Listen! water is permeating through the rocks
No passer-by pays any heed;
Their attention I frankly need
To figure out our lock.
A ripple I instantly made,
Lest somebody should see the difference
Alas, I was shown the same indifference;
Maybe I would rather seek some other aid.
The minute I crossed it,
Hurriedly everybody came,
Asking what had become of me
Nothing in particular, I answered.
It is merely a riddle figured.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
The Stairs
One step after another,
I stopped to bother;
At which point am I now?
I can not tell through the other.
Slowly but surely, I took another step;
Suddenly I tripped;
Immediately I looked aound
Only to find I was simply bound.
The knot, easy to untie
Undistracted I then turned my heel;
As I neared the top,
There stood the deal.
I stopped to bother;
At which point am I now?
I can not tell through the other.
Slowly but surely, I took another step;
Suddenly I tripped;
Immediately I looked aound
Only to find I was simply bound.
The knot, easy to untie
Undistracted I then turned my heel;
As I neared the top,
There stood the deal.
The Old Woman
Her eyes are bleary
Looking at me, I felt eerie;
Her wrinkles awed me no end
In them, I could see her past life.
Being busy and in a hurry,
I ignored her;
She, humiliated, approached me a little
Gazing at my book for the title.
Shuddering at her curiosity,
Immense remorse for my atrocity
We together sat to reflect;
But a lesson she turned out to effect.
Looking at me, I felt eerie;
Her wrinkles awed me no end
In them, I could see her past life.
Being busy and in a hurry,
I ignored her;
She, humiliated, approached me a little
Gazing at my book for the title.
Shuddering at her curiosity,
Immense remorse for my atrocity
We together sat to reflect;
But a lesson she turned out to effect.
The Uncle's Windows
My family are well-known
At a time when nothing we own;
Out of curiosity peering into their window
Nothing but disdain they allow.
I was a little child then,
Floundering now and then.
How hypocritical of them to turn a blind eye,
And for others they provide a pie.
Abroad they all went
For their offspring they bent;
Cursed is the one who gave his hand
I would rather here were their land.
Informed, I later learned,
No acclaim they earned
In a world where a coin counts,
And Scrooger haunts.
At a time when nothing we own;
Out of curiosity peering into their window
Nothing but disdain they allow.
I was a little child then,
Floundering now and then.
How hypocritical of them to turn a blind eye,
And for others they provide a pie.
Abroad they all went
For their offspring they bent;
Cursed is the one who gave his hand
I would rather here were their land.
Informed, I later learned,
No acclaim they earned
In a world where a coin counts,
And Scrooger haunts.
Turn-taking
A cycle of years,
No movement, no change
Not a memory I still cherish;
Only my bed I shall furnish.
Do you not see
People going by;
Their carriages they left unattended
To join the abode.
What a sacrifice!
Nothing would from now on suffice
Except taking a turn
And to the crowd we had better return.
No movement, no change
Not a memory I still cherish;
Only my bed I shall furnish.
Do you not see
People going by;
Their carriages they left unattended
To join the abode.
What a sacrifice!
Nothing would from now on suffice
Except taking a turn
And to the crowd we had better return.
A Difference
Everything is at hand;
Irrepressible is thus their joy;
Why not I too share the like?
Or my heart is wont to only ache.
Oh, I heard their cheers again;
Is it not high time
To seek some kind or other?
That can ease the pain.
With curly hair,
One's image is not fair.
The grunt only to bear,
And then the bane of life.
An innocent crime I make,
Or rather to me it occured;
Indisposed to propose,
Predisposed to enjoy the difference.
Irrepressible is thus their joy;
Why not I too share the like?
Or my heart is wont to only ache.
Oh, I heard their cheers again;
Is it not high time
To seek some kind or other?
That can ease the pain.
With curly hair,
One's image is not fair.
The grunt only to bear,
And then the bane of life.
An innocent crime I make,
Or rather to me it occured;
Indisposed to propose,
Predisposed to enjoy the difference.
My Room
Three corners make it
The fourth merely the pit;
There I compare them
Only one stands out.
Tired, lying on the first
To prepare for the second;
The latter is my real solace;
Such is it that I can forgo the third.
A trivial analogy to draw
Why not say: rusting,
ephemeral and lasting.
Here only one my room prides itself on.
The fourth merely the pit;
There I compare them
Only one stands out.
Tired, lying on the first
To prepare for the second;
The latter is my real solace;
Such is it that I can forgo the third.
A trivial analogy to draw
Why not say: rusting,
ephemeral and lasting.
Here only one my room prides itself on.
A Dewdrop
On an early morning
I sat mourning;
Drop by drop
Slowly grows the crop.
Let me reap it;
Do not hold me back!
I see a miracle in it;
Oh, I am again taken aback.
Please, take a look on foot,
Between the petal and the root;
Something is moving,
As I am mowing.
I sat mourning;
Drop by drop
Slowly grows the crop.
Let me reap it;
Do not hold me back!
I see a miracle in it;
Oh, I am again taken aback.
Please, take a look on foot,
Between the petal and the root;
Something is moving,
As I am mowing.
The Train
Once upon a day
I took a train;
On it all passengers kept me at bay;
My Morbid curiosity from which I could not refrain.
Helpless, I took to the window.
Trees, rivers and tracks all blurred;
On the railroad below
We all ran erred.
When is the arrival due?
No one could tell but so few;
Then, moving to another compartment
I found my stay permanent.
I took a train;
On it all passengers kept me at bay;
My Morbid curiosity from which I could not refrain.
Helpless, I took to the window.
Trees, rivers and tracks all blurred;
On the railroad below
We all ran erred.
When is the arrival due?
No one could tell but so few;
Then, moving to another compartment
I found my stay permanent.
As I Stand by the Palace
Finely-trimmed hedges, grassy fields
Fierce bodies, a close vigil they keep.
Natives' fortune builds;
Crown's backs wreak.
To the departed,
To the living,
To nature,
Have some consideration.
Fierce bodies, a close vigil they keep.
Natives' fortune builds;
Crown's backs wreak.
To the departed,
To the living,
To nature,
Have some consideration.
The Gate
Unmoved and tied,
Carousing on the moor,
I have sown the rye
Till I hear a roar.
