Why Worry of Tomorrow: Part 1

why worry of tomorrow 

with wrinkles from the past

head pounding

heart racing

sweating happiness and pain

fear and joy

hollow rage

clump within, pits of writhing emotion

I stabbed my shoulder to flick the chip out

the remnants dissipate into the blood stream

what is normal

what is today

the present’s absence boils the curd to the surface

I wear the feelings on my skin to keep the secret

I scrub them off every morning 

watch them clog the drain

time whips 

demands attention in all directions

like erections in sleep 

work fades, a monotonous track on repeat

deep introspection

leaves me wallowing inside

replaying lucid memories and poetry

while the world moves around me

I’m never awake

I never left the theater 

the lights are all dimmed

there’s popcorn at my feet next to the sticky candy treats

I’ve been watching this movie for two decades

hoping the heroine will change

rearrange the free floating feelings flowing through

her veins, heroin

misplaced purpose

I scream, don’t just lay there at the screen

unball your fist

dismantle that smile 

save yourself from the sins of your fathers

 

 

 

 

The Last Hope

She doesn’t give a fuck

having stuck

so closely to depression

that she can feel him up against her back sweating

rode in the haul of death’s ship

stopped in hell’s kitchen and licked the pot clean

she’s been pimped, sold

and let the memories jangle around her ankles

She’s your Mother

Sister Friend Neighbor

Girlfriend Grandmother Teacher

She’s so open from centuries of exploitation

that still goes on to this day

Someone grab her, she just got on the A train

Headin downtown with some guy

The embodiment of hope

The last key

If only she cared enough to open the door

The Prison Cell

The Prison Cell

It is possible especially now

To ride a horse

Inside a prison cell

And run away…

It is possible for prison walls

To disappear,

For the cell to become a distant land

The prison guard got angry.

He put an end to the dialogue

He said he didn’t care for poetry,

And bolted the door of my cell.

 

He came back to see me

–Where did all this water come from?

–I brought it from the Nile.

–And the trees?

–From the orchards of Damascus.

–And the music?

–From my heartbeat.

 

The prison guard got mad,

But returned in the evening

–Where did this moon come from?

–From the nights of Baghdad.

–And the wine?

–From the vineyards of Algiers.

–And this freedom?

–From the chain you tied me with last night.

 

The prison guard grew so sad…

He begged me to give him back

His freedom.

by Mahmud Darwish, Palestine

Translated and abridged by Ben Bennani