We present this work in honor of the Moroccan holiday, Allegiance Day.
Hassan El Ouazzani Moroccan b. 1970
At its peak, war leaves the battle-front, wipes with oblivion its own eyes, passes by the hairdresser’s, hurls down the world from the tenth floor, to be free for the evening show
For sure the land will offer new dead people as sacrifice, processions of the blind, and more medals.
At its peak, I will weave other battle-fronts, straw leaders, trenches and taverns, wine-blood, and letter processions
And in the well of oblivion I bury names not meant for oblivion, a perplexed woman, hearts that didn’t stop at my port, eyes that didn’t keep watch over me, paradises I never inhabited.
I have time for grief And time for love
And I trust my fits of sorrow to the womb of amazement. Did the child know that I would lead him into a dark tunnel and weave from his shadow a king that will feed on lovely grief? Did I know that vertigo will hurl me far away from the palm-tree of oblivion, and that I will force my crimes onto heaven?
This war toppled down the towers of Babel The mills of Aden, the voices of Rimbaud, the majestic silence of Hawi. This war exhausted me, I will stop it for a little while till the battle-front cools down or the cloud of questions takes shape on my shoulders
This war might come to an end. But not my obsession which flows from the turmoil that renders names, things, and lovely passion to fragments
my eyes will only ever leave her lips to inhabit her eyes
I mean the most gorgeous female not the war of oblivion
We present this work in honor of the Moroccan holiday, Enthronement.
Malika El Assimi Moroccan b. 1946
Poetry will be your dress when you yield your soul back to its maker You’ll strike down your enemies through mortal silence and the language assassinated under your fingers With it you’ll tattoo the snout of the good-for-nothings and you’ll bring down the sphinx a peg or two
Why am I so worried about my fortune? Why should I complain? My Creator is my Benefactor.
I am His weak creature and He is the Almighty. That which is hard for me For Him becomes so easy.
I am just a slave and Destiny has all matters settled. He can see me, while I can’t. Out of semen He shaped me inside a womb.
He says: “Be!” and so it is, from the Beginning and all new again. He reigns over all His creatures and rules His kingdom as He pleases.
Out of semen He shaped me in the darkness of a womb and offered me all kinds of riches and fed me all kinds of food.
I came out completely naked and He decently clothed me. He still protects me and is far above the wisest of all men.
I was born naked—I was born ignorant. He enveloped my soul in a decent cloth and made me drink from His holy spring and made Earth my bed and the Sky my roof.
Praise be to Him our Benefactor! We must praise him at all times for all the good He bestowed upon us and for both Sky and Earth.
Earth is His kingdom, and I’m one of His subjects. Men are His creatures, and I’m one of them. He is the One who bestows fortune so let’s not be too demanding, and accept whatever comes…
To you life means to entertain yourself: seeking only pleasure and careless about the rest. Take a rest, my heart, and be happy with just a little!
Discard what your Self wants most if you want to get rich, for your Poverty lies in your virtues! He who can’t oppose his desires shall suffer all his life!
Be strong and fight your Self! Don’t let yourself drift away—keep Desire out of your mind and root out every single seed of it, for your Self wishes you ill! Look at you: how weary you are!
Some people told me: “Be wise, old fool! Forget your worries and know what you say! Build your walls on solid foundations, for your foundations threaten to fall.”
I replied: “Are you being fair to Him? From Him I see only the good. How many lie buried under the ground? Who am I to be in the world what I want to? The world is worth nothing to me! Why do you call me a fool when you can see me carrying hard, heavy stones? What do you want from me? Just leave me alone!
They told me: “Be quiet and humble, old fool, when you enter the mosque!” To which I replied: “Who am I to refuse to be humble?! My hair has turned white and it’s time for me to depart as if I had never existed! I am from Earth, and to Earth I shall soon return.”
Earth is my Origin and that of all creatures. Earth is where I am like a plant deeply rooted. I prefer to see my flesh and bones Turn into weeds and earthworms.
Earth was the Beginning of all Creation: from Earth we all sprouted, and to it we shall return. It is said that those who lie there shall someday rise so I won’t mind resting anywhere you wish, for Earth embraces all men alike: the ragged and the richly clad, those wearing large cotton belts, chechias, turbans, or Yemeni brocades.
On Him who feeds the birds I rely, for He certainly is my Protector! He designs the course of my life And all things happen as He wishes!
They said my mind was constantly upset. I said: “He is the One who knows!” They said I have changed my mind. I said: “No! No! No! My mind won’t feed me.”
The said: “Why don’t you work?” I said: “Work is an honor to me! I will tighten my belt and toil all day long till I save u; enough and savor the tasty flesh of pigeons! But I will never, ever beg any of my brothers nor any other person in the world!”
They said: “Life is tasteless.” I said: “Because of heartless men!” They said: “Be a beggar.” I said: “Begging kills his man!” They said: “Get married.” I said: “Who suits me?” They said: “But you have no money.” I said: “Thank God!”
When lightning strikes and the wind blows, I recall those nights When I was so happy. But then those were only ghosts!
My heart lies in the East, while in the West I feel a complete stranger! Each time lightning strikes I recall a strange thing: everyone wonders how I can be there and here! To them I must look like a bird whose feathers have been cut.
If you meditate on this poem you will discover a hidden garden where meaning flowers in various colors nurtured by the noble Othman Ibn sidi Yahya.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 65th birthday.
Fatiha Morchid Moroccan b. 1958
Do not say “absence tastes like madness” Close your eyes Wherever you are You will find me… Immovable as the sea Wandering about In the ebb and flow Never absent.
We present this work in honor of the Moroccan holiday, Proclamation of Independence.
Touria Majdouline Moroccan b. 1960
I gather my confusion and my things My steps And the remaining illusions Of my body I run beyond time Beyond the vacant air And space
Yesterday I drew my open space here And dreamed a lot I sowed shade, and fruit, and crops around And with flames I wrote my poems… Yesterday I had plenty of time To embroider space with words. But today I am left with nothing But my dejection And the crumbs of yesterdays gone by
Thus I gather my things I wrap myself up in my own confusion And I run I run beyond time I propagate into the distance With neither shade Nor sun.
We present this work in honor of the 45th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Saïda Menebhi Moroccan 1952 – 1977
You know my child
I wrote a poem for you
but don’t chastise me
for writing it is this language
that you don’t yet understand
it’s nothing my child
when you are older
you will seize this dream
that I dreamt in the middle of the day
when it’s your turn, you will tell the story of this woman
Arab prisoner
in her own country
Arab up to her white hair
her greenish eyes
the dream my child
begins
when I see a pigeon
the birds that build their nests
on the roofs of prisons
I dream of sending a message to the revolutionaries
of Palestine
in order to assure them support for victory
I dream of having wings
just like sparrows
to traverse the skies
as far as Erythrea
as far as Dhofar
arms heavy with guns
the head with poems
I want to be a passenger
on board clouds
with my war attire
combating Pinochet
in the back country of Chili
so that my blood runs
on Chilean soil
that Neruda praised
o my dream
red Africa
without hungry children
I dream
that the moon
up there is going to fall
to take out the enemy
and that the moon will leave me
in Palestine or in the Sahara
anywhere
I struggle for victory
For all people who are combatants.
We present this work in honor of Moroccan Independence Day.
Tahar Ben Jelloun Moroccan b. 1944
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.
Amal Al Akhdar Moroccan 21st century
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.
Mohammed Bennis Moroccan b. 1948
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
Poets Corner 