Poems by: Ali Abukhattab From Gaza lives in Norway

Why "I cannot to write" ?


(1)
Because I'm stronger than idea,
And weaker than language.
(2) Because I'm bigger than illusion
And smaller than fact
(3) Because I'm cleaver than nonexistence
And unclearer than existence

Empty

The wind has its logic..
And you walk against saltiness of time.
The place smell croaks in you.
You spin your death by hands of holes.
You stick to the wind hissing
Your self burnt on the flame of fragmentation
You create your ceremonies in mixing the tears by the fantom foam
Your crushed myth rises from the poem hell
Go up
Go up
Go up
Do not stop on the tip of chant
I see them approaching from your echo
I see them slipping from the cough attendants
Escape , Follow the prophecy of wind



"Waiting for Godot" again

I, in the first of distance, was waiting for him.
As a defeated prophet
The time scorpions was biting me
The wild age words was stoning me
The weakness was spreading into the rocks
I said he must come
But they left me
I waited till the dates evaporated
.. Ö .. Ö .
Nothing came except death.


Variations on Genesis

(1)

In the beginning was the desire,
Was going around the nowhere,
Embracing the illusion,
So it died as smoke.
When it ecstasised by fact light
It got last in the silence of time.

(2)
In the beginning was the bomb,
The god lighted its fuse,
So he dispersed as fragment.

(3)

In the beginning the apple was in the hand of Eve
And Cain's hand carried the knife
Abel's neck bled
When Adam had eaten the apple.

(4)

In the beginning was the crime;
It's the first* and the last*.
And was the spite;
Itís the visible*
And the hidden*

(5)

In the beginning the God wrote his autobiography
On the kept sheet
And when the destiny bewildered us
We said; the Good is from the God
And the evil is from the Devil

(6)

Excuse for the Devil
* some names of the Islamic God.


Trilogy for the sea

(1)

The narcissus desire
Draws abstraction for the finite
Picks, from my smell, an ink
And I still write.

(2)

A violet rests to steep
In this green storm
My pen swims like the jellyfish
My face is a rocky jut
My lips are a remains of moss
And I still speak.

(3)

The coast is the start of the flock
The fish fished the sea color
My eyes smells the cloud
And I still look.

 

Discourse of I\You

I am the shadow inflammation
You are the darkness drizzle
I am the mirrors masturbation
You are the mud labyrinth
I am the tale fire
You are a poem of dusk
I stumbles in the dream lanes
Your have sex dreams in barbarian climate
I stare in the curse rump
You ride the exhalation tremble
I get up the horse back of gell
You fall at a distance of two seconds from my soul
I stand up leaned on the space
You rest on the branches of air.
I am a soul practices its secret habit
You are a body exercises the ceremonies of desolation
I; my nerves are the memory of dust
You act the tragedy of mote
I build the kingdom of yelping
You vibrates among the memoirs bows
I am killed by the clearness
You suffer the ambiguity coldness


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