Approaching my gate,
Not a figure on sight;
Then the hinges I fight
As the winds abate.
I that instant make out
What has made all the difference;
A mere budding rye plant,
Endeavouring hard to pant.
Carousing on the moor,
I have sown the rye
Till I hear a roar.
Approaching my gate,
Not a figure on sight;
Then the hinges I fight
As the winds abate.
I that instant make out
What has made all the difference;
A mere budding rye plant,
Endeavouring hard to pant.
The Turning Point
No more a father,
The scourge of rubble rather;
Olden times in the north,
Later aggravated by the south.
No care, no fare,
A time when they are rare.
The blood but a flood
Onto its tides I am teared.
Egged on,
To trigger more loans;
A wounded sob
Made me hop.
The scourge of rubble rather;
Olden times in the north,
Later aggravated by the south.
No care, no fare,
A time when they are rare.
The blood but a flood
Onto its tides I am teared.
Egged on,
To trigger more loans;
A wounded sob
Made me hop.
The Bird
I killed a bird;
Not an idea why;
Maybe to breathe a sigh
And put an end to any purr.
In the woods,
I notice a trace;
What could that mean?
If not a curve unseen.
Oh, a song again,
Its track I keep;
To another bird,
It turns out to lead.
Not an idea why;
Maybe to breathe a sigh
And put an end to any purr.
In the woods,
I notice a trace;
What could that mean?
If not a curve unseen.
Oh, a song again,
Its track I keep;
To another bird,
It turns out to lead.
The Footsteps
Hooves tramping
Through the bushes they made their way;
Then a neigh,
By the camping.
A starlit night,
A movement of the clatter,
Kindled a light,
And shook the border.
A slumber in the tent
Kept me alert.
An image later sent
Myself then wide awake.
Through the bushes they made their way;
Then a neigh,
By the camping.
A starlit night,
A movement of the clatter,
Kindled a light,
And shook the border.
A slumber in the tent
Kept me alert.
An image later sent
Myself then wide awake.
The Other Way Around
Let us try it
For it must have a good effect;
The other in search of one,
And be not part of nature anymore.
Indiscernible to our mind, though.
But let us try it at least;
No one could know
This is due to sour grapes.
For it must have a good effect;
The other in search of one,
And be not part of nature anymore.
Indiscernible to our mind, though.
But let us try it at least;
No one could know
This is due to sour grapes.
Dying
Sundry powers prevailing,
Fresh memories are haunting,
Looking round and round,
Till they behold the room.
In it resides my bed,
Still blissfully ignorant,
I see they are concurring
In the same soul.
Oh, I have seen its like
One day rising above
Like a dove
Its countenance is lifelike.
Fresh memories are haunting,
Looking round and round,
Till they behold the room.
In it resides my bed,
Still blissfully ignorant,
I see they are concurring
In the same soul.
Oh, I have seen its like
One day rising above
Like a dove
Its countenance is lifelike.
On the Balcony
When I lost my cherished faculty,
I could only think of the balcony
There I sat reminiscing
How those below once lived.
Everyone is suddenly preoccupied;
Not a word utterd on their part
Only track after track sought,
The thing I myself once fought.
Whatever the life one might lead,
The position they sooner or later need
To supplant me
And act as a bee.
I could only think of the balcony
There I sat reminiscing
How those below once lived.
Everyone is suddenly preoccupied;
Not a word utterd on their part
Only track after track sought,
The thing I myself once fought.
Whatever the life one might lead,
The position they sooner or later need
To supplant me
And act as a bee.
The Pregnant Woman
A long time I passed by her,
She begged for a penny;
Broke I was;
Disappointed therefore she was.
No sooner did I make a fortune,
I went back to make a boon;
At the same spot,
I found a little child on a cot.
She begged for a penny;
Broke I was;
Disappointed therefore she was.
No sooner did I make a fortune,
I went back to make a boon;
At the same spot,
I found a little child on a cot.
The Lesson of an Aged Mouse
I lay wide awake on my bed
Late at night;
Suddently I heard a flutter in every corner of the room.
Lazy, I did not move or get up;
So as to feel secure from any danger,
I switched on the light and then take a book for company
Once again, my room complains of sounds;
Feigning boldness, I set to find
What made my pillow restless at that hour
As I buried my head in Poe,
I saw countless mice marching out of the corner of my eye;
I immediately recognised an aged mouse at the forefront
Leading an army and heading to where I was lying.
I stepped backward
Then only the aged mouse moved forward;
He demanded my ear
Out of resepect, I let him whisper some words
No significance they held for me
Nonsense alone;
As I reconsidered his speech,
Then I should stay up as he ordered,
And let them feed on my leftovers;
Meanwhile I composed a poem
Whose moral theme is the aged mouse's.
Late at night;
Suddently I heard a flutter in every corner of the room.
Lazy, I did not move or get up;
So as to feel secure from any danger,
I switched on the light and then take a book for company
Once again, my room complains of sounds;
Feigning boldness, I set to find
What made my pillow restless at that hour
As I buried my head in Poe,
I saw countless mice marching out of the corner of my eye;
I immediately recognised an aged mouse at the forefront
Leading an army and heading to where I was lying.
I stepped backward
Then only the aged mouse moved forward;
He demanded my ear
Out of resepect, I let him whisper some words
No significance they held for me
Nonsense alone;
As I reconsidered his speech,
Then I should stay up as he ordered,
And let them feed on my leftovers;
Meanwhile I composed a poem
Whose moral theme is the aged mouse's.
A Bus Trip
Alone in the seat,
I instantly move my feet
To draw my neighbour's attention
She too does not take action.
No use interfering
As my bus stop is approaching.
As I descended,
My hand tightly clutched by her.
I instantly move my feet
To draw my neighbour's attention
She too does not take action.
No use interfering
As my bus stop is approaching.
As I descended,
My hand tightly clutched by her.
The Pencil Sharpener
I took a pencil that I have sharpened for years,
Put it to use,
But has produced nothing of use;
Only my days it often sears.
Enraged, I broke it
As it was about to end;
I took a new and longer one
I sharpened it once;
The pencil, still sharp
While I keep using it up,
At this stage,
My spirit has never aged.
