Another D.P.S. member

Facebook. Twitter. Google +.
Machine-made, ever, daily fuss.
Planes. Trains. A traffic jam of cars.
All those like-likely likes, tho no one cares.

Insta. Reddit. Picasso.
Seen, liked, read, then go.
On Iphone. On bus. Living-room.
Iron, silicon and other sources to exhume.

Cold. Solid. Simple. Breathless.
The world around us is deadly reckless.
Courtesy? Strawberry? Flowers, bees living?
Where are the pictures that enliven without #following?

Dead poets had been lucky.
Looking at Living things – philosophically.
Sunny sky, cloud, rain, and a deep’ dark sea.
Feeling words that everybody and nobody see.

Methink myself -now- undead.
Living among things being dead.
A phone. Typing. Words. In the pocket, hidden.
Why am I living in the nature’s details, somewhat Bohemian?

Benyamin Bensalah

10.09.2018

Time Murderer

My tears like rainforest would drop,
If I had pity on the talking beasts,
But my human memo has no more slot,
To endure the monsters of the East’s.

What a craddle! It’s itself kinda savage;
God condemned to desolate fever,
And its sons are themselves the ravage!
Eat! You beast till the word is over!

Nevertheless, I’d never lace up you,
Virus you are, but I let you be,
Only, take my words: fie upon you!
I write and my words let me be.

I have no holy mission to chase,
I am not Robinson! No-not even, Geez!
I’m not your Sherlock in this case!
I’m obsessed only by the time I seize.

I seize the time and it’s seizing you,
By fashion, fame, by food,
And by other worldly drugs to you.
Only you. I’m out of the mood.

Me and the time: Sparta and Athens;
We belong to each other,
In a lovely war that my mind imagines.
We need to kill each other.

Woe! There’s no benefits in my poems,
None gets salvation by my rhyme,
Nay they take me to the Seven Heavens,
But by seven verses- I killed the time.

Benyamin Bensalah

30.04.2017

Poet solidarity

I’m a poet already –
So why would I care,
How poetry is itself?
So why would I care,
About anything, but myself?

I’ve got the power –
The best pens are looking for my order,
The words are bowing afore me one by one,
The paper serve me as faithful recorder,
Meanwhile, they’re followed up only by one.

I’m one, one of you –
My babbles are coming from your room,
Your parents forbid me to talk as the street,
Your schools lent me books to consume,
It was your friend who read my first sheet.

I’m no one anymore –
You people kept acting after the school,
Turning cool movies of business and household,
Meanwhile, I observed what you name cool,
Having several lives written in colours and bold.

You are a poet as well –
You only need to open your eyes ajar,
Leave a comment, show me how you care,
Mellow your world and serve up in a jar,
To let us, your brothers taste if you dare.

We are a nation, mate –
We were born just as every Earthlings,
None of us was born in flames like dragons,
But we share as well magical-noble things;
To respect each other’s opinions sans dictums.

Tho, I’m your poet –
I thank you people a thousand times,
For giving me a world and cause to write,
Your different colours feed my rhymes,
Without you, they would be mute, lucite.

Benyamin Bensalah

16.04.2017

Schreibblockade

I used to live in many places,
Seeing them with various faces:


On the mountain, in the woods,
Drowsing in the peace of Sherwood’s.

In the village, on the farm,
Sniffing animals with a great charm!

In a town of a sandy shore,
Running to hit a beachball to score.

In the capital, inside a flat,
Eating-sleeping, eating-sleeping at a bed.


I used to have different faces,
Living in whether better or worse phases.

But the worst frowning face is,
Likely to living under hammering maces.

But the worst groaning face is,
Likely to living in a jail of burning braces.

But the worst lowering face is,
Likely to living in the highlight of disgraces.

The worst place desires me to inlock,
Facing a brute booth of writer’s block.


A writer’s block has no lock,
Having no lock, you cannot unlock.

Even if I have words.. a stock!
Even if I have a pen, not made of mock!

I cannot put a letter after another,
The writer’s block is a real ‘mother lover’.

I stand sitting before an empty page,
I feel like an unlearnt actor on the stage.

I feel like being condemned to fry,
After standing as a guilty without a lie.

Writer’s block is the ever worst place,
This is.. this is the place what I can’t face.

Writer’s block like monsters has no face,
It comes out from the darkness, the space.

But this time! This time, I will kill it;
No more problem looking at paper to fill it.

I will exorcise the demon finally,
With a spell that is like a.. a.. leee..

Oh God! It’s got ereased! My only Ace!
Disgrace! Only that I remember is a.. [space].

Benyamin Bensalah

05.09.2017

György Faludy: Learn this poem of mine

Learn this poem of mine
because how long this book will be by your side?
If it’s yours, it will be borrowed,
ending in a public library,
and if it’s not: its paper is so crappy,
it will turn yellow, will break, will be raggedy,
will dry out, will shred, will swell,
or it will catch fire calling upon hell,
two hundred and forty degrees is enough –
and what do you think how hot it is, how tough
when a big city becomes ash, burning down?
Learn this poem of mine.


