MOAEN SHALABIA

 

MOAEN SHALABIA

 

Wave Is Return

 

Why I should forgive, friends?

Does any one of you carry the morning baggage?

Does there any one who read the catastrophe in my grief,

And participate in the death of the night the suffer of the darkness,

And tearing an artery in my times entrails.

There was a flower which growing in my heart

There was a tulip which growing in my soul

My life has gone… I wish it does not.

 

A child was growing in my heart,

She was fidgeting in the womb of sorrow… suffering

A female was in my soul

Painting the wings of the sun and the remains of a smile

But arrows of those who I love

Were shut, in morning, to my soul and… it hit the target!

 

What I should do, friends?

Does there any one of you carry the worries of our nation?

Does there any one of you read the books of sea,

And sip the remains of coal from the bottom of the cup?

The child says:

What I should do in order to turn me pregnant!?

 

What do I write, strangers?

Does there any one of you understand what I may write?

I, might, write all your sins

And hug, at noon, my torments

Revolution,

Revolution,

Revolution...

 

What I should do, lovers?

Does any one of you know the taste of

A salty wound on the breasts of the kiss?

 

Does any one of you know how the love will be

On the bridge of return?

 

Does any one of you know

how the soul goes on the flank of the tent?

 

Does any one of you know

How the heart be hungry and how the passion suicide…?!

 

What I should do, my beloves?

It is mirage. Mirage.

 

Continue your watery dreams

Continue the wife's dream

Cause tomorrow you will hug these wave

 

Wave is return,

Wave is return,

Wave is return.

 

 

My Foggy Window

 

Behind my foggy window,

The desire of revelation urges me

To uncover a planet that went deep into the clouds;

Remnants of a smell that scratch my body to go through,

Like a dreamer who goes through the mirrors of absence!

 

Behind my foggy window

A space for the moon splits in front of me in the darkness,

Steals a glance at her rising specter from below the rain.

 

Behind my foggy window,

She moves in front of me like the glimpse of the 'ah!' in my chest;

The sea pants in me like a trans-lust horse,

While the eternal blue erases the shadows of the sand,

And I depart to wherever the words carry me into the elegies of memories.

 

Behind my foggy window

I collected the wood inside me and set fire to it;

I arranged my Persian carpet, some of my writings, my tobacco, my senses,

A handful of music and the fragrance of her clothes,

And ran my hand even over the walls.

 

Behind my foggy window,

A broken intuition that is stricken by distress, anxiety, fear, and longing befalls me

For someone who infiltrates towards the visible vague and rises till grief;

It looks over my Self but I soon imagine that I am No one, No one! 

 

Behind my foggy window,

Snowflakes fall on the coats of my heart and loss pours down

The taste of rain intensifies; sorrows sail into my soul –

And I cry:

My lady, My lady! O woman who takes off everything, except her femininity;

The wind will fill my clothes and on the bed of love, the whoop of creativity will spring!

 

Behind my foggy window,

She comes to me from nothingness, carrying her fiery wound

To awaken Tammuz, who has never been absent, in me,

Tammuz, who will certainly return!

 

 

Night And Wine And Woman

 

My wooden home

has two windows opened to their limits

and shadow of a woman inflaming the distance

I look upon the sea on the wake of the evening

and upon a glass of wine

stirring the echoes.

 

My wooden home has the smell of dew

and the shape of a soul in the palm of a blur

in our wooden home there is an aged jar

and a thirsty butterfly haunting me

into the futility of speech.

 

It is you.

and for a while I've been looking in you for my death

here you are, and this taste is monstrous

exploding in me a volcano

and inflaming in me my sails.

 

Here you are

and in your eyes a storm of drunkenness

oh, you hug and burn and fill and spill me

wine over my crematorium

so, don't ever change and be oh a woman

destroying all my kingdom

and embrace me as a bottle

that danced on the belt of a storm

thus, the flame of its wine burns me into poetry

for an ultimate heat and a Kamasutra glass

cover all my questions...!!

 

MOAEN SHALABIA

 

MOAEN SHALABIA: Born in Maghar town – near the Sea of Galilee, Tiberias. He finished his studies in Haifa University. Poet and prose writer. He has published seven poetry books and three prose. He has participated in many international festivals. He won the General Arab Writers Union Award / "Al-Quds", Prize of poetry for the year 2018; it is the most important award in the Arab world. Besides, He has received many appreciation certificates. A member of the Palestinian Arab writer's union, and the movement of world poets (Poetas del mundo). His literary production was discussed and criticized in universities and in many sessions in homeland and abroad. Some of his poems were translated into many languages. His collection of poems was included in the national and international anthologies.