How would I know

How would I know how to love,
If nobody has shown me?

How would I know how to love,
If nobody has taught me?

I’ve seen movies, I’ve seen couples
Doing things that I thought as love,
Pushing me to pursue love
With mere follies and troubles.

How would I know how to love,
If nobody has shown me?

How would I know how to love,
If nobody has taught me?

My own mother has loved in silent,
As young, I couldn’t even see;
How should I not be violent,
If I thought nobody has loved me?

How would I know how to love,
If nobody has shown me?

How would I know how to love,
If nobody has taught me?

Nobody showed me whom to love,
But I was told: not her;
Nobody taught me how to act in love,
Then, I was told: don’t hurt her.

How would I know how to love,
If nobody has shown me?

How would I know how to love,
If nobody has taught me?

With time, scars are healing,
Caused on and by me,
And with time, the truth’s revealing:
Love wasn’t meant for me.

How would I know how to love,
If nobody has shown me?

How would I know how to love,
If nobody has taught me?

I’ve been loveless all the time;
It pursued me to search it,
But all stories end in painful rhyme;
I hope, finally, I learnt it.

How would I know how to love,
If nobody has shown me?

How would I know how to love,
If nobody has taught me?

Benyamin Bensalah

26.12.2019

Attila József: Then

And then, it rained, thundered, and hurled
Then, I stayed away of my room’s hollow
And then, I rampaged and cursed the world
Then, I was badly beaten by sorrow.

And then, I prayed, desired and begged
Then, I cried truly from my heart
And then, I bitterly confessed, repented
Since then a girl was tore out of my heart.

Benyamin Bensalah

Translated from the Hungarian poem, “Akkor” by Attila József (1921).

26.11.2016

Péter Závada: SYNOPSIS

Just let only this May to burn out in serve!
It was so easy with you, and with me hard.
Our past lives today in every substantive verb.
It’s okay if you don’t believe.  Mainly, you hope.

Branch of sycamore tree to the hanging eaves:
So as I am spastically clinging to you.
I’m not an adult yet, but I’m neither more like kiddies.
I had neither a cradle, nor hobbledehoyhood.

Though every melt is followed by frost:
On the shelf, Rilke leans to a volume of Proust
– how much dreaming in the lost time of ours!
And how much beautiful hope music in yours!

Tell me then: if this is not going, like this, with you today,
how could anything go, without you?

Benyamin Bensalah

Translated from the Hungarian poem of Peter Závada, “Szinopszis” (2010).

18.12.2019

Silence written

O! As nearly all mortal beings,
I’ve tasten already the silence of night –
Sometimes broken, but never by the sounds of mine.

O! I’ve tasten all of its flavours;
Like the silence stuck in other’s empty home –
But after all, the emptiness of my heart gongs even terribly more.

Alas! Why am I tasting like a poet;
With a beating and feeling heart on every gustatory buds –
Who could understand the silence more, than a mute poet after love?

O! I’ve not even tasten all its flavours;
Thou, the old naive words of ours still re-animate my mind –
Still, with silenced tongue and heart, what I barely believe that I’m still alive.

O! We’re not even nearly mortal beings;
No silence can muzzle my written words in the fate’s puzzle –
Even if my tongue is cut off and my buds are burnt, my love is immortal – written.

Benyamin Bensalah

03.09.2018

In Memory of a Flower

I’ve been living on a little planet,
Just as the most poet;
Alone.

I had nobody to talk, to chat,
The people whom I met
Are gone.

My planet is bare and grey,
By the way;
As usual.

But, it happened that
I wonder’d at
A flower.

What she’s doing on such a land,
Where living can’t pretend
To live?

In my surprise, in my hurry-
I shelter’d her in worry;
To protect.

What a beauty, what a pureness,
My planet was in happiness;
A flower!

I had a flower to talk, to chat,
Laughing with and at –
That was magic.

My planet was no more solitary,
She named it as the galaxy
Of Flower.

Flower, flower. I thanked God,
For the surprise I have got;
A living planet.

Not just divine, but enchanting
Was this happening,
But.

Once upon a time, I woke up:
My planet just broke up –
Where’s Flower?

Where’s Flower? She was mine.
Alone, how could I be fine
On such a planet?

Dead, coarse, dry and dreary,
Without my dearie,
But mine.

Live the life of the dead,
Forget what you had;
You are alone.

Keep teaching as you taught
Her by your thought;
As a poet.

Then, write a poem “in memory”
On the land of a solitary
Pocket poet.

Write “in memory” to believe,
Even if it’s hard to believe;
She’s gone.

A flower that coloured the bare,
That could give life if dare;
But no.

Since the planet on which I’m living,
Are for poets, not for living;
I’m dying with memories.

Benyamin Bensalah

06.07.2018

My Lore

How come she left me?
No money?
No soul?
I believed we build our…
Worlds and beliefs,
Swords and reliefs,
I believed we were together…

Didn’t she wish for my kiss,
Like I wished for hers?
Didn’t she worship my breast,
Like I did with hers?
Didn’t she believe in the world
That I thought was ours?
How many times I must die inside,
Till I finally can die finally?
How many times I must lose my trust
In people and in Gods?
How long I am in this absurd game?

I am crying…
Not cause of sadness – I’ve no such thing,
But I’m crying since I’m a fool.
Why I let people close to me always,
Then, they use me as a tool.
I’m their extemporal key for something,
Something social,
Something financial,
Something humanly wicked.
All these I don’t understand…

I’ve never seen the importance of things:
Dates. Birthdays. Events.
Relation. Correlation. Interference.
Why people program all these into themselves?

I hasn’t understood.
And now, I understand it even less.
How come I wished sex.
How come I wished for happiness,
Beliefs, and other fuzzy things, while…
While… She was just playing
With a humanlike doll,
With a cute monster,
With me.

Back to my nature.
The nature is easy.
Those who follow instincts
Find their necessities pick-puck.
But, madmen have problems.
Like she and I were…
I’ve seen it for the first time,
Whether she just realized it, that we mad?
Then, she left?
Who wants to be mad?
Believing in the given,
Liven on given,
Alone?
….
Hmm…

Alone.
None.
Dying.
Grotesque Death of a Good Man?
See?
I’m loving it.
I will find things that makes me enjoy Death.
My new lover.
A sweet joint or a thick cigar.
Coffein, cocaine if I would be lucky…
Hahahahaha.

It smells like hope again
That makes me afraid.
Like it’s just another chance again for…
For… for…
Dunno… Actually, life gives no chances.
If it would have,
I was already dead.
After her leaving, or even before.

That was my Lore.

Benyamin Bensalah

30.08.2018

Elle in nutshell

There’s a story I cannot tell,
Cannot yell, cannot sell.

No one buys it how I fell,
But all believes it; it was well.

I’m genuinely so unwell,
Being so self-antipersonnel.

I’ve been living in the hell,
But I sent my heaven to expel.

And now, to say farewell,
I cannot even utter, “Good bye, …..”

Benyamin Bensalah

10.10.2019