Somebody wrote this

So many times trying to change,
shapeshifting, reforming, rethinking
from age to age –
How old I might be so far?
How many of myself have died,
then rejuvenated again and again
already?

I wonder if there’s anyone who could tell me,
from my former lives
that who I am for real. –
All those people knowing someone,
then losing me
in great disappointment
has pity for a me.

Now, I am myself, but just for a while,
failing myself again and again. –
I don’t know who I am,
I don’t know who I was.
Just being, rebeing,
rebelling, deceiving
every body, including a self.

I wish I could be in war against myself,
so, at least, some of me could win,
but I hold no one in my hands,
inside me.
It’s empty,
and it was empty
for longer I could remember.

I wonder whether there was
a child of me,
an honest lover,
or anybody with belief
in that there will be a day
there will be more than a day
to be and die as some one.

Benyamin Bensalah

17.03.2020

To sit, to stand, to hug, to die

To push this chair away,
to croach in front of a train,
to climb a mountain carefully,
to shake my bag out in the valley,
to give a bee to my old spider,
to caress an old mother,
to eat a tasty brown bean chowder,
to pace on tiptoes, it’s muddy,
to put my hat down to the rail,
to go around the lake only,
to sit in its bottom clothed in vain,
to blush amongst the tinkling bubbles,
to flourish amongst sunflowers –
to give a nice sigh instead,
to hush a fly away only,
to dust my books when they get dirty, –
to spit into my mirror’s middle,
to sign my enemies’ peace treaty,
to kill them all with a long knife’s shearing,
examining the blood how it’s running,
looking after a girl how she’s turning over –
sitting standly, so as, instead,
burning up the capital,
to wait for birds at my morsel,
to throw my bad bread to the ground,
to make cry my good lover,
to grab her younger sister onto the lap
and if this world is my account,
leaving it so as to be in no more recount – –

oh, you tying, you dissolving,
now, on this poem typing,
making laughter, making crying,
oh, my life, you choice for trying!

Benyamin Bensalah

10.10.2019

Translated from the Hungarian poem of Attila József, “Ülni, Állni, Ölni, Halni”(1926).

The Tempest

Darken drops on the rainy road,
No one is walking in warriorhood-
People are pacific, peaceful.

Dreaded dots dull on the dresses,
Vicious wetness dresses the wadded jackets-
Probably, everybody stirs one’s stump.

The one out of danger is me, the dull,
Against weather I need no warranty at all,
But how about the tempest in my breast?

Benyamin Bensalah

04.12.2017

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

Fragments of Irreality

I’m short of feelings and reasons to live,
Like a sort of puppet in a grotesque show –

I’m like a sort of rejected stupid puppy
Who doesn’t know why and how he’s alone –

You, even by passing by me, are guilty,
For having left me, after giving me hope –

How cruel, seeing a condemned to death,
Passing by him, not even saying him Hello –

But blimey! I’m not blaming, but me,
Who other could be guilty for being me –

Indeed, I owe you to thank you,
For giving a last sweet illusion to me –

To a puppy who’s empty of envy,
Having no breed, nor greed; full freed –

I’m a sort of shameless liar,
Who plays that he lives day to day –

But I’m short of any lie when I say,
I loved seeing you passing by the way.

Benyamin Bensalah

21.04.2017