I’m releasing less attention
because I’m breaking under some tension
from the rules of nature,
being this carbonic ape-like creature,
but I’m still doing my best,
still living even if pain’s ripping my chest.
The days’ve been heavy,
my rhymes have become just as wacky,
rolling down some short-not shots
while playing a lunatic, mad poet’s plots
with loneliness as franchise
that’s sad, not, until the wretch dies.
No harsh feelings, that’s fine,
I’m still holding the line and that’s mine;
I’m born with bigger heart, naive –
this is how I’ll leave, nothing more to achieve,
but till my hands can tremble,
I note myself down, so you can remember.
What a talent, what a treasure,
but has nobodoy to share this pressure,
talking as if it would be shareable
my crazy selves, nothing like cherishable;
no need of “pain, no gain” bullshitting –
I’m just here for some fire-spitting.
Dark, surrounding big-blue ocean,
I’m still burning on its surface in self-promotion;
my flames tremble, and are heavy,
none’s feeding them and I gave up already
since its hunger would eat up worlds,
but I’m just a poor poet who’s running out of words.
Pocket poets have no good stories,
but what is a good story
We are none else more than fantasies
in some stranger’s fairy
So I’m happened no one sees
nay me, writing this story;
I’m just history.
I am hard
I am tender
And I lost my time
Dreaming without sleeping
Sleeping while walking
Wherever I passed by
I found my absence
I am nowhere
Except the nothingness
But I’m hiding at the top of the bowels
At the place where the lightning has hit too often
A heart where every word left its keenness
And where my life drops to the slightest move.
Translated from the French poem of Pierre Reverdy, “Tard dans la vie”(1960).
The pressure, pressure and pressure,
year to year, day to day
from people, people and situations
is smashing, crashing every one of us
with all possible forces.
Where is the possible counterforce
that could be against,
that could save you from breaking,
that could save others to explode on them
with a dark mushroom-cloud of anger?
What could be better counterforce
than just simply smiling,
and dissolve the pressure of others,
bringing a bright day into the cosmic mess
with radioactive kindness!
Boiling rice may be a bogey;
We are cooking, stirring, working on it,
Then, we get a gluing paste for our fatigue.
But boiling rice is a simple act;
Only if you’re following a couple fact,
My scientific, tricky receipt step by step.
Firstly, you measure the rice;
Take a mug once and twice and thrice,
So you see, it’s science, not a play of dice.
Then, the water is coming,
And here is my first trick coming;
How many times you must be mugging?
An ordinary cooker,
Would take double water,
Pouring six mugs of fresh blunder.
But me! The chef Benyamin,
I choose to put three and a half in,
Letting the rice to swim, not sinking.
But above all of this,
Here are my other magic tricks;
Frying the rice for five mins or six.
After it got golden brown,
I pour hot water on it muggly owned,
Then, I leave the rice under a cover to boil.
After lil lodge-podgy,
We can check our moody foodie;
And it was the first lesson of riceology.
See the edges of the buildings –
White buildings, red buildings!
What monstrous and numerous are those things!
From the upper highness,
As from viewing up from their legs,
They are giantly erupting like trees.
But what are these?
What are these?
Not like trees that arise from the seeds,
Are they just there?
Just like that?!
Ask who did build those buildings –
Roofed buildings, bald buildings!
What squared shape they have,
What eminence some of them holds.
But who asks about them?
And who cares
See all those what’s heard of buildings –
Greek buildings, Ottoman buildings!
Does mortal eyes’ seeing see these things?
The glazed ceramics and corinthian crinklings
Under the seas and upon the skies,
The art of the architect’s,
Or the pain of the masons by whom the brick lies?
See nothing what’s in the buildings –
Commercial buildings, industrial buildings!
Even the one who sits, stands in these things
Sees only prisons fenced in wall by wall.
As in a zoo, they are inclosed in the buildings.
People see people only feeding
When running out of the buildings.
See the monstrous, numerous buildings –
Breathing buildings, oppressing buildings!
They eat up the landscape
And even other buildings.
In them, people and people and people,
Working and eating without seeing
The buildings and buildings and buildings,
Digesting the people, the look
While they are seething and eating us till we go.
Though, they’re not seeing what those buildings do
Because they are just buildings after all.
For mere poetry,
we give up finance, romance
The first left.
The second and third.
Pop. Pop. Pop.
Going becomes a hype.
I feel it salty to leave.
I feel fever to go.
Pop. Pop. Pop.
They go with pleasure.
What’s going on?
Popop. Pop. Popop.
Is it a must to go?
My ears are buzzing.
The world’s reeling.
Maybe, it’s the last.
Maybe, it’s over.
We are in safe.
Stayed many of us.
Out of the yellow mass.
I told you.
Don’t mess with me.
my first inspirations
as a child
gifted by poetry,
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,”
wasn’t I a smart kid?)
“But when I force on it, it cries up and breaks,
Leaving every heart in a broken silence.”
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
However, I felt
I watched weirdly
the rich kids
playing on them freely;
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