We present this work in honor of Moroccan Independence Day.
A people undone. Your bread shreds itself ceremonially on mounds of reminiscence under the rain musical prattle. Wait and see a little and-you’ll-see-golden- eggs-in-your-cottage-and-you’ll-see- the-milky-diamonds-of-figs-in-your-stream- of-honey-in-your -well-virgins-in-your- harem-you-will-speak-with-birds-with- reptiles-with-raptors-wait-and-see-your- hovel-become-a-villa-with-a-car- and-daily-driver-and-TV-and-heated- pool-and-telephone-and-telex-in- permanent-touch-with-every- dream-and-illusion. Just wait and see.
The Prophet, who dwells in the Garden’s summit, Most deserving of God’s praise and glory, Experienced, worthy to guide God’s servants, The beloved, who knows the secrets of hearts Leads the messengers from beginning to end The beautiful dhikr begins and ends on him. From the signs of the messengers they were ahead. The most brilliant are those from our Messenger.
We present this work in honor of the Moroccan holiday, Revolution Day.
Do not open the windows wide… Outside… there are things With no names, Transcending the space in the air . The trees bow its length to it, The sun… shrinks to itself… It was blinded by its light She backed up sighing Outside… The dust assumes the forms of humans, Licking the buildings… the pavement Ivy climbing… The small café at the end of the street Do not open the windows wide… Let them be closed. The descents of Tatars are coming The bells are tolled from afar… And the sky is growls and rumbles The windmills… Hardly stop Electricity poles on the wall Bend… Crackling and neighing Horses struck by panic, And they chose to leave Do not open the windows wide .. Your dreams may fall On the pavement And the climbing bulldozer may smash you Or your heavy bodies may fall. Do not ask about a beloved who did not return Nor a kid of yours in school Do not buy morning bread… Nor Newspaper Do not greet your neighbor as usual… Do not fix the clock’s hands No, no do not open the windows Hide behind it on oblique chairs Enjoy polishing an old coat Or caress the backs of luxurious cats Or sip evening tea Or laugh on the impact of an insipid joke Do not open wide the windows wide… Swarms of swallows Kidnap their small bodies, And flee dripping The tree shake their roots, Wishing they would to fly. But they only swallow their disappointments And remain a witness of current events Crackle of imminent thunder The specters of the death… Leaving their long slumber Grumbling… And moaning As if… horses of resurrection Are coming
We present this work in honor of the Moroccan holiday, Allegiance Day.
A ghost You attend to the ruby time No east will rise in you or west A niche Drowned in blue rustle shrouded by the Kingdom A clay horizon Eternity Dangling like a bunch of grapes For a hand that drifts away And dies
A stone Forgets its master Was he Here Or was he there A stone above a stone Rises to watch you The comer No one Is still awake but you
A silence attends to me And for you my guest There will be a night of papyri And a night of Ageless Distances Arriving in hissing scents The night’s end And beginning Are identical Friezes are becoming one Under the feet of the river’s dusk Intoxication echoes resonate inside me And fade away
I’m not concerned with the bloodiest wars of the world I’m not bound to its decline towards the silliest of its abysses Battle-fronts, public interests, the peaceful histories of nations, killers of Jesus Christ, the right wing, its extreme the north, its nearest side.
Concerned am I with the primordial matter of darkness, the exiles of clay descending from the dynasties of fools, the dwellers of the underground halls where the river is my sleeping place, the seven skies prayer-rugs to my sinful soul, and women are shadows to some lust, or the groaning of a fighter dying close to his military equipment, his hand on his heart and his eyes bulging out of his cheeks.
The Athenian boy in person, the boy climbing the stairs of betrayal, the grandson of Father Kairos, discovered at once that wisdom is the refuse of the mills of stupidity, that the horizon is narrower than the gate of Troy, and that nothing deserves dying for, far away from the perfume of Venus, closer to the mirage of victory
He, then, wished he had extra breath to wed his burnished sword to fire, and roam the earth. His guide the astrolabe of desire and lust his refuge.
And wished the heart broadened a little to contain Aphrodite’s splendor that is close to the borders of extreme drunkenness.
And wished God gave him the earth as a present so that the islands of language become his own moons, and he become the Lord. To him letters and the howdah of meaning bow. To him the windmills appear.
And when he realized that death is the chant of the moment he put fire in his coffin and mounted the cloud of his exhausted heart.
The Athenian boy in person, the runaway of the Acropolis The boy whose footsteps I pursue, the ever-travelling boy. His shadow became a cloud of questions.
We present this work in honor of the First Day of Passover.
Lift up my steps, O Lord, my savior, I’d go to my country with a placid joy; an ignorant people pursues me now, and taunts me with a thunderous noise. Take me, quickly, to a Galilee mountain, and send your anger across their skies; there I’ll see your light, my crown, and say: Now I can die.
Today I shall celebrate this blind night I shall drink for its health I shall puff on its complexion some of my cigarette smoke I shall read him some of my poems When I am emptied I shall lead him safe and sound To the edge of the day
To extinguish the coals smoldering in his heart He makes a river spring through his eyelids, flooding his torso. In fact, there are tears that in their very abundance ease the heart. Let ours thus flow: Better than anyone we do appreciate the scope of our misery. To face such misfortune I turned toward patience, But patience, itself impatient, abandoned me. What is there more unbelievable than to see Shepherds set themselves up as overlords and legislate?
Here’s a “weird one” who’s never had anything but rope as a belt, An idiot who has ever only led sheep into the mountains, And now he’s become the master of Fez! He mistreats and tortures the city’s youthful elite: In such extremities it is to God alone that one addresses one’s complaint, From Him alone can deliverance come. The echo of these calamities has crossed the borders: Young people who are being sequestered, tortured, humiliated Though they have committed no crime. Let this coarse man be told that his whip Makes ten million Moroccans groan: There are those among them who keep silent, not knowing how to express their pain; Others, to the contrary, who’ve had enough and who cry out— They all suffer the pain that eats them up. Can you imagine a sick person ignoring his pain? They have not been subjected… while being subject. Let’s suppose they’re at fault: their due then is a just Judgment, one that doesn’t err because of blunders or excess.
We present this work in honor of the Moroccan holiday, Green March Day.
A White Bird
A breath condenses Even density can be pleasant Each wall widens its cracks And retains the call A height that remains a height Springs that have gathered the winds of the fields
A Red Bird
It may have travelled the river in one night The road may have guided it through the upper layers I ponder the mystery of its redness Then forget the sky That has taken it There
A Green Bird
There are sleeping feathers before me Feathers that blast me with the fire of distance And feathers without a body that bend And collect In a point Between us speech is fluttering
A Blue Bird
So drunk in the evening it’s almost unable to return It would prefer that departure go on Without departure Reflections Of light in the pool Grow longer
A Black Bird
Each thing wants to emulate it Water in the pots Words on their birthdays Caravans across borders A girl not yet wet with dew
But the thrush Emulates only Itself It stays on branches of joy
A Yellow Bird
That window remains open for it as they sit face to face and the bird stays because of an approaching silence until without even pecking the grains it soars just as its past did just as its future will at dawn
A Colorless Bird
Elated it chirps on one of the nights of solitude Before it flies Where light unites with vibration A draft that startles Its visitor with a wing whose recurrent glitter Is ever-changing and I can see it from a distance It flies So that what I see Is this thing that resembles nothing distant