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

Wavery writing

I grab the pen,
In the sand.
On the beach.

As all the pens,
It depends,
How it ends.

The words just land,
In my hand,
Through the waves.

They try to mend,
My heart’s wound,
By their sound.

It madly sends,
Crazy bends,
Waves and graves.

The murmurs end,
When the wind,
Ends its trend.

The waves are grand,
Once God’s grant,
Then graves (a)gain.

My skin is brand,
I’m well tanned,
Though unplanned.

The pain must end,
What I planned,
Wave Goodbye.

The thoughts are banned,
It’s the end,
I can’t stand.

I drop the pen,
In the sand,
On the beach.

Benyamin Bensalah

10.08.2017

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

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

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