There’s a hole

My childhood’s broken reality haunts past, present and future;
dark traumas turned my fate to undergo on torture –
searing and healing, then searing and healing, and never relieving;
all my bad omens keep ceaselessly repeating,
sealed into my soul from the very first till the latest hour:
I’m happy for those whom I could save from this terribly cursed power
to being able seeing the cures of all the bad times
that themselves curse my every hope all the times –
a whispered ending that’s never ending: we are all alone,
whispered, but it’s waving through all the wall
that could separate a broken reality’s dope
from a seeding soil so real that it’s even deceiving, saying: there’s a hope.

Benyamin Bensalah

19.06.2020

Attila József: FROM FOG, SILENCE

I can’t wait for life anymore.
I’m being the way that’s possible.

And if it’s not possible, then no way,
If there are many days, it will be a long delay.

The sun disappears from my two eyes.
Only the lamp’s lights rise.

If there’s a fire, it will burn away.
If blood is shed, it will run away.

Whoever offends me, I don’t defend.
Whoever is sorry for me, I’m not even.

The military can be happy.
Since I can’t even be hungry.

Something happened to my sense,
But neither death nor patience.

I was kicked here, and kicked there
And not even once I swear.

I saw the fog once
Behind the great brilliance.

And I heard it once,
Getting over the noises of my disturbance,

Whether below or else above,
Only silence belongs to the poor.

The fog, the silence never shines.
I’m already out of fog, out of silence.

What maunders in my within,
Falls at the void of a pit in.

It’s an awful, big – big revenge,
Waiting, waiting until the end.

And to know, there are many more alike,
Until someone shakes one’s psych,

Until someone shouts by swoon,
From fog, from silence to the moon,

Up to the plague itself!
Who is cursing with curse itself,

Cursing the dog-keeper, the dog
And first of all, me in the fog.


Benyamin Bensalah

02.06.2020

Translated from the Hungarian poem of Attila József, “KÖDBŐL, CSÖNDBŐL” (1925).

Silence

The Messenger’s quite and so is the Skype

The room is so silent and so is the sight

The head’s numb as well the mouth

Everything’s lifeless

Still pain’s inside.

Benyamin Bensalah

02.09.2018

Coping with existence

What we are doing is no more than a sloppy copy;
We say hi, we should try,
You laugh I laugh, you smile I smile,
You shout I shout, you cry I cry,
We say bye, we should try…
I write, you might…

What we are doing is no more than a sloppy copy;
People smile, and we smile,
People cry and we cry,
People shout and we shout,
But we should…
I might, you…

What we are doing is no more than a sloppy copy;
People smile and we should,
People cry and we should,
People shout and we should,
But we might…
I… you…

What we are doing is no more than a sloppy copy;
Draw-draw, write-write,
Talk-talk, hi-hi,
Talk-talk, bye-bye,
Live-live, die-die,
Should… might…

What we are doing is no more than a sloppy copy;
No more feeling than their meaning,
No more meaning than they’re believing,
No more believing than their healing,
No more healing than their grieving,
You might be right – I should not have been existing.

Benyamin Bensalah

29.05.2020

Binge talk

There’s a feeling of eager like a binge eater
to talk out all the inner seethe in a bark,
to consume all the voices before you fume;
knowingly that no one would hear it willingly,
so rather you keep all inside within the dark.

Skipping talks of charity is an act of self austerity;
today’s chatter is tomorrow’s beggar –
selling one’s dignity for empty ears’ indignity
is just as bad like sleeping in the cry-soaked bed:
awkward for a minute, then more woeful afar.

This is a reason why I avoid such treason
to start a small conversation that would split me apart;
today is boastful, tomorrow’s awful:
only this what I saw, so
why just not stock things inside the already breaking heart.

No matter how I try to keep this law; however
there’s always a popping up stranger exchanger
who wants to know about me more
as if I myself could just slightly understand myself –
as if I could bring her more than a binger talk:

This is your fault stranger, you called the binger;
now, listen to my thoughts that I myself don’t know,
listen like a psychic, or rather like a sidekick
while I start sharing volcanoes from inside my heart;
listen well at our first and last conversation that now splits us apart.

Tomorrow, I’ll try forgetting all, just as you do all,
forgetting my venting as well as the funny inventing
that there’s someone who listens without it ends;
and I will be forgetting myself, remembering the law:
I’m alone with the voices of pain, and binge talks are only to prove I’m alone.

Benyamin Bensalah

04.05.2020

Eversion

What brought you back at this time
when the color of grey is not grey anymore
when even the thought of death is not appealing
when the parade of dreaming silence became enjoyable?

What could even make your voice to reach me
when the sound of silence tortured my soul
when my ears are forced not to hear
when my heart is a numb pump?

What would make me to answer after all
after all I learnt how not to reply
after all our imaginary talk
after all the self-hate?

What makes me reply is the love,
beyond understanding,
beyond dimensions,
beyond the pain.

It’s just a hidden source
of an ever self-denial,
ever tormenting
eversion.

Benyamin Bensalah

08.04.2020

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

Attila József : You made me a child

You made me a child. Vainly I was growing
thirty crying winters over the agony.
I can neither walk, nor I can sit around.
My limbs are dragging me, pushing toward you.

I hold you in my mouth, like a dog hold its puppy
and I’d like to flee from strangling.
The years that have been broken by my destiny,
are raining upon me in every moment.

Feed me, look – I’m hungry.  Cover me – I’m cold.
I’m stupid – give your mind to me.
Your absence is piercing me, like the wind through a household.
Tell me – There’s no reason to fear.

You looked at me and I dropped everything.
You listened to me and my voice got stuck.
Dare not to let me be so recklessly uncaring;
letting myself  live and die by myself amok!

My mother froze me out – I was on the doorstep –
I would hide inside me, I couldn’t tho –
beneath me stone and above me emptiness.
Oh, how I could sleep!  I’m rattling at you.

Many people live who are insensitive like me,
still, their eyes let tears out.
I love you very much, since even me
I could really love myself with you.

Benyamin Bensalah

08.03.2020

Translated from the Hungarian poem of Attila József, “Gyermekké tettél(1936).

Enraining

I’ve been in an acid rain.
From the start.
Tap-tap, tap-tap.
Every drop falls.
Through my coat.
Through my face.
Into the heart.

I’ve been sitting in a pit.
It rains sadness.
Ha-ha, ha-ha.
Every drop laughes.
Into my ears.
Into my soul.
Through madness.

I’ve been waiting death.
To come.
Tak-tak, tak-tak.
I can’t wait.
In the years.
In the pains.
How long they last.

Benyamin Bensalah

20.11.2016