Poetic thought

My ever question as a poet:
Whether the world is providing me all those imaginary words
Like sitting next to my room window’s fantasies-
Or rather, reality is just the jail of my real world,
And my words are just the sunshine for me, behind the bars.

Benyamin Bensalah


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
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


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


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).


A title

Somewhat, I may seem a bit antiquated
          On the score of the want of a purposefully chosen title –
As you, poet, use the space to spare your miss from an ile full of missile,
Use the enter to pray the sender of the letter while she’s re-entering your life,
Or use a final stop when the apothecary has brought your final tisane…
     –  As well, you are fairly obliged of the use of titles
if you are – at least – a little educated.

If the life holds no purpose except of poesy,
        Then what does?
If the poet does not give purpose to his poesy,
        Then what does?

Does the picture of a lonely moment with the smell of coffee
hold any purpose without saying:
Good Morning?

Does the impression of a parade among thousands of you
hold any purpose without saying:
I’m still looking for you?

Does a public poem, in your private opinion,
give any purpose without saying:
This is your title?

You see what I’m saying, already…
        I can decide: “You’re ready!”
and stop the lines of writing in convincing and crying
because you are already there where I wanted you to be…
… standing with full of purpose led by this poem
       where my title begins and ends,
exactly here:

Benyamin Bensalah


Program R

Words by words and codes by codes,
By all those new neutrons and electrons made chatodes,
By all the data that have no limit concluding the material and the spirit,
I was started and I started after the first program of Let Be Light, having sight.

But having sight never could be ever fitting
Since the data perceived is just hitting-hitting
So much memory files, no miles of computers could synchronise,
And I was just born with eyes having no distance on the size we analyse.

So, “let be light”, having no right I cite
Meanwhile mentioning that flawless programming might
That holds the copyright on every carbon, molecule and single atom,
Writing the reality of physics and the psyche that seems biologically so illogical.

Minding the minds of humans not crawling
As it was reprogrammed by the drawing of Darwin,
The brains and the cells are starving for knowing the truth:
What, why and how is that what we went, and what we go through ruled by Mr Who.

Then, I stay here saying ‘Hello World’
In my little program, made word by word,
Relating it to the world in my single reality of Program R,
Starting to act, I myself – a little bit – a programmer just like the Programmer.

Benyamin Bensalah


The mad race

My muscles are tied to two wild horses,
The Morning and the Night,
The lines are held by the work I’m doing,
And the wipes by the time.

The days are yielding to their courses,
Absorbing my might,
The fatigue obliterates what I’m doing,
Any good thing or crime.

The only clean things are these morses,
Crying s.o.s. in the fight,
But the horses are just pursuing,
They listen to no rhyme.

Benyamin Bensalah