Grey Rays

Grey-blue pastel strokes brush the sun behind,
Leaving just enough light to the ground
To see the city, see the city with its toxicity;
Concrete jungle with vrooming sounds,
Soulless machines, and in them souls with wounds.

There’s no greenness behind greyness,
But meaningless parks as mere illusions
To keep our primal instincts alive –
Keeping them machine-fed, coma-like.
The art of nature’s hard to realise.

Parks are the new heart of the city,
Us – not even feeling pity,
Going there to fetch our nurture,
So-called being in the nature
As hypocrite machines.

Is there other machines lying
To themselves as we do –
By laying plants surrounding
While concretely it’s not
The green we went through?

How come then on the sky,
On that grayish sunbeam
Made of pastel and bluish dye;
We’re still a part of this sight,
Human machines as we are.

Benyamin Bensalah

12.11.2018

Write about fields

Write about fields – green meadows,
        Write about wheats that fresh wind blows,
Write about woody hills – shady narrows,
        Write about seas that everybody knows…

Write about anything that pleases the eye,
        Write about anything just to hide the pain inside,
  Since nobody cares about things that we can’t see,
  Rather, we care about fields, mountains and seas…

Benyamin Bensalah

07.08.2018

Ode to Inspiration

The wind is grinding words into my ears,
Followed by the sounds of the meridian,
A stone is not much, but I would not raise,
Nor my ears to a boring noise.

The only thing rising my regard,
You are, so mantle me, Oh sunshine!
Blind all my unease and pain,
Be the only light of my mind.

Feed me with words that are all yours,
Let me plough the sky! A pair of wings
To me! To rise me, Horus, into the high,
Lead me to the gate of your world

Ere long! There is not a minute my life,
Sing all thy wisdom to me,
What you see by thy hawk eyes,
Tell me all, my love.

Angel you are, I’m your preacher to hire,
I am to sleep, but inspire me more …

Benyamin Bensalah

Translated from my Hungarian poem, “Ihletnek fohász” (2009).

05.07.2017

In Memory of a Ram

When Ram had been a little sheep,
Yes, he was on the farm;
With all the other animals,
Under its cozy charm.

Fresh, green herbage and cold water,
Appeased all his desire;
He lived freely daylight and night,
Behind the barbed wire.

No animal cutting his way,
Not even the shepherd –
By the time of his growing horn,
He became more pepper’d.

                  ***

“Why this chaos on this farm?
Wild animals!” – he moaned.
His eyes scattered sparks and fire,
Looking down from the mound.

“Bah! Chickens run after a cock?
Cow are working the soil?
You all worship the shepherd’s gods,
While the fire’s up to boil.”

“You will die soon under his hand,
Yes, you too, my kitty!”
“Haha, Ram!” – they pooh-poohed him,
“Leave Domesti-City!”.

                  ***

When Ram jumped the fence of the farm,
His hot head got cold thoughts;
“I will live a day free, rather than,
Living years for a sauce.”

He cut the woods and shocked the moose,
Jumped the wolf-hole shouting:
“Once you were wolves, now cartoon toys!”
Who watched without scouting…

This was the story of a Ram,
Who lived his own nature –
Even if I forgot his death,
[He’s been a] legendary creature.

Benyamin Bensalah

28.01.2018

By a plain poet

Whether my verses are to find a plenty soil,
A soil that gives reason to the weary toil,
Whether the season will have come with care,
With a care just as my verses were fair.

Ah! The ages are against the written riches,
The soil is ruined by hidden wretches
Who dwell in the bushy swamp of ignorance,
Oh! None knows the toil of spirit hence.

Here’s the age of evil machines… Wrath!
Wrath! You spoilt my soil and path!
Wrath! You stepped on my seed and fruit!
Wealth?! You and your age toil in ruth!

What a pity I feel for your empty heart!
Hear! Hear the bitter plaint of my art.
Look! How my cry will dry out your land.
Shame! Shame on your illiterate hand!

Whether the now-time chokes my plantation,
Whether it’s all crushed by the nation,
But once, one of your sons will find my seed,
There’s coming my growing art in the deep.

Benyamin Bensalah

03.01.2017

Circling circle

Like a frozen stone
Without a glance being blown,
I got thrown away.

I was flying in silence,
Then, I moaned up without resilience
On a brick.

Through an eaves,
I fell into the stream’s waves,
Unheard, unhurt.

Frozen imprisonment
Where the jailer is the detachment,
Not somewhat cold.

The spring is sobbing,
Its tears are smoothly rushing,
Pushing to a land.

Among stones standing,
Patience is suffocating, ending,
Drying crying.

Smooth hands,
Promising their hold never ends,
They disbanded.

In a new stream,
Me and solitude in a team,
But it’s all fine.

Sleeping is the only way,
Not seeing when we’re thrown away,
Again, again.

Benyamin Bensalah

03.07.2019

Translated from my own Hungarian poem, Kör kört követ.