Wednesday, 27 January 2010
by Iqbal Tamimi
Proceeding on the bridge of hesitation,
is a return back.
The shoulders of memories are evading me
I jump in the bosom of surprise,
Your eyes undress...
Exposing an eagerness
Heard, crying silently.
Dreading to shake my hand,
My palm is wet
With a culture of crises.
The fingers of your commandments
Are kneading the sand,
While my shoulders are bearing
The pains of clay.
The olive tree has aborted its ink,
The palm wrote on the testimony of his silence.
The bread of the stranger
I will wear you in the cold
and I will release you,
Come on with me,
let’s hide our poem;
Our little one will not stand torture.
Let’s hide the hat of time
In the silk of our evenings.
Tonight we can be a field
Until the trees yawn
And Wear their birds
And when the day light
Comes back from his
We would have plucked
From our throats
The calls of all the sincere people.
Let us support our souls
So they would not break.
Recurrent defeats rained on
Our verbal scripts;
Half told confessions,
Getting ready to run away.
A meteorite that was scared
Out of his sleep
And I am
A storm biting the tail of its embarrassment.
The pulse exposed what the reunion has hidden
Two different poles-
But my night
Adores perfuming the sleeves
of your daylight.
© 2010 by Iqbal
Monday, 25 January 2010
By Iqbal Tamimi
I searched for myself in the shelves of raw history.
Part of me is a song...
wandering in the fields of alienation,
the other part,
a peasant of a permanent season.
I sometimes see myself
the lining of a sky made of berries.
and I see myself at other times,
that donated its lungs to overcome crisis,
as it breathes its surprise.
I am ghosts... with transmigrated voices
combing my letters in a mirror
decayed by dust made of confusion.
I use the rust as my makeup
and I hide my figure in the veins of the wind.
I throw myself in the middle of many restless days,
I carry palm trees to the heat of the dead.
Nightmares run away from my fractured dream
and my fingers enslave me while I sway
in the middle of the spikes,
like a copy of a bloated worry;
a stranger in the home of the threshing floors,
the autumn of seasons,
the grey of the old sickles.
I hang over my letters
like a feather in a storm.
I chase happiness with my fishing rod,
cracked memories catch me with guillotines.
The children teach me how to draw my shadow
and the mirrors teach me how to donate,
loan some of my breath to the suffocation;
this surprises the boredom yawning with my sleepiness.
From my forehead fell the drops of loss,
fermented for the autumn.
I get intoxicated by the dawn,
the sands swallow me,
the octopus is working its tentacles
in my revolving legends,
the reason for chaos is refreshed by me,
I own my freedom from slavery
while I envy those who are in shackles
because I am only a metaphor...