Put it to use,
But has produced nothing of use;
Only my days it often sears.
Enraged, I broke it
As it was about to end;
I took a new and longer one
I sharpened it once;
The pencil, still sharp
While I keep using it up,
At this stage,
My spirit has never aged.
One Day Walking Alone
Walking alone among the trees,
I came across a school,
And lay my hand upon its door
Opening it,
I found a teacher with no students;
What are you in for? I asked.
I am waiting for the students, he answered.
Leaving him there,
I showed no care,
Instead, I ran home to tell my parents.
Going inside,
I found no one but my little sister;
Where are others? I asked.
They went out, she muttered.
Sitting under a tree till the evening falls,
I ran to school again
To tell the teacher,
Knocking his door three times,
But no one responded.
I came across a school,
And lay my hand upon its door
Opening it,
I found a teacher with no students;
What are you in for? I asked.
I am waiting for the students, he answered.
Leaving him there,
I showed no care,
Instead, I ran home to tell my parents.
Going inside,
I found no one but my little sister;
Where are others? I asked.
They went out, she muttered.
Sitting under a tree till the evening falls,
I ran to school again
To tell the teacher,
Knocking his door three times,
But no one responded.
One Day Walking Alone
Walking alone among the trees,
I came across a school,
And lay my hand upon its door
Opening it,
I found a teacher with no students;
What are you in for? I asked.
I am waiting for the students, he answered.
Leaving him there,
I showed no care,
Instead, I ran home to tell my parents.
Going inside,
I found no one but my little sister;
Where are others? I asked.
They went out, she muttered.
Sitting under a tree till the evening falls,
I ran to school again
To tell the teacher,
Knocking his door three times,
But no one responded.
I came across a school,
And lay my hand upon its door
Opening it,
I found a teacher with no students;
What are you in for? I asked.
I am waiting for the students, he answered.
Leaving him there,
I showed no care,
Instead, I ran home to tell my parents.
Going inside,
I found no one but my little sister;
Where are others? I asked.
They went out, she muttered.
Sitting under a tree till the evening falls,
I ran to school again
To tell the teacher,
Knocking his door three times,
But no one responded.
A Little Girl
She holding bottles of water
On the corridor she seeks a living;
One after another she inquires;
No one made a bidding.
Still willful, she came to the rear;
Awake I found her near;
Asking what has become of her,
I am a daughter of a divorced heir, she said.
On the corridor she seeks a living;
One after another she inquires;
No one made a bidding.
Still willful, she came to the rear;
Awake I found her near;
Asking what has become of her,
I am a daughter of a divorced heir, she said.
As The Sun Began to Set
As the sun began to set,
I left home for another feat,
Somewhere in the mountain ranges
Where I shall ask for the moon.
Brightly lit were still the huts;
I waited till every light went out;
Then, my invocation rouses
What has been inside me for so long.
I stretched my legs now and then;
To ease the burden, I deeply bended,
I suddenly looked around like a hyena;
All the birds then took fright and flew high.
I left home for another feat,
Somewhere in the mountain ranges
Where I shall ask for the moon.
Brightly lit were still the huts;
I waited till every light went out;
Then, my invocation rouses
What has been inside me for so long.
I stretched my legs now and then;
To ease the burden, I deeply bended,
I suddenly looked around like a hyena;
All the birds then took fright and flew high.
In The Rain
I let the rain fall on me
At the expense of my enemy;
I will not move or hide
Till I am soaked on every side.
I am wrong, people say
Because they do not know agony is a pleasure;
Why don't they taste the fresh drops,
To savour the real leisure.
Is it now a walk or a trip I need
When there is nothing on which to feed?
Drops of labour and sweat
Have rather made my comportment so neat.
At the expense of my enemy;
I will not move or hide
Till I am soaked on every side.
I am wrong, people say
Because they do not know agony is a pleasure;
Why don't they taste the fresh drops,
To savour the real leisure.
Is it now a walk or a trip I need
When there is nothing on which to feed?
Drops of labour and sweat
Have rather made my comportment so neat.
Two Birds Perching on my Windows
As I keep turning on my sides out of deep slumber,
I hear two birds talking about my indolence.
One keeps inquiring about my quirk;
The other explaining what might work
I instantly know
A mother merely advising her son;
Of me they make fun
Being furious to such degree,
I run to set them free.
I hear two birds talking about my indolence.
One keeps inquiring about my quirk;
The other explaining what might work
I instantly know
A mother merely advising her son;
Of me they make fun
Being furious to such degree,
I run to set them free.
Secrets Revealed
What happens to a secret revealed
By those whom I always trust?
My defects and truths are to me
As bread is to a crust.
My hands tend to touch the rose
And then move to the thorn;
I reveal my secrets to her fellow the corn;
Alas, to the rose he only bows.
The plants teach me a lesson
To their whispers I will listen;
In the courtyard,
Talking about their guard.
By those whom I always trust?
My defects and truths are to me
As bread is to a crust.
My hands tend to touch the rose
And then move to the thorn;
I reveal my secrets to her fellow the corn;
Alas, to the rose he only bows.
The plants teach me a lesson
To their whispers I will listen;
In the courtyard,
Talking about their guard.
As I Chase the Wind
Hey you! Let us wander together
And leave the north for another day;
On my roof we shall stay,
And behold people's hats swinging to and fro;
I intensely cherish your shapless form;
I sit on the edge of the wall and you above the village,
Conversing about the storm;
I am suddenly left with him at the word.
And leave the north for another day;
On my roof we shall stay,
And behold people's hats swinging to and fro;
I intensely cherish your shapless form;
I sit on the edge of the wall and you above the village,
Conversing about the storm;
I am suddenly left with him at the word.
As I Grow Old
As I grow old,
I leave the village for the town
And stop going with her hand in hand;
As I grow old,
I change my attire
And others' acquaintance I make;
As I grow old,
I shave my beard
And comb my hair;
As I grow old,
I wear eye-glasses to start reading and writing;
I also look for a job
To assume a bit of responsibility.
As I grow old,
I adopt different views
And disown the ones I used to hold;
As I grow old,
I sleep on a raw mattress
And leave the door ajar;
As I grow old,
I decide to find a wife
And put an end to my life.