Learn this poem of mine
because soon there will be no book to find,
there will be no poet and no rhyme,
and your car won’t have gasoline,
there won’t be even rum to be drunk,
since the shopkeeper won’t open the shop,
and you may throw out your money,
because the moment is coming with agony,
when your screen instead of image
will transmit a ray of death and cellular damage
and because there will be no one to help,
you will realize the only thing that remains left
as yours, is what your forehead has dined,
you hold.  Give me a place inside.
Learn this poem of mine.


Learn this poem of mine,
and tell me when it’s the deadline
of the seas littered with alkali,
and the industries’ puke already
covers all soils
and grounds, like the drool of snails,
if all of the lakes were killed,
and destruction is coming crippled,
if the leaf is rotting on the trees,
the sources bubble up disease,
and the evening wind brings you cyan:
if you put on the gas mask fine,
you can recite this poem of mine.


Learn this poem of mine,
to let me accompany you. Belike,
and you still survive this millenium,
and a few short years will become,
because the bacilli’s raving
revenge may fail,
and the technology’s greedy
divisions have more power
than the globe moving extremely –
bring it up from your memory
and sing another time to me
these lines: since where it has gone
the beauty and love?


Learn this poem of mine,
to let me accompany you if I’m no more alive
when you will be bothered about the house
where you live because there is no water nor gas,
and you hit the road to find a shelter,
to eat buds, seeds, and other gather,
to find water, get a club,
and if there is no free land, to use that club,
to take the land and kill the man –
there, let me amble with you, man
under ruins and above them
and whisper to you: Undead,
where are you going? Your soul is frozen,
no sooner than you leave the town.
Learn this poem of mine.


It could also be that up there
there is no more world, and you down there,
deep in the bunker you ask:
how many more days until the poisonous
air through the lead sheet
penetrates the concrete?
Then what was for and what worth had
the man, if he arrives to such an end?
How can I send you comfort,
if there is no right but discomfort?
Shall I confess that I was always for you
thinking of you for many, many years
through sunlights and through the nights,
and even I died a long time ago, I am still for you
looking through my two sad eyes?
What else could I tell you before I resign?
Forget this poem of mine.

Benyamin Bensalah

15.04.2020

Translated from the Hungarian poem of György Faludy, “Tanuld meg ezt a versemet”(1980).

Attila József: Ars Poetica

I’m a poet – why would I care
about poetry itself?
Wouldn’t the star of the night river
be nice on the sky itself?

Time is slowly leaking,
I’m not hanging onto fairy tales,
I’m from the real world sipping,
with creamy skies as details.

Nice springwater – bathing home!
Tranquility and trembling
are hugging each other in the foam
with gracefully smart chatting.

Other poets – what do I do with these?
Dirting, fooling all around,
with forged pictures and intoxicates
to mimic ecstasy aground.

I step over the today’s pubbing,
to the intellect and beyond!
With a free mind I won’t be fooling
as an idiotic servant.

To eat, to drink, to hug, to sleep!
Measure yourself with the universe!
With hissing, I won’t serve such cheap,
miserable powers.

No bargain – let me be happy!
Otherwise, anyone will disgrace
and by redish spots mark me,
until the fever drinks away my juice.

I won’t shut away my mouth from worry.
I am complaining about knowledge.
I am looked after, patroned, by this century:
I am the first thought in everyone with damage;

I am stimulated in the worker’s body
between two rigid movements;
I am waited before the night cinema party
by the vagabond, the poorly dressed.

And where forsakens are gathering in camps
chasing the orders of my poems,
brotherly tanks start up from ramps
to scream loudly my rhymes.

I say: The man is not great yet.
But they imagine it so absurd.
So let their two parents be their navette:
The spirit and a loved soul!

Benyamin Bensalah

11.04.2020

Today is the National Day of Poetry with the birthday of Attila József. Rest in peace finally.

Translated from the Hungarian poem of Attila József, “Ars Poetica”(1937).

Wild race

Whether you are a parent,
or it’s not yet apparent,

I do call upon you
– for the sake of everybody,
and for my sake as well
(since I had no such education),
but you,
you need to enlighten your child.

People are wild –
animals living in the wild will be less;
less brutal, brute and brutish than man.

Real predators have language –
the tongue of people kills and torments;
not for the weekly nutrition,
not for meat or blood,
but for their own pleasure
they kill and wound by their words.

Tell your child the truth:
that fear that makes you jump feets
from spiders or snakes,
that fear that freezes you with a cramp
from rabid dogs or wolves
have all mistaken the real object of fear:
Man.

(the merchant, the classmate,
the servant, the stagnate,
the young and the old and even the dead,
then even the poet by whom this lecture is said)

are all worse then animals,
so, son-
fear people
from the bottom of your heart,
for that fear may save your heart
may save your heart from becoming like us.

Benyamin Bensalah

05.07.2018

Bad omen

What a dread dream I had as a child
to be once one of the dead poets
seeing no remedial meaning in life
as I’ve been followed up with bad omens.

Now, as grown up, I couldn’t be more childish
to think I could change those bad omens
trying to bring the never had happiness to others’ life,
only luring them to mourn one of the dead poets.

The sadness doesn’t come from my failure,
neither from that I’m alone,
but rather that I’m seeing those lives’ remedy
in my absence; as I was the bad omen after all.

Benyamin Bensalah

03.04.2020