REM ember

I still dream about you.
What does it say?
Is there a motive? A meaning?
A reflection on past, future, present?
Is that I’m in misery
while I was once happy?
Is that the long journey together?
Is that I’m still looking?
For you? After you?
Back? Or you in someone else?
I never want to remember
things that made me once happy
and only make worse my present misery…
I remember.
I still dream about you.

Benyamin Bensalah


Sick scrabble

Months, weeks, decades have passed;
was not good but I tried to love in the past,
imagining good dreams naively
that there is who loves me, friends who keep me,
but like just a good peasant
doing nothing,
now, here I am to put the sow …
I am putting an end to this show.

Benyamin Bensalah


Translated from my Hungarian poem, “Beteg tegek” (2007).


Knocking on the classroom door,
my name bursts up from behind in laughter –
I wished to apologise before,
but the elementary needed no excuser.

Something was going on,
I was rather stated than asked on –
then, I was gone,
but the same things were going on.

Everybody came just a bit early,
I was just a bit late –
This is how you become highschool enemy
who brings up silence full of hate.

Something was wrong,
I was rather startled than got along –
I’ve never meant to belong,
but the same things were going on.

Being late, at the wrong time,
at the wrong place
with the wrong mind, with the wrong face
all the time.


Benyamin Bensalah

The Violin

The Violin
was amongst
my first inspirations
as a child
gifted by poetry,
instead of
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



Cloudy mountains brighten the sky,
Bringing cloumsy days and darken nights.

No weathering draws conclusion here;
Memories paint illusions there.

Where the thickest blackness is,
Dwells no rain, but the driest recklessness.

Where the beacon breaks the fleecy fences,
Dwell the drops of human senses.

Human hands draw but paradox,
While Paradise hides behind Gordian knots.

The beauty of mysteries ever hurts a lot,
Even dark miseries can’t clear its spot.

Benyamin Bensalah


A summer in Constantine

There’s no summer as best summer
In my achromatic life;
However, I’ve remembered
When I was Dani’s guide.

One of my friends, if there’s any,
Came to me in Algiers;
Checking the white Africans,
And facing all his fears.

I showed him the world of Aladdin
That he couldn’t see online;
Wonder after wonder,
Like the mountains of Constantine.


Like the wrinkles of a stone-giant,
The place was super-high;
Forest camping at a school’s scout
Was a must to try.

Dani fell in love with Islam,
Having no stirrup;
He said Salam, labas, bismlah,
And Hamdullah to burp.

Mocking people everywhere,
We were Hungarians;
Like superior intruders,
We conquered the lands.


Breakfast of the morning sunshine
With some cafeteria
Burnt the freedom to our mind
Through that utopia.

How could one forget the hot wind,
The cold lake of the hollow;
The lost billiard matches at night
As our only sorrow.

Now, that time flew far far away,
As far as Constantine;
But I still keep the memory,
Till it’s no longer mine.

Benyamin Bensalah


E’ib Mubarak

Today’s been a slaughter ordered;
Abrahamic hocus-pocus, fairy-tale,
Like Artemis replaced his daughter with a sheep,
We are doing the same;

Following a social construct,
Taking away thousands of life;
Sheep are crawling in mere bloodbath:
“Look! It’s running towards paradise!”

Not even a minute has passed
that the last breath left the still warm body,
but the people eviscerate,
and ate the inside organs already.

What holiness, what a story behind!
A mad man losing his mind
to imagine a sky-sent message:
Yo, murder your son or just do me sacrifice!

Those of nature – lions, wolves and leopards,
are killing for the sake of killing
or either for surviving the circle they’re aligned,
but we paint children stories with bloody body parts.

Benyamin Bensalah


*E’ib Mubarak : It is related to Aid El Adha the celebration of Abrahamic story for what all Muslims around the world slaughter sheep as a symbolic sacrifice. The original wish is A’id Mubarak that means Happy Celebration. The title of the poem as E’ib Mubarak means “Disdained Celebration”.


Hours, days, weeks and months make a queue,
In what, things don’t renew but redo;
While blue stays blue, and two remains two,
The only new is the thought of you;
My fragrant tulip with a crystal drop of dew,
Causer of my heart’s purr and mew,
This is how I wish Happy BDay, and I love you.

Benyamin Bensalah


The monster behind 04.26

My mother kept whispering sole conversations,
but it was me not talking to her instead;
my mother kept inside her emotions,
but it was me not making her express;
my mother burst out in crying-shouting,
but it was me who let her problems imbed;
my mother was whom I blamed for many things,
but it was me ruining her and my life instead;
my mother was fighting for me,
and it was me giving up instead;
my mother was the only who cared about me,
and it was me who turned passively careless;
my mother was who gave birth to me,
then it was me who never gave her a fine birthday bless.

In Memoriam of the great date of 04.26.1964.

Benyamin Bensalah


Black Remembrance

For remembrance of my grandma’s dog,
A black creature of a green garden-
In which he played as a living black spot,
Till… May God have on him pardon.

Before the day, he used to be nice-
His black face- black hair and a red mouth,
A black jungle used to disguise his eyes,
While he was still playing around the house.

That day, the colour of his hair dropped-
Dark ink splashed on his little soul,
Maybe, he smelt the coming death knocked,
Asking him to leave his bowl.

I understood nothing what happened,
He dragged himself to the shade of the trees’-
Yesterday, he had been present,
Then, I felt his absence as he.. he leaves.

I was angry on him for being in the shade-
I approached him, he growled,
The whitest teeth made me evade,
The next day, he bowed out.

I understood nothing, till now,
Why he disguised his dark face of me-
Why he hid himself under sorrow,
And why he, why he growled at me.

May God pardon my anger on him that day,
May God have mercy on that soul-
Leaving me, as I am leaving today,
May God pardon me in the shade of sorrow.

Benyamin Bensalah