I leave the village for the town
And stop going with her hand in hand;
As I grow old,
I change my attire
And others' acquaintance I make;
As I grow old,
I shave my beard
And comb my hair;
As I grow old,
I wear eye-glasses to start reading and writing;
I also look for a job
To assume a bit of responsibility.
As I grow old,
I adopt different views
And disown the ones I used to hold;
As I grow old,
I sleep on a raw mattress
And leave the door ajar;
As I grow old,
I decide to find a wife
And put an end to my life.
Too Old to Live
By the bed, I keep a close vigil
Then I find angels envying her her longevity.
To her, they evince a glittering of civility
For what she has offered the world from rumour to evil;
On the ground floor,
She used to keep a purse;
Now she pays the poor
Out of the window of the hearse;
Why not for her kinsmen before,
She could have removed the curse.
Then I find angels envying her her longevity.
To her, they evince a glittering of civility
For what she has offered the world from rumour to evil;
On the ground floor,
She used to keep a purse;
Now she pays the poor
Out of the window of the hearse;
Why not for her kinsmen before,
She could have removed the curse.
The Moth
This is my favourite insect at night.
Above my head it keeps turning around the bulb light.
It really knows whose company it enjoys
For I never interfere into its business or make any noise.
Sometimes I wonder what it thinks of the sleeper
Whether or not he perceives deeper;
Once I was informed it lost its sight,
It broke my heart and I stood to switch off the light.
Above my head it keeps turning around the bulb light.
It really knows whose company it enjoys
For I never interfere into its business or make any noise.
Sometimes I wonder what it thinks of the sleeper
Whether or not he perceives deeper;
Once I was informed it lost its sight,
It broke my heart and I stood to switch off the light.
Alone in the Corner
I could see they all sang his praises
On his brow they even drew a line;
A banner he raised
To put a stamp and sign;
In the hall,
All was beguiled but I;
His ancestry I decided to trace
To find the true face;
Please look at his disciples all.
On his brow they even drew a line;
A banner he raised
To put a stamp and sign;
In the hall,
All was beguiled but I;
His ancestry I decided to trace
To find the true face;
Please look at his disciples all.
The Tent
Soon after miles of walking
I stopped to put up a tent
And to have some rest in the desert nest.
I went inside to take a nap
Images came as I dream
Their form only about the following tent
Which angels dreadful they deem.
I stopped to put up a tent
And to have some rest in the desert nest.
I went inside to take a nap
Images came as I dream
Their form only about the following tent
Which angels dreadful they deem.
Under a Tree Waiting for Victory
Here, I still sat down to wait for victory;
Stubborn, he rather motioned to me;
Alone residing in some territory,
Miles and miles I need to pay a visit.
Contemplating the mirage,
I stood erect and squinted at his countenance;
He was wearing a smile,
But his wrinkles evince a thought.
What could the latter stand for?
Was it a dicline or an approval?
Ah, I distinctly remembered this face;
He once gave me a pat on my shoulder.
Stubborn, he rather motioned to me;
Alone residing in some territory,
Miles and miles I need to pay a visit.
Contemplating the mirage,
I stood erect and squinted at his countenance;
He was wearing a smile,
But his wrinkles evince a thought.
What could the latter stand for?
Was it a dicline or an approval?
Ah, I distinctly remembered this face;
He once gave me a pat on my shoulder.
Because I did not Hasten my Pace
Because I did not hasten my pace,
A cheetah pounced on me
As I was ploughing my soil;
He tore me to shreds before the sesame,
And left me as a scapegoat for my foil.
Panting and breathing to save my life;
No one of the crowd gave a hand;
Lying helpless on the land,
Simply because I did not hasten my pace.
A cheetah pounced on me
As I was ploughing my soil;
He tore me to shreds before the sesame,
And left me as a scapegoat for my foil.
Panting and breathing to save my life;
No one of the crowd gave a hand;
Lying helpless on the land,
Simply because I did not hasten my pace.
The Plate
Dedicated to Neza Yussufi
On it I serve my meals,
And my organs it always heals,
But rarely do I keep it clean;
Bleached in the sun and not seen;
As usual, disordered when I go home
I find it full of foam;
Out of mercy, I stoop to hold it.
On my palms it broke into halves
I shed a moving tear
Which at last turns it clear;
But why did it break so easily?
I still ask this question queerly
Even when I turn twenty-three early.
On it I serve my meals,
And my organs it always heals,
But rarely do I keep it clean;
Bleached in the sun and not seen;
As usual, disordered when I go home
I find it full of foam;
Out of mercy, I stoop to hold it.
On my palms it broke into halves
I shed a moving tear
Which at last turns it clear;
But why did it break so easily?
I still ask this question queerly
Even when I turn twenty-three early.
The March
I once attended one
To raise my hand and walk in the sun;
My ancestors decreed the law
To recompense for their emotions, unstirred and raw.
Protesters and I sang a chant;
Towards the north we started to hunt.
On purpose I was in the middle;
Once there, I could see who raved and who became idle.
To raise my hand and walk in the sun;
My ancestors decreed the law
To recompense for their emotions, unstirred and raw.
Protesters and I sang a chant;
Towards the north we started to hunt.
On purpose I was in the middle;
Once there, I could see who raved and who became idle.
The Teacher Asking Students to Put down their Pens
Put down your pens, for there is no use writing;
Let us look out of the window,
Or rather walk the fields outside.
All packing their bags,
They went to see what the other world could offer;
By a lake, they all stopped.
Students looked at their reflections
To find them only distorted;
What could that mean? a student asked.
The lake is telling the truth;
You need to change your faces, the teacher said.
By a hill, they stopped again
To ask another question;
Isn't it so difficult to climb?
Here lies the true meaning of life, the teacher answered.
Let us look out of the window,
Or rather walk the fields outside.
All packing their bags,
They went to see what the other world could offer;
By a lake, they all stopped.
Students looked at their reflections
To find them only distorted;
What could that mean? a student asked.
The lake is telling the truth;
You need to change your faces, the teacher said.
By a hill, they stopped again
To ask another question;
Isn't it so difficult to climb?
