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Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781426962578 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Trafford Publishing |
| Publication date: | 03/30/2011 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 108 |
| File size: | 624 KB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Incomplete Texts
By Mohammed Y. Burhan
Trafford Publishing
Copyright © 2011 Mohammed Y. BurhanAll right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4269-6214-1
Chapter One
The Story Of CreationWith one finger
In the overflowing water,
A circle had He drawn.
With two hands, therein
Man had He drown!
Disappointment
Sixty years ago
Maybe over,
I gave him birth.
I crowned him with a new name.
A man I made of him,
A nearby brother,
With my jugular vein
He lived together.
Sixty years never apart;
My son "Dream",
I slaughtered him
Nearby the window the other day
Having become old,
Not true!
A Wish
A moon of flour
And stars of sesame,
It is the sky to the hungry.
A loaf of bread ... Not more!
Drowned
With my only-left-waterless hand,
I long waved to you
At which you only raised your hands!
Were you waving back?
Thirst
Fed up with food and flowers are we
With TV screens.
Fed up even with our
Dead-like miens at the mirrors..
Where to end up?
Water. Where is water!
Just If
Had time been money
All spent would it be
Waiting to see her face!
Siblings
Europe whose whiteness
Unburdened her to surrender
And Africa whose blackness
Pitied her not to burn
Blessed is defeat ... a home for all.
Passion
When her golden earring
Tore my palm,
My blood wept,
White ... transparent
Like tears
Wait
Your black gown
Goes much like my lone night.
Why not open at the middle
To light up my days!
Weep
I gifted the sea with a flower
That once was yours.
I shed it into the water
Why, the moon fell
And my feet sobbed
Over the sand ...
Lust
She slept with me the whole night
Flapped upon my chest like a partridge
While our clothes,
Aside on the bed
And naked of us,
Were shyly picking each other up!
The Truth
A woman never comes close
For more tenderness to give,
Rather, to smell more
How sick you are of her!
Panting
Another day passes by,
And over the hands of the clock,
It pours forth light
To bite parts off our dreams
Then to fade
Even before
We open our arms
To welcome!
Sacrilege
The moon,
It is a hole in the dress of night.
The morning is ...
The night's public hot flesh!
Paradox
Cries
Whenever in need to
Smile
Zabadani
Ever since the apple
Became the source of sin,
For planting apples
Famous my village has been!
Toil
As it every day pays
For getting there,
The ladder is the only
To hate peaks
Endurance
Whenever I hold my pen,
I picture Moses
Breaking his stick
Kissing Pharaoh's hand
Then shouts at me:
You are drowning
Along with your poems.
Renewal
I escort the poem
To the wide-open door of glitter
Then ... again ...
Back to life
An incomplete text that
A poem might once
Draw accomplished.
Distance Grasp
Here, beside me, lies he
Stunned at the waiting death are we,
Yet still makes mock of me:
"Envy me O river
I get there, no suffer."
A wry smile I give, in secret
And make sure that he not reach it;
"He whose eagerness to reach be untried
Will reach with his rapture aside."
Publishing
My poem
Leaves betrayed of me
When with silence it reacts
To the love of the others ...
Glow
I dress my silence up
To out-sight the angel of death
Alas, my smell betrays me:
Whatever I do ...
I smell of death.
Prophecy
A loner
A failure rebel
Yet still obstinate,
I shall always butt this rock
Till the ever dwelling grief
In my head
Departs
Or else
I better die for it.
The Truth
A bit of a heretic
Makes God practise being in rapture
More than a clan of believers, do or picture.
The Hospital of Condolence
When too much pain
Is all you gain,
Never envy the others
For having less bothers.
Think it over and over again
And recall pain itself as main
Can you stand all that it suffers?
Dubiousness
No,
The Christ was not
On the cross
I did see Him
He was holding the cross fast
On his back ...
Death "To Wasim"
Twenty-five years
A clown- like
Dancing on the very edge of life ...
Now ... Just now
To the bed of your tomb
...... Get down
And breathe up!
Death Struggle
A statue inside each
Longs to find his niche,
Longs to be inactant
So why are we so hesitant?
We go; we come and wait
And often we get so late,
So late, so late, so late,
To becoming a corpse in state.
Signboard
On the gate of life
And one on the afterlife
A sign would save the strife:
We are not responsible and never care
For losing your hopes or feeling despair.
Doomsday
Rapt as if God passed by him
And with the eager left,
So celebrately,
Raphael smiles ...
Eventually he is sounding the trumpet!
A lone task
That cost a humanity to wait.
The Poem of Insomnia
The Gray Female Departure
You strike my sadness
As a crowned bride.
Out of my gloomy orchard
You pick up lilies
And read me stories
About lovers.
