The Violin

The Violin
was amongst
my first inspirations
as a child
gifted by poetry,
instead of
happiness.
The childish poem sounded somewhat
like these lines, but in my mother tongue:
(Even if poetry
is a language itself.)
“My heart is like a violin with its cords;
When I’m easy on them, it plays kindly,”
(Nice metaphor;
wasn’t I a smart kid?)
“But when I force on it, it cries up and breaks,
Leaving every heart in a broken silence.”
(Oh, woow,
that’s the ol’ me.)
This is the poem on which I got the warning:
“Sane kids don’t write such gibberish larking!”.
That was harming,
but the world
harmed me more
than such words;
so, I didn’t stop
writing because of a
badly criticized
poem, named:
The Violin.
However, I felt
weird towards
that instrument
from then.
I watched weirdly
the rich kids
playing on them freely;
without nobody
telling to them:
You are insane
Doing what you do,
that rubbish larking.
That was hard to understand that time
why one’s art was seen crazy, and other’s playing was genius.
But after some materialistically and socially hitting slaps on my face,
I understood how it is exactly working with this terrible human race:
The rich that follows and serves the example of enjoying being
will be never replaced by the deep thinker wrapped up in grieving.
Realizing it was sad, but truth is enlightening.
This is why I returned to this magical instrument, now,
with its amazing sounds that leave my heart happily crying.
Just a decade and some years before, I was comparing my heart to those cords
that can make such a beauty the Earth is barely able to hold, within such a sadness,
within such a chance to fail and ruin everything, leaving rooms in heart-torn silence.
This divine instruments must not be played but by the devil
who knows what is true sin, and how gets fallen a daredevil.
Let the devil take the cords, let him take my heart with them, too.
I’ve needed no more than to truly know what is hiding in
this world and this heart that makes me love
a sad and gloomy while also pompous
violin playing.

Benyamin Bensalah

01.01.2020

Escalated quickly

I would cry for help,
                                    but nobody cares.
The one who cares
                                   shares with me no affairs.

Like a naughty boy
                                  who’s forbidden from any good,
I’m playing sullen
                                 without any mood.

Benyamin Bensalah

30.08.2018

A to Z, looking for happiness

Absurd thoughts coming from a spotless mind;
Burning bridges and looking sadly behind,
Crying out tissues without real issues,
Dying in seconds thinking of a muse,
Entering her life so that to leave,
Finding myself newly naive,
G spots for her pleasure,
Hiding as a treasure,
Inviting homeless,
Joking hopeless,
Killing time,
Loving by,
Mind,
Never mind,
Ol’ possibilities,
Poet communities,
Questioning taboos,
Returning to the muse,
Seeking that happiness,
Turning back cuz I’m a mess,
Unwanting to go outside of this hell,
Venting in poems there’s no one to tell,
Why I am here, I don’t know nor I do care,
X-Ray shaming clouds smoked in my despair,
You could help on me, so it will be all your fault,
Zero meaning or happiness I found just as Mersault.

Benyamin Bensalah

27.01.2020

My last poem for non-releasing

Someone like me who’s condemned to lifelong dying,
At the last moment, won’t be imploring, crying;
I won’t comb my audience for fellow-feeling
Who are seeing the future still appealing;
Death will come to me so relieving
That the only thing I’ll be seeing
Is the last chance for rhyming,
Taking it well and poetizing
My last poem, rising
As best forgoing
With me dying,
And taking,
Hiding
My
M
Y

Benyamin Bensalah

18.01.2020