Here lies the true meaning of life, the teacher answered.
A Savage and Singing Bird
Do not disturb my dreams;
I am in an everlasting reverie;
Despite my complaints, uninterested it still seems;
Of its songs I should be chary;
My late friend once fell under their spell;
Mourning his death;
As I heard the harsh sounds of the bell.
Alas, I too fell prey to this bird's breath.
I am in an everlasting reverie;
Despite my complaints, uninterested it still seems;
Of its songs I should be chary;
My late friend once fell under their spell;
Mourning his death;
As I heard the harsh sounds of the bell.
Alas, I too fell prey to this bird's breath.
The Leaky Room
Alone as usual, I sat listening to the drops;
I did not utter a word or complain of the sound
I only kindled a fire and huddled into a cover;
My mystery no one yet found
To account for this weird comportment;
All the corners replete with water;
Yet, not an attempt did I make to escape
Immediately a knock on the door;
That was exactly what I had been waiting for.
I did not utter a word or complain of the sound
I only kindled a fire and huddled into a cover;
My mystery no one yet found
To account for this weird comportment;
All the corners replete with water;
Yet, not an attempt did I make to escape
Immediately a knock on the door;
That was exactly what I had been waiting for.
The Moment I Could Speak
At age four, I learnt to speak my thoughts;
But I all the time kept silent,
For at home everyone thought me violent.
When other's attention I in vain sought.
Later on, this brought about my reticence;
I chose to speak my sorrow;
Many generations made this habit a pestilence
Which to my dismay made every soul hollow.
But I all the time kept silent,
For at home everyone thought me violent.
When other's attention I in vain sought.
Later on, this brought about my reticence;
I chose to speak my sorrow;
Many generations made this habit a pestilence
Which to my dismay made every soul hollow.
The Little Waves
Coming to and fro,
I the only beholder on the riverside;
Picking up small stones through
My feet and then turning them into sand when coming back beside;
I put these sand particles onto my palm;
Peering long at how they became,
The scene bade me calm.
Standing up, alas, my feet were lame.
A wave took advantage on the spot;
She held me to her bosom
To instantly bring me back like a sand particle.
I the only beholder on the riverside;
Picking up small stones through
My feet and then turning them into sand when coming back beside;
I put these sand particles onto my palm;
Peering long at how they became,
The scene bade me calm.
Standing up, alas, my feet were lame.
A wave took advantage on the spot;
She held me to her bosom
To instantly bring me back like a sand particle.
One Day by the River
To a nearby bench I resorted to have some rest;
I suddenly eyed strange bodies floating;
Out of fear, my heart throbbed lest
It should be somebody I knew before sitting.
Then, I approached the riverside
To procure a close observation;
Before I knew where I was,
A fast-moving wind hurled me ahead
To find myself by the bodies;
And be watched by the coming bystanders.
I suddenly eyed strange bodies floating;
Out of fear, my heart throbbed lest
It should be somebody I knew before sitting.
Then, I approached the riverside
To procure a close observation;
Before I knew where I was,
A fast-moving wind hurled me ahead
To find myself by the bodies;
And be watched by the coming bystanders.
Loneliness
It paralyses or rather kills my spirit;
But at the same time it brings about new themes of everyday life:
For when I draw an analogy between the ferret
And the bat, the former's life I take by the knife.
Here the stagnant spirits no longer complain
My state makes it stand out;
No one can perceive but the insane;
In their private homes, they no longer need to go out.
But at the same time it brings about new themes of everyday life:
For when I draw an analogy between the ferret
And the bat, the former's life I take by the knife.
Here the stagnant spirits no longer complain
My state makes it stand out;
No one can perceive but the insane;
In their private homes, they no longer need to go out.
You Died Too Young
Dedicated to Hassane Razkane
A brief life, they say, you led;
Two years ago, you earned an achievement;
You did not know you were dead
When you decided you would be in the element.
Those lagging behind you
Could not stand beating your track;
But once you gave way before it was due
They brought about your death and now your bags you are to pack.
A brief life, they say, you led;
Two years ago, you earned an achievement;
You did not know you were dead
When you decided you would be in the element.
Those lagging behind you
Could not stand beating your track;
But once you gave way before it was due
They brought about your death and now your bags you are to pack.
The Boat
Some say they are about to sink;
Some already know how to swim.
But what is the link
Between one's failure and another's whim?
Since we are in the same boat,
Together we will manage to float;
Let us give one another a rope
To tie it to our feet and never give up hope.
Some already know how to swim.
But what is the link
Between one's failure and another's whim?
Since we are in the same boat,
Together we will manage to float;
Let us give one another a rope
To tie it to our feet and never give up hope.
To Helen Keller
Because of you, I curiously sat down to read
To find where your brave deeds would ultimately lead;
But when I heard you could see the unseen,
I that instant saw the blind, the dumb and the deaf running after the queen;
Your childish spirits unrivalled
Your throng they marvelled;
Here, you made what used to be impossible at last possible
The lame's feet no longer hobble;
Rather, they outshine those of the well-built
Your deeds I have long longed to emulate up to the hilt;
From now on, self-pity is to blame
Especially when countless people share you the same
Oh, every time I am reminded of your name,
I hang my head in shame
For I did not follow the same path to your fame;
Who could have imagined
You would one day overcome the three disabilities?
Let me please hold my head in reverence
And therefore see the other side of the fence;
The latter you never dared to explore in your lifetime;
Here lied her secret;
But I promise I will always remember this epitome every time I hear a bell chime.
To find where your brave deeds would ultimately lead;
But when I heard you could see the unseen,
I that instant saw the blind, the dumb and the deaf running after the queen;
Your childish spirits unrivalled
Your throng they marvelled;
Here, you made what used to be impossible at last possible
The lame's feet no longer hobble;
Rather, they outshine those of the well-built
Your deeds I have long longed to emulate up to the hilt;
From now on, self-pity is to blame
Especially when countless people share you the same
Oh, every time I am reminded of your name,
I hang my head in shame
For I did not follow the same path to your fame;
Who could have imagined
You would one day overcome the three disabilities?