From a window
Outlooking the sea,
You gather the stars to me
Along with the fishermen songs.
You drop, the gown of the dense night
On my trembling shoulder.
Are you part of me so that I feel
Your agony dwelling my ribs?
Am I part of you so that I come to life
Every time you say, "good morning"?
O, woman, who spreads over my poem
Like meanings do,
I wish you lent me your voice
As speech no longer gets me.
It is your indifference that
Key secrets my death.
I wish you lent me your blood
So that I grow,
In the veins of those
Ever heading for sunrise,
A home that gives them back
Where they had cried.
That is ... how.... you always do.
You strike my sadness
As a crowned bride,
Treading my wheat and voice:
Slowly my princess ... haste not
My heart is clutching
At that train of your dress.
The Incomplete Crime
Half close the door for my absence,
Let not open of it!
Night will get in
So will neat men do
After you.
Foolish questions will they thrust
Into my wounds
And look, among the bags set,
For an overtaking death.
They will read a poem
I am already rid of
That is what they always do
Shear off the truth in the neck
To deeply scrutinize in light
O Gentlemen,
Be kind to my things,
I still have a living song
In the haziness of time
It is not yet dead.
I still have an old speech
Hung over the wall
An old sweater
With sleeves out
For stay ups.
Some cigarette stubs
Like stabs
Planted over the dump.
Nay, gentlemen
Sail not in a stain
Hanged under the pillow!
Ink is no blood
Nor my fingers daggers.
At the middle of time
After it be put out
They will leave,
When I rise up
Out of my own heap
To rearrange my ribs,
And to bestow death a truce
So that it, of my corpse
And the chaos they left,
Takes a rest.
So then, half close the door
And sweep your voice
Off the air in the room.
Let not your white gloves
Stretch over my blood
Like a prostitute!
It is a pity
To mark your crime
As incomplete!
Loss
One day you will get to know
That it is not the blossoms that resemble me.
And that the ninth tumbler is my father
Who brought me up to heartache and cry.
One day you will get to know
That my chest,
Whose manliness you drank,
Would no more shelter
Your little fragile bird
That fears the tenderest breeze.
Nor upon my chest you more can wilt
Transparent like a tear.
It may be life that shall, one day,
Teach you
How to perfect
The loss
Of the others ...
Truce
Light is the news this evening.
So coquettish sounds the reporter,
Having worn her femininity,
Replacing the helmet
With a white rose on the hair.
How female would she be
When unequipped with war!
Chaste is the news this evening,
Less murder,
Less is our blood in the barricades,
Low the crown of the rapid death.
Blind is the news this evening
Come on love
Let me snipe your lips
With a brief kiss
Before the raids
Of breaking news!
It is Damascus
A face that slaps the roads
And a sweetheart,
Whose scarf on a bench of absence,
She forgot.
And trees stretching high,
But no close to God
As out of reach is the sky.
Some peanuts between two glasses
An ashtray for memory and cigarettes ...
It is Damascus then!
A poem that unveils her loincloth,
To prostitute herself
At the face of her ever raped poet:
Barada
Deflower me wherever you wish.
Stretch me a tight string
To your arch of disappointment
And leave my socks to the wind
That will hang high the flag for you.
Barada! O male river
Penetrate my mud like a wedge
And pour your dark milk out
Over my navel
So that the world restarts again
Out of this point ...
The Spacious
On your way to her face
You all march forth,
Lightly and heavily
Dressed in your silence
And burdened with the questions,
Looking into the mirrors
For a pain like yourselves.
This is you ...
This is what you always do:
Since the break out of creation
You carouse in the merge of a woman
Pawned to phantom.
While I ...
Whom God created of tears and depress
Overpass your roads.
I lay ropes over the trees
And dance above your funeral:
I am the one to have cut the hand of Venus
I am the one to have slaughtered Astarte the cruel.
Nay, statues are you all
And the loss of yours, I foresee
All.... You ... Who
Ramble on the boundaries
Of an expansive woman.
The Caller
She left the constellation of the firmament
Why the night that moment dwelt.
From the hole of the key would she enter,
Forests and horses soon came after.
Out of her navel, stars she hanged in the room's air.
Over my body, she, her hair, then passed
That was when my blood had shined.
She frisked my pillows for dreams like her.
She paged through my papers
For words, she thought, of hers.
All my clothes she threw into disorder,
For a smell of a woman that might be there.
When all she found was naught,
She stole my sleep and went out.
Over my bedsheet, she left a mare,
And a moon on the words over there.
Colorful trees on my lime-green shirt,
She those had also left:
The poem of insomnia loves me
So jealous for me she seems she be.
