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

A rhymeless gentleman

The first morning beams of the shining giant’s
Chased my train and its hundred clients,
Dying on their face a golden curiosity:

Their beany questions might disdain Horace;
What treasure is the day hiding for us?
How we enslave ourselves to succeed?

They might be the opiated words of the daylight
While others’ shady face merged with the night;
Their eyes were in sleepy marsupium.

The trancelike music of the wheels’ tuc-tuc
Choked and chopped up the time’s tic-tac;
Asken asleep: what time is it?

The cockeyed carriage with many Sir and Madam
Of Sun-and-Moon, Dead-and-Alive amalgam
Ended by a gentleman’s advent.

The man flashed up frighteningly brightening;
Noble whiteness, but eyes with black cunning.
What omen has brought him to this world?

He aimed the corner, though there were seats,
He was frozen, though his presence seethes
The air and the atmosphere.

Misty curiousity raised around the Mysterious Man;
Teacher? Agent? Man of letters and pen?
He caused a misery.

He looked beyond the crowd once, scanning
As if he memorized all at once the setting;
He retired to the shade of his crown.

Oh no! Surely, he must pretend or it’s an accident.
Why is he so insanely confident,
Has a Special Force?

With blueish, cold-blooded jeans, shoes and vest,
Reddish, vehement beard borne as his crest;
He was the manly elegance.

The long white collar under his beard
Made ways to other words unheard:
East? West? What continent?

The gentleman kept his corner as a throne;
A store of wisdom under his hat’s dome,
All hidden in his closed eyes.

Does he see me while I’m committing the crime,
Watching him and looking for a fitting rhyme?
Were his eyes ever-seeing?

Since I could feel anything but his eyes
As a magician who can hypnotize;
I daydreamt about him.

Difficult, tho I describe him just as myself;
I close my eyes and imagine myself,
As a person who’s able to rhyme.

Writing in the corner is truly priceless!
Even if I’m somewhat rhymeless.
Could I forget who I am?

A rhymeless gentleman.

Benyamin Bensalah

10.10.2017

Look at this little village!

Oh, look at this little village!
Five hundred of you, here, full of damage,
Full of bruises, scars, tired muscles!
All because of life; how it hustles.

All of you, five hundred, are thousands –
Different humans
In one single encephalon;
Please, receive my admiration.

We are humans, weak and strong,
To each other we belong;
So, I want to thank you, five thousand,
For every of your precious moment.

Benyamin Bensalah

19.02.2020

My last poem for non-releasing

Someone like me who’s condemned to lifelong dying,
At the last moment, won’t be imploring, crying;
I won’t comb my audience for fellow-feeling
Who are seeing the future still appealing;
Death will come to me so relieving
That the only thing I’ll be seeing
Is the last chance for rhyming,
Taking it well and poetizing
My last poem, rising
As best forgoing
With me dying,
And taking,
Hiding
My
M
Y

Benyamin Bensalah

18.01.2020

Almost dead poets

If there’s a poet you know, and still alive;
Please, tell him your appreciation,
Tell her how she does matter,
Tell him he means a lot
Because
We, poets, don’t see behind the dot;
We feel a lot, write some out,
Then, we think, sometimes,
That we’ve done nothing.
That’s why,
Please, if there’s a poet… you know…
Tell him, tell her your appreciation
Because… it does matter,
You know…

Benyamin Bensalah

07.01.2020

My old room

Knock-knock-knock
The door’s opened by Hitchcock.
A room of an infant’s memory :
Dolls, dust and instant delivery
Of some goosbumping horror-dolls.
They laugh while their head rolls,
Sitting hither-thither on the shelf,
Pressing shiver on my self.
Oh, that emberassing cymbals!
And what these, embracing symbols?!
I witness my old past on the wall :
I numbly follow the arc of a ball
From a dark dusty wardrobe lanced,
Arrived on mom’s garden’s land.
The scene of children holding ice cream,
Mine is splashed on earth.. why I scream.
The bullies of my old young ages
Made me write so many crying pages,
Made me a prisoner of this room,
Made me locked in it with my gloom.
I don’t even know how long ago
Has been waiting for me this lego
To face it as a challenge, as a fear.
I did it. I entered. Je suis fière.
I’m facing it only with acceptance;
This horror is a part of my stance.
J’ai changé mais la chambre bête reste.
I’m free. I’m wiser. Thanks that mess.

Benyamin Bensalah

20.12.2016