Let me please hold my head in reverence
And therefore see the other side of the fence;
The latter you never dared to explore in your lifetime;
Here lied her secret;
But I promise I will always remember this epitome every time I hear a bell chime.
The Window Bars
How can I dislodge myself
From holding these bars?
By doing so,
I see a horse with a mare
At a gallop;
Although exhausted,
I did not forbear from
Beholding them together.
As they went into the woods,
The jailer came to set me free;
Here, I at last traced their trails.
From holding these bars?
By doing so,
I see a horse with a mare
At a gallop;
Although exhausted,
I did not forbear from
Beholding them together.
As they went into the woods,
The jailer came to set me free;
Here, I at last traced their trails.
The Lark in the Sky
From time to time, he flutters his feathers.
To me below, he brags of his glory;
Lying on the ground in a bad weather
Oh, for the lark I finally feel sorry!
Look! he is being munched by an eagle.
The bloody scene made me tremble
As his couloured feathures begin to cover my face;
But, where is now the glory he used to embrace?
To me below, he brags of his glory;
Lying on the ground in a bad weather
Oh, for the lark I finally feel sorry!
Look! he is being munched by an eagle.
The bloody scene made me tremble
As his couloured feathures begin to cover my face;
But, where is now the glory he used to embrace?
Cordiality
Does this remind you of something
Especially when you touch it with the hand,
Or else when you hear people sing?
In a room by the sand
No matter what the query;
It is always a rare quality;
All people claim this cordiality,
And the truth they always try to bury.
Especially when you touch it with the hand,
Or else when you hear people sing?
In a room by the sand
No matter what the query;
It is always a rare quality;
All people claim this cordiality,
And the truth they always try to bury.
A Sudden Noise Startled Me
As I went to bed earlier than usual,
I put my head on the pillow
And fast fell asleep like fire kindled by fuel;
Indulging myself in dreams solo
Suddenly, I stretched my legs to and fro;
Restless, I slept on my belly
Enraged, I woke up to find what was wrong;
An alarm clock on the bedside table had gone off;
Instead of switching it off,
I raised my hand so wide
And broke it into pieces;
Victorious, I henceforth never heard its hisses.
I put my head on the pillow
And fast fell asleep like fire kindled by fuel;
Indulging myself in dreams solo
Suddenly, I stretched my legs to and fro;
Restless, I slept on my belly
Enraged, I woke up to find what was wrong;
An alarm clock on the bedside table had gone off;
Instead of switching it off,
I raised my hand so wide
And broke it into pieces;
Victorious, I henceforth never heard its hisses.
Born Amazigh
I have been her doll
And she my solace since I was one;
For hours, I stand in the scorching sun,
Bereaving my late goal.
Had I taken care of my prerogative,
She would have stood up
And after the nap,
Her glimpse would have been furtive.
And she my solace since I was one;
For hours, I stand in the scorching sun,
Bereaving my late goal.
Had I taken care of my prerogative,
She would have stood up
And after the nap,
Her glimpse would have been furtive.
I Would Rather you did not See me
I would rather you didn't see me
When I laid the spoon on the plate
And when I took a wisp out of your hair.
Insidiously, I played with some dolls
At a very late hour;
When you fell asleep
I covered your face
And tiptoed to my bedroom;
I did so
So that you wouldn't hear me;
But you were smarter than I had thought
That's why I would rather you didn't see me.
When I laid the spoon on the plate
And when I took a wisp out of your hair.
Insidiously, I played with some dolls
At a very late hour;
When you fell asleep
I covered your face
And tiptoed to my bedroom;
I did so
So that you wouldn't hear me;
But you were smarter than I had thought
That's why I would rather you didn't see me.
I Once Rode a Whale
Did I ever tell you how the trip triumphed?
The shore I left behind and a new sphere I started to covet.
No means but a whale in the ocean
Through which I swam against the tides with caution
Lest other sea creatures caught me riding.
They might have found it out of place
Oh, I now could see an island face to face.
Yet, the whale averted it out of envy,
And enraged, I began to keep new promises.
The shore I left behind and a new sphere I started to covet.
No means but a whale in the ocean
Through which I swam against the tides with caution
Lest other sea creatures caught me riding.
They might have found it out of place
Oh, I now could see an island face to face.
Yet, the whale averted it out of envy,
And enraged, I began to keep new promises.
What is it to be an Author
To be a self-made man or to be a mature one?
To prefer a lovely life to a scorching sun?
Or vice versa?
A chair and a desk to a sofa?
To indulge in endless nightmares?
Or to go for a walk on the beach?
Yet, to pore on current issues
And let a voice emerge?
This is tasteless for the rest
But tasty for some
Or rather for a select few.
To prefer a lovely life to a scorching sun?
Or vice versa?
A chair and a desk to a sofa?
To indulge in endless nightmares?
Or to go for a walk on the beach?
Yet, to pore on current issues
And let a voice emerge?
This is tasteless for the rest
But tasty for some
Or rather for a select few.
Why Should We Wear a Smile
Why should we wear a smile
When we can not help recalling the memory?
Let us shed a tear for a while
And dare give up the corollary;
The former some minds tend to condemn,
For little do they know about its impact,
A tear and a smile collide at the rim.
To see a smile survive is a queer fact.
When we can not help recalling the memory?
Let us shed a tear for a while
And dare give up the corollary;
The former some minds tend to condemn,
For little do they know about its impact,
A tear and a smile collide at the rim.
To see a smile survive is a queer fact.
My First Trip
I put my private effects into a bundle;
Of course, I had to use a suitable staff
As in front of me stood rocky hills to handle
On the highest one a chateaux was built;
It resembled a secluded safe;
When there I opened the bundle and let the things fall,
I then poured some raindrops
Over the flowers about to wilt.
Of course, I had to use a suitable staff
As in front of me stood rocky hills to handle
On the highest one a chateaux was built;
It resembled a secluded safe;
When there I opened the bundle and let the things fall,
I then poured some raindrops
Over the flowers about to wilt.
The Game
I did not learn it at an early age
But I knew how playing it sounded;
Though I never saw the ball as it pounded,
The difference it made to me is still huge;
Watching it being played makes my spirits fade
Though not a hobby for now,
It helped me excel at an arrow and a bow.