Pagan Tale
Twenty cigarettes, after which we had lain,
I and she, out of the loop, out of pain.
A year each of us was, long, long ago
Tales about ancient peoples, we were so.
We exchanged the faces of the wind
Over that tight and narrow bed.
She, over me, sailed north,
To her lands, I went far south.
I deep reveled in the pine
Sinking so deep in her wine.
Then she sobbed with tears,
Blowing out all her fears,
Blowing out all her wonders:
Oh, my dear where are your fingers?
An arrow in the back street of my head
Raced, looking for a victim straight ahead.
O Noah: where are my fingers?
She is asking! Fulfill her wonders.
Collect not the sky of water ahead,
Nor plow through the torrents of God,
Without even looking behind
Here I am, so alone, so aside.
I am still preparing the winds
And casting all I can, of spells
So that God, the ship protects.
Noah, you the prophet of waves
Your blood mystically runs through my veins.
When you asked me to be you,
And that took place as if on cue.
This was for nothing, but out of purity,
I shall, thus, never show disloyalty.
And from my complaint
I shall be restrained.
And for the mighty prophecy of yours
Shall I build up a temple for waters.
Here are all the trees of mine
I burnt them all for the hands of thine.
I picked up out of its leaves
Places, for survival, and seats.
Why discard me and all my silver?
Does my shadow look much higher
Than that shadow of your ship?
Then I shall kill and even snip.
Or I might gift
Half of it
For those who go
Without a single shadow.
Just take me with you, take me
For who, without a sun, shall you be?
A sun of my speech in your sky,
That makes your sun and sky that high?
And who, without my dreams, shall you be?
I have always been with you, and you with me.
I have always sweated over your timber,
The milky wishes of mine in whisper.
Your reckless nails still moan inside my head,
And that reddish rust over them is my blood.
Why, then, go far without me?
Why discard me and all my silver in the sea?
She shook my shoulder while sobbing
She rather shook so hard for asking:
So they left you! Had they done?
I had no mate, why without me
The ship had gone.
Intimate Companionship
Over the choppy river,
With an envy flavor,
The tree throws a handful
Of a flower:
If I had his spirit, the restless,
All the plains would I embrace.
Over the peaks would I have drawn
A scented sketch of a crown.
In his secret, with the rambling sound
The river says with his voice bound:
"Just if, I, my shadow found,
Like a tree would I stand erect
Only then would I have a rest."
The chemistry of happiness
Do not seize life
With struggle and strife.
Let pass of it
Without even a greet
Like a woman, a stranger,
We only wish we capture.
Among all things, the prettier
Leave in our memory a flower.
Do not seize delight
O beast, O hurt
Your prey is prettier before
It is eaten and killed, far more,
Spend your time just watching
Behind that wall of timing
Pray for the wheat for the smell
Of the rain over there where you dwell.
Share with the whisper of the wind
The delightful weddings that had passed.
Nations told nations and their speech spread
That the earth is round like a loaf of bread;
And that crying, like laughter,
Is a moment following the other.
Do not set a trap for happiness.
Wise would Adam have been
If he just
Waited
for the apple
To fall ! ...
Just
if .....
Strangers
Here, we strangers, in the faraway lands
Wave for time with our poor hands.
We, our tobacco, generously give
For the by-passers who never here live.
We sip the hunger of the heart
On the very benches of the wait.
Truth has held some dizziness
That befalls our souls and heads.
A stranger is born a stranger
In the winds and lands of danger.
He sings on, on and on
For the memories that all have gone.
He dances round the lastest of his candles
With mere words, the dying soul he handles.
He is like the obstinate swans
To death, through the doors of joy, he runs.
Fall has the ever-bewailing leaves
The pallor of seasons is all we seize.
How much agony feeling must come
Before of names we all have become?
Names that would one time with raring
Remind us of our being and meaning.
We strangers in the faraway lands,
In the winds and everlasting exiles
We sing for memory and dance for swans.
We shout at the faces of all the prophets
Is there no such holy scriptures,
That might one day fall and guide us?
O you panel of quick death,
On this very and same earth.
Had the road had legs been done
So fast to reach would it have gone.
If the rain had got a face,
It would have shined with all its grace.
If the river had got a mouth,
It would have kissed the sea at the mouth.
Oh ... if only we are the same,
Nay, we never this can claim:
That we are same in the pleasures
Of inhaling and exhaling
That we are same in the desires
For the trees and birds nor in loving.
Nay, we are never the same the moments we die;
We eagerly wait for good death, to which we fly,
While, for the sake of your life, you always pray.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Incomplete Texts by Mohammed Y. Burhan Copyright © 2011 by Mohammed Y. Burhan. Excerpted by permission of Trafford Publishing. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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