Poems from Dayplaces

Story of (that) time

Story of that time; like tyrants who gargle in the depth ; in the (wood’s quiet) we were, night was in us; maybe we were stars, maybe we carried our clothes to where the river enters.
Dante says: the Centaur throws tyrants in a river of blood; I say: the wood is in the heart; and we inhabit Al Midan square in homeless rooms; judgment days pass colorless through us, and we are naked on the square of the universe.


From Al Dakhil Street , to the square of the others, the vehicle stopped.
He was dreaming of returning to something else, after all the roads which left him; the body stumbled in the trip, and the trip in the vehicle…
The evening shone in the mosque’s porthole, while a fistful of men gathered, around a woman who slaps the yarn.

To be Homer…forcefully

I don’t mean poetry, I mean blindness;
The jar of evening which we inserted into…
Thus every color vanishes\ and the young woman stays standing on the porch of her ruins. When foam advances, old age inters the door; and for those who knew not the sun, eyes become the tombstone, which opens the meeting, and avoids sands of vision.

Dante, Again

You enter in the dimness; sink in the darkness; gargle like tyrants…
You are a tyrant too, but the crowd of your lost sons; are the years of your age, which rush naked now –from the depth of the able- to dissolve like ink, into the jars of the poem.


Three Rainy Nights (from the thousand nights)

The first night:
The air poured down heavily, and the sky stepped back few steps, when we entered the café street, a seller came upon us: (sirs; in the way there are years, from the thicket of age..).

The second night:
The lamps remained turned on all the day; the world was accumulating in the rain; and the caravans send their spores in small grains among houses…the (sea) smacks the café’s belly button, and starlings spread on Al Rasheed columns; an ancient square of alluvium which didn’t obliterate, the soul kept knowing it in spite of the veil which nights accumulated.

The third night:

The sleepless woman; resembles the dawn, and the city is drowned in its magic…
The garage of evening loads passing woman something, of the remains of the truth, and house of evening which wars left behind.

An Evening

This evening reminds me of the beginning, when I was closer from windows’ iron to the sun, and when I was watching: how the windows’ iron grows to a plant in the evening.
I was entering in the presents, which didn’t notice; in a golden ribbon of an empty box, which is life; and what it was supposed to be.



You stop someday, to find out that you are not what you thought to be; and what even more important: you are no one.
Clouds’ color modifies, and the rain which meets it, and the glass which embraces the rain.
Then, you will not be but a point, moving on the days; and in spite of fear and pain, in spite of rooting and echo, sends its fire arrow afar -in a wood- where it meets nothing but the density.



This body I knew since…visage; I knew that road which led to its hand palms, and the fire of nights-ether on its face’s secret.
Today I bear it, or guides it so it follows me, while we exchange some silence, about its well, and about those long ways which were not who met him.

* Joseph…?




That rude scene; the eyes’ crush against a cloud, which continued to raise with (Al Thawra) a street, muddy, like the ways- on a rose of mud..
(anciently) we knew life; the air matured by the sun, and the wine in a night of gloominess’ clarity\ we knew the wick which shakes towards beauty; or a wide street, years rim its sides, in a lost drop of wine; on the face of that life which was nothing, but life…
* nostalgia…?


Why, you
* admonition
(along the age)**
** (you enter the door of dust, and stare at the grave):
- welcome, you will forget (your family)***
you will be happy.
*** people are illusion, the family is lofty like pine.