But I knew how playing it sounded;
Though I never saw the ball as it pounded,
The difference it made to me is still huge;
Watching it being played makes my spirits fade
Though not a hobby for now,
It helped me excel at an arrow and a bow.
At Dawn
In my mother's age,
People let out a sudden shriek
This act, they thought, was typical of only the sage;
The minute the rage set in
And the posterity began to win;
I one day woke up on a starlit night
And breathed in the fresh air of that day.
All that happened before my first dawn.
People let out a sudden shriek
This act, they thought, was typical of only the sage;
The minute the rage set in
And the posterity began to win;
I one day woke up on a starlit night
And breathed in the fresh air of that day.
All that happened before my first dawn.
The Bus Station
People take different directions
Some to visit their family
Others to go sightseeing
So few dream of visiting the land
Where no coach has yet trodden
I conversed with this traveller
Only the same south we both set out to see.
Some to visit their family
Others to go sightseeing
So few dream of visiting the land
Where no coach has yet trodden
I conversed with this traveller
Only the same south we both set out to see.
The Hiding Flower
I can see you clearly
Though to some you are still invisible;
Amongst the nearby roses and daffoldils,
Endeavouring to conceal your mature sounds
As I passed by you with my hounds,
I felt mortified to uncover your existence
In so doing,
I promptly understood your intrinsic nature
And therefore let you grow
Away from self-consciousness;
The latter, merely your pet aversion
Oh, frankly I burst into laughter
As I behold your petals in bloom;
From now on, to all you have become visible;
I am awfully sorry for that.
Though to some you are still invisible;
Amongst the nearby roses and daffoldils,
Endeavouring to conceal your mature sounds
As I passed by you with my hounds,
I felt mortified to uncover your existence
In so doing,
I promptly understood your intrinsic nature
And therefore let you grow
Away from self-consciousness;
The latter, merely your pet aversion
Oh, frankly I burst into laughter
As I behold your petals in bloom;
From now on, to all you have become visible;
I am awfully sorry for that.
An Empty Train
One conductor at the front;
No passenger on the bench
Only newspapers and leaflets scattered on the corridors;
In the desert, I found the train
But now with no conductor;
I stooped to tidy the littered corridors.
No passenger on the bench
Only newspapers and leaflets scattered on the corridors;
In the desert, I found the train
But now with no conductor;
I stooped to tidy the littered corridors.
A Desperate Attempt
Around every single room,
I hear cries of every single complaint;
I prethought it was only my fault to roam
My comportment although quaint
Help me unwrap their quilt;
No one can deny the torment,
What is the desperate attempt then for?
I hear cries of every single complaint;
I prethought it was only my fault to roam
My comportment although quaint
Help me unwrap their quilt;
No one can deny the torment,
What is the desperate attempt then for?
I Finished Reading the Letter
It is a mere two-paragraph one
Through which I could see her love for me
However serious I always try to be,
I find myself surrendering to her well-uttered syllables;
Enough is enough.
I have gone deaf.
Is there any other means of saying the same thing and little?
Through which I could see her love for me
However serious I always try to be,
I find myself surrendering to her well-uttered syllables;
Enough is enough.
I have gone deaf.
Is there any other means of saying the same thing and little?
Words
Every time I am at a loss for words,
I sit down to put them on paper;
Under a tree besieged by singing birds,
The jungle I decide to enter;
There I once again repeat
That I myself find myself on a mossy rock
Where I am not wonted to the block;
The only place where my words and other's
Can be put onto paper made from the tree leaves.
I sit down to put them on paper;
Under a tree besieged by singing birds,
The jungle I decide to enter;
There I once again repeat
That I myself find myself on a mossy rock
Where I am not wonted to the block;
The only place where my words and other's
Can be put onto paper made from the tree leaves.
Amid the Offspring
Down every doorstep
Children know but to leap;
A time when no school exists
No man, albeit distinguished, fits.
And women now bring up the offspring
Yet amongst the crowd a genius must one day spring;
Women, men and even animals
Have inadvertently left the vestiges.
Children know but to leap;
A time when no school exists
No man, albeit distinguished, fits.
And women now bring up the offspring
Yet amongst the crowd a genius must one day spring;
Women, men and even animals
Have inadvertently left the vestiges.
The Ring
At midnight, I drop the ring I used to wear;
Spinning a dozen times on the floor
Then, complete silence command here;
I approach it very closely to pore
On what makes me drop it;
Alas, I can see it broken once the room is lit.
No wonder, I had a nightmare;
Unawares, I fluttered my fingers
To open the nearby window for the night air;
I that instant heard the singers,
Celebrating the beloved's broken ring;
Only then did I know the nightmares would stop lingering.
Spinning a dozen times on the floor
Then, complete silence command here;
I approach it very closely to pore
On what makes me drop it;
Alas, I can see it broken once the room is lit.
No wonder, I had a nightmare;
Unawares, I fluttered my fingers
To open the nearby window for the night air;
I that instant heard the singers,
Celebrating the beloved's broken ring;
Only then did I know the nightmares would stop lingering.
An Interview with an Owl
Let us carry on the discussion we had the other night;
" No, you are stubborn and I can't bear that," said the owl.
Well, I told you appearances are indispensable
For attaining recognition in the forest surroundings
"I don't agree with you at all, " argued the owl
" for my face looks cheerful and enthralling to my race."
"You can't make sense of what I am telling you
As you are still immature, dear child, " added the owl.
"But I only told you the truth," said I.
"I repeat that your race is not like ours" angrily howled the owl.
As I was moving back home,
The owl turned into a princess.
" Am I right now ?" cried the owl.
"Definitely, " said I in despair.
" No, you are stubborn and I can't bear that," said the owl.
Well, I told you appearances are indispensable
For attaining recognition in the forest surroundings
"I don't agree with you at all, " argued the owl
" for my face looks cheerful and enthralling to my race."
"You can't make sense of what I am telling you
As you are still immature, dear child, " added the owl.
"But I only told you the truth," said I.
"I repeat that your race is not like ours" angrily howled the owl.
As I was moving back home,
The owl turned into a princess.
" Am I right now ?" cried the owl.
"Definitely, " said I in despair.
The Tenacious Climber
Who says the mountain is out of reach?
You must reconsider that speech;
Dozens of rocks and stones themselves roll down
Of their own accord.
The endeavour to wear the crown
Is living proof that the peak is at hand;
All you need is to traverse the land.
You must reconsider that speech;
Dozens of rocks and stones themselves roll down
Of their own accord.
The endeavour to wear the crown
Is living proof that the peak is at hand;
All you need is to traverse the land.
The Writer Who did not Have Three Dirhams to Buy a Newspaper
Becoming a writer nowadays is an extremely challenging task for the majority of people. Some of the latter attribute this challenge to lack of free time, of interest and of readership. Others believe that the position of writer only means a dead-end, tedious job; in other words, good for nothing. However, only when I knew of Mohamed Zafzaf as the Moroccan writer who didn't have even three dirhams to buy a newspaper have I concluded that becoming a writer is not always as difficult as we have always expected. At this point, each one of us should start reconsidering his or her retrospective views about the position of writer.
The purpose behind this article is that it is never a matter of means or that of unjustifiable excuses that will preclude us from attaining this position. On the contrary, simple objects like a pen, cheap novels, etc which have made some ordinary people the greatest celebrities the world over can of course help each one of us make this dream come true one day. Frankly, I am myself still obssessed with the idea this dream is undoubtedly out of reach. But hearing of Mohamed Zafzaf's stumbling obstacle, that of not having even basic things, has totally changed my unreasonable views and set me to contemplate my futute more consciously.
Mohamed Zafzaf, one of the Moroccan literary figures, still makes me hang my head in awe. Despite his unbearable obstacles such as sheer poverty, the Maghriban ignorance, remarkable absence of libraries, he never thought of them every time he put pen to paper. He rather kept reading widely and thus started producing profusely whatever was on his mind. At that time, he rarely or never received any recognition and acclaim for his productivity; but he remained dedicated mainly to his writing. Unlike this amazing author, once we novice writers have one of our artistic works rejected or simply castigated, we begin to feel hopeless and even think of quitting the circle.
In short, not having three dirhams made this man one of the greatest writers ever, whereas having everything at our disposal has not yet resulted in anything except constant complaints, hopeless attempts and maybe leaving the dream unrealised altogether for some. Here and from now on, every one can realise that it will never be a question of countless means which are offered to us day after day like meetings, workshops, holding literary seminars, etc. The one who did not have three dirhams would of course recommend three insightful pieces of advice: constant willingness, total dedication to this path, and everyday patience.
The purpose behind this article is that it is never a matter of means or that of unjustifiable excuses that will preclude us from attaining this position. On the contrary, simple objects like a pen, cheap novels, etc which have made some ordinary people the greatest celebrities the world over can of course help each one of us make this dream come true one day. Frankly, I am myself still obssessed with the idea this dream is undoubtedly out of reach. But hearing of Mohamed Zafzaf's stumbling obstacle, that of not having even basic things, has totally changed my unreasonable views and set me to contemplate my futute more consciously.
Mohamed Zafzaf, one of the Moroccan literary figures, still makes me hang my head in awe. Despite his unbearable obstacles such as sheer poverty, the Maghriban ignorance, remarkable absence of libraries, he never thought of them every time he put pen to paper. He rather kept reading widely and thus started producing profusely whatever was on his mind. At that time, he rarely or never received any recognition and acclaim for his productivity; but he remained dedicated mainly to his writing. Unlike this amazing author, once we novice writers have one of our artistic works rejected or simply castigated, we begin to feel hopeless and even think of quitting the circle.
In short, not having three dirhams made this man one of the greatest writers ever, whereas having everything at our disposal has not yet resulted in anything except constant complaints, hopeless attempts and maybe leaving the dream unrealised altogether for some. Here and from now on, every one can realise that it will never be a question of countless means which are offered to us day after day like meetings, workshops, holding literary seminars, etc. The one who did not have three dirhams would of course recommend three insightful pieces of advice: constant willingness, total dedication to this path, and everyday patience.
A Tear and a Grin
A grin and a tear once sat at a table:
Life set them to lable
Who wears a grin and who does a smile;
Suddenly a grin went enraged
As most people are labelled a tear!
"Far commoner than I! " said the grin
" It is simply because people choose to wear me," replied the tear
Life set them to lable
Who wears a grin and who does a smile;
Suddenly a grin went enraged
As most people are labelled a tear!
"Far commoner than I! " said the grin
" It is simply because people choose to wear me," replied the tear
The Nightfall
Alas, it is bedtime again;
No time and no space to spare;
Some more moments I still wish I would gain:
To the stars above I dare show some care:
I grudingly drag the mattress
On my back I turn dizzily
As my eyes receive the stars' rays
Unawares, I fell into a dire dream
Only to find tear-like drops in my eyes;
I then set out to reminisce about the nightfall.
No time and no space to spare;
Some more moments I still wish I would gain:
To the stars above I dare show some care:
I grudingly drag the mattress
On my back I turn dizzily
As my eyes receive the stars' rays
Unawares, I fell into a dire dream
Only to find tear-like drops in my eyes;
I then set out to reminisce about the nightfall.
What Makes George Orwell Different From Other Authors
As I bury my head in any works by George Orwell, I always feel that I am reading something which I have never read before and which so few or rather no authors have already discussed. It is merely the fact that this author was remarkably realistic about different aspects of his everyday life, including his writing style, his daily obstacles, his critical attiutudes towards the society and so on and so forth.
Frankly speaking, I can not help reading his essays one after another as I have found that they help me a lot become familiar with some harsh realities of life. This is in fact what some other authors have overlooked or ignored, especially when it comes to talking frankly and admittedly about their writing styles and the stages they went through to ultimately become distinguished authors. It is here where I have come to the conclusion that George Orwell, for me, is somewhat disimilar from the rest.
To begin with, as I have noticed in most of his articles touching on his writing style development, I believe that he is one of the rarest authors who addressed his reading public very objectively. For instance, in "Why I Write" , he talked about his childish attempts at writing and his parents' and teachers' reactions to them. He always looked down on his efforts and thought that writing creatively and originally was a most difficult and stultifying job at the time.
I suppose that the authors whose works I