We present this work in honor of the poet’s 80th birthday.
Ever been kidnapped by a poet if i were a poet i’d kidnap you put you in my phrases and meter You to jones beach or maybe coney island or maybe just to my house lyric you in lilacs dash you in the rain blend into the beach to complement my see Play the lyre for you ode you with my love song anything to win you wrap you in the red Black green show you off to mama yeah if i were a poet i’d kid nap you
I press my head down It’s the result of insomnia oppressing me I press my head to you and to my miserable memoirs The night is pressing me too But I’m so tough
Now it’s the sound of your scream coming And there is blood And there is the smell of tear and tear gas A soldier is pressing my head down by his boots Someone is pulling the trigger Now there is a gun between my eyebrows I feel the blood pressure in my head The cowards have run I press a cold hand in my cold hand
Someone was calling my name all the night I feel the pressure of a lump in my throat My throat is wounded And I hear you screaming in the ear of someone who is all dead I feel the pressure of life And its wounds And its marks And I feel the pressure of the graves upon the solitude of dead bodies
I press my fists to the wall and I swallow my cry You are still screaming in the wild howls of the wind I press my head down A vessel is pressing a nerve And I press a bottom to flash my life back To go back to a scene where I’m opening a window towards light Where everybody rise out of the graves Where I hold a warm hand in my hand And we are laughing in our homes and in our rooms There I hear the sound of peace And my heart beats normally And that’s a better day with a green background
Fair children of nature! a fragrance is round them, Derived from the parent who first gave them birth, And who, in her ceaseless affection, hath crowned them, The simplest and sweetest adornments of earth.
In shadow and sunshine they blossom and flourish, On high, hanging cliff—in the forest’s deep gloom; The wildest of mountains their loveliness nourish, And dark, hollow caves are their cradle and tomb.
But e’en as we gaze on the flower, ‘tis faded— Its beauties are fleeting, and live but a day; Too quickly the leaves by death’s colours are shaded, Till lowly it droops its fair head to decay.
‘Tis an emblem of life, for an infancy’s hours We know not its thorny and dangerous road— Our tears fall as lightly as dew from the flowers, And leave the heart gay as if ne’er they had flowed.
But when the rough blasts of misfortune assail us, Or frosts of unkindness fall chill on the heart,— When friends we have loved, in adversity fail us,— ‘Tis then that the tear-drops of sorrow will start.
Too often, alas! the bright visions we cherish Of friendship and faith, fade away from our sight, And the fond dreams of hope in their infancy perish, At the withering touch of ingratitude’s blight.
We present this work in honor of the 45th anniversary of the poet’s death.
I am the final point of a novel that begins Let us not forget everything above level zero I sustain my romance intact between my eyes Then, denying nothing, I set out once again I am the final point of a novel that begins No need to distinguish the horizon from the dance And within my burnous my house survives I am the final point of a novel that begins Of my two Saharas I compose my song I sustain my romance intact between my eyes I am in the truth the pupil and the lesson
Often I recall having been a shepherd… Then in my eyes there’s that long-suffering look Of a fellah who watches in his unbreakable hands The history of a country where the orange tree will be born Often I recall having been a shepherd I have sliced the galette I have parted the figs My daughter I have married well It has no equal To the gun To the task Than my eldest son My wife was the finest in the valley. Among us the word fatherland has a taste of anger My hand has caressed the heart of palm trees The handle of my ax opens an epic And I have seen my grandfather Mokrani Finger his beads watching eagles pass Among us the word fatherland possesses a taste of legend
Daddy ! Why have you deprived me Of fleshly music see: Your son Learning to speak in another tangue Words that I have known Since I was a shepherd lad
Ah my God The night so much night in my eyes Mummy calls herself Ya Ma while I say Mother I have mislaid my burnous my gun my pen And I bear a first name falser than my deeds Ah the night my God but what’s the good of whistling Fear You’re afraid Fear You’re afraid Fear You’re afraid Since a man stalks you like some frightful mirror Your school friends and the streets the jokes But since I tell you I’m a Frenchman just look at my clothes my accent my house I who turn a race into a profession Saying Tunisian when I mean “tradesman” I who think of a Jew as some wretched homegrown soldier? Come on then, my sister wears no veil And in the Lycee didn’t take all the prizes for french?
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 145th birthday.
I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky, And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by, And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking, And a gray mist on the sea’s face, and a gray dawn breaking.
I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied; And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying, And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.
I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life, To the gull’s way and the whale’s way, where the wind’s like a whetted knife; And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover, And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 250th birthday.
So she wanders in the eternally same circle, The time, in its old way, Deaf and blind on their way. The impartial human child Always expecting from the next moment An unexpected strange new happiness. The sun goes and returns Comes the moon and the night falls, The hours guide the weeks down The weeks bring the seasons. From the outside nothing ever again.
My father is “having fun” cleaning the floor he uses the plugged in sink as a bucket wears rags on his feet and shimmies to a cleaning beat he asks me to read the label on the bottle for him he wants our floor to shine and laughs when (surprise) it does this is how I will remember him moonwalking across our kitchen floor rags under his feet “that’s how my mother taught me” he says “but I never take any note it takes me forty years to do what she say”