Kata Csongrádi: SUNTHEM

The Sunbeam doesn’t ask
How much its light is worth
The Sunbeam doesn’t ask
What it will get in return
The Sunbeam doesn’t ponder
It just flows brightening.
Infinite caress and cuddle
but he does not ask for paying.

Love like the Sun, unconditionally
Like the Sun, which is built heartly.
Like the sun, born of light
Like the Sun, creating bright.

All people are a ray of light,
part of the universe
Who think they are just a byte,
But they are a part of the whole biodiverse.
All people are a ray of light,
one of the infinity.
All people are a ray of light,
but they do not dare to believe in reality.

Love like the Sun, unconditionally
Like the Sun, which is built heartly.
Like the sun, born of light
Like the Sun, creating bright.
Love by creating bright!

Benyamin Bensalah

24.09.2020

Translated from the Hungarian poem of Kata Csongrádi, “Naphimnusz”(2005).

Amourtisseur

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!

Benyamin Bensalah

10.09.2020

Hoping bee

Hope is the only bee
that makes honey without flowers…

…and that lil drop of honey
     is the only sweetness in my bitter life
       is the only, but enough for a hoping bee,
         to buzz: one day I will get back my flower.

Benyamin Bensalah

07.07.2018

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

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

Soulshard

Will the inken feathers see the sky ‘gain,
Have they scratch’d an ev’-flying art for us?
Mayb’ their fallenness is cursed to fall ‘gain,
And heav’nly words are just unseen for us.

Then, words coming by clacks’ and taps’ typing,
Won’t they face the coming oblivion?
What does matter the mechanical rhyming-
‘gainst our flesh and carbonate calcium?

Thou must know, as your seconds are in tomb,
Too, your soul won’t bright on earth for ever-
Your soulshards will unflame really soon,
You might hide and write ’em if y’er clever.

Do write! The daylights blind the blue-cloudy sky;
Tho’, your soulshards star e’er on the night’s high.

Benyamin Bensalah

08.11.2017

When I was wrong

When I called nothingness a creation,
Glory an angelic revelation,
Heresy all that is good;
Then I was wrong.

I was wrong then
When I haven’t eaten
I didn’t make love by flames of heathen,
Now, where are all, all that I haven’t done?

To be wrong is a human habit, as to live and to die,
What is good, if there is any good at all,
But that is sure and serious for now:
I’m going to be wrong from now.

Benyamin Bensalah

21.08.2018