The cat in a great pain

There’s been a cat, heard night to night
screaming in a great pain;
it broke dreams in the middle of the night,
haunting and fading again.

Its tearing meow burned up windows
and filled the darkness from far;
once shouting from the neighboring roofs,
once at your window been ajar.

None has seen it, but all could hear its cry
as well as the angry shooing
that the demonic creature always left behind,
growing, dying and anewing.

By the daylight, there was no any trace,
people could barely imagine
how a diabolic sound could bear any race
else of an underground Jinn.

Before people could even think about it,
what made the cat such unease;
the ground took its tongue and threw it
into a night of ceaseless peace.

Benyamin Bensalah

07.04.2020

A Meaningless End

This is the end.

But the end started at the creation
of the first deoxyribonucleic acid,
of the first cellular life,
of the first material’s
formation.

This is the end.

The end was here from the beginning
at the enactment of beginning,
at the start of all existence,
at the emptiness
in the void.

This is the end.

The end of my deoxyribonucleic acids
of formed cellular creation,
of temporary learning,
of existence
begins.

Benyamin Bensalah

30.03.2020

Deposits

Like sprinkling dust on the paper,
Moulding itself into mud;
Sound the words of the pauper,
Forming his tears into flood.

His need is not a bigger pocket,
Or a fam of a good blood;
His thirst made him a bitter poet,
Being lost in the flood.

Flood of a baby’s first cry to the world,
Seeing everything newly indifferent;
He wishes for a straight world unwhirled,
Wishing not being so different.

Dirting the paper with stolen words,
From sloppy worlds of others;
The pauper gets deeper in his thirst,
And goner in others’.

Sodden paper-pieces in the mud,
Like flood-brought thrashes;
But they didn’t came with the flood,
Just from a former poet’s ashes.

Benyamin Bensalah

17.09.2018

The Tree

Like the green leaves on a winter-near tree,
We are – meant to be free.
Although, what we go through cannot be seen,
The tree frees us, despite being keen.

Just give me a new season, a month, another day,
These are our wishes: just a little May.
Maybe, there’s another May, named not the same,
Another tree with yearly reclaim.

But, even the pins seeming living and ever-green
Have their winter, their Augustine.
Living no lie, the tree frees us when it leaves us drawn,
Unwanted to see yellowish and brown.

Even the moments freeze when the winter is here,
With our look, we start to disappear.
Then, we’ll be freed from that beautiful tree’s lean,
By a falling leaf’s last scene nobody’s seen.

Then, what will say: that was us, that was our tree?
What will immortalize me?
The fallen leaves around me, on and under the ground?
Are my words freed too, or will be refound?

Benyamin Bensalah

04.10.2018

Sniff by sniff

A tick and a click are rhyming up in a lame flame,
A thick stick of dry herb is the flame’s aim,
That starts to burn and blatter in a burring pain,
Framed by a grey fog, hiding its disdain.

The mere pain of life urges this hateful act,
Looking for more pain pack by pack,
Claiming if there’s no stop, I want more of that,
Waiting and feeling and waiting and feeling,
The sniff-by-sniff approaching Death.

Benyamin Bensalah

05.10.2018

Attila József : THE INVENTORY IS READY

I trusted only myself from the beginning –
if you have nothing, the cost will be willing
for the man. In no way it will be more
than for the animal that dropped not living anymore.
Even if I was scared, I found my stand-
I was born, I mingled and I did out-stand.
I even paid everyone just as was the measure,
who gave it for free, I accepted with pleasure.
Women, if I was play-toy for any of their flattery:
I believed it really – let them be happy!
I scrubbed ships, pulling buckets as my only tool.
Among smart gentlemen, I played the fool.
I sold spinners, breads and books,
newspapers, poems – whenever what smooths.
Not in a glorious combat, not on a gentle rope,
but I end up in a bed, sometimes I hope.
Either way, now the inventory is ready.
I lived – and even others have died in it already.

Benyamin Bensalah

18.02.2020

Translated from the Hungarian poem of Attila Jozsef, “Kész a leltár” (1936).