalist torture;
No chopstick drums on the lunchboxed crêpes,
not even wasted earthlings’ nourriture.

No freedom fanfares from the last man-hour,
not even we are remaining slaves;
No loose hugging in a rencontre’s empower’,
not even we’re all meeting in graves.

No dark, star-brighted blanket’s planetary cover,
not even nightly phantoms of Paris;
No crawling consciousness’ journey to discover,
not even primates gazing to an abyss.

No poems today, no artistic magnificence,
not even music, not even dance;
No poems today, and this day is a lie
because without art we’re not alive.

Benyamin Bensalah

07.08.2020

Fame

Owning all the eyes on yourself
                    Is like the mirror that sees you worthwhile
By a godlike image of yourself
                    Boosting you with a great boost for a while.

                    But meanwhile

The same fame is the blade

                    Cutting the fameless ones’ veins

The same fame is the flame

                    Roasting those who have no vainness.

But aren’t we living all the same –
                    Arriving to a day when we’ll be all fameless?
In the flame or next to a stream,
                   Maybe in the nothing that’s neither embarrassing.

Who cares about your cars

                   Who gives a damn about your dimes

We are living the moment once

                  Live it in the fame of YOUR own and only chance to have fun.

Benyamin Bensalah

02.08.2018

Lies

What a bitter joke is the life!
Would it be better without lies?
So many lies that God forbidden,
Those which are or not deeply hidden:

The lied “ailuvyoes”, the lied “aimfines”,
The lying poetries and stolen rhymes,
The lied self-esteem, the lied moods,
The lying virtues under my hooves:

Are all lies.
Are all sections that need sactions.
Are all lies.
And all are punishments themselves.

Benyamin Bensalah

25.02.2018

Attila József: Lonileness

Beetle step on your open eyes. Green
velvet mold relax your breasts.
Look at the loneliness you are sending me.
Grind your teeth;  eat up your lips.

Your face should fall off like dry sand,
the dear.  And if you’d caress me,
since in place of your lap there’s an empty land:
your working fingers should be tied off by weed.

See, this is you, these are disgusting wishes.
Still, you wouldn’t flutter if people were
gathering silently to see like around witches:
who made me so evil.

Whom are you grabbing now?  If you give birth to your son
it will be his pleasure to spin around,
you blink at him while it gets surrounded one by one
with full-length alligators around.

I lie motionlessly on my back, on the bed,
I see my eyes: you look at me with them.
Die!  I already wish so wordlessly the end
that I might think I am going to die in it, damn.

Benyamin Bensalah

01.08.2020

Translated from the Hungarian poem of Attila József, “Magány”(1936).

E’ib Mubarak

Today’s been a slaughter ordered;
Abrahamic hocus-pocus, fairy-tale,
Like Artemis replaced his daughter with a sheep,
We are doing the same;

Following a social construct,
Taking away thousands of life;
Sheep are crawling in mere bloodbath:
“Look! It’s running towards paradise!”

Not even a minute has passed
that the last breath left the still warm body,
but the people eviscerate,
and ate the inside organs already.

What holiness, what a story behind!
A mad man losing his mind
to imagine a sky-sent message:
Yo, murder your son or just do me sacrifice!

Those of nature – lions, wolves and leopards,
are killing for the sake of killing
or either for surviving the circle they’re aligned,
but we paint children stories with bloody body parts.

Benyamin Bensalah

31.07.2020

*E’ib Mubarak : It is related to Aid El Adha the celebration of Abrahamic story for what all Muslims around the world slaughter sheep as a symbolic sacrifice. The original wish is A’id Mubarak that means Happy Celebration. The title of the poem as E’ib Mubarak means “Disdained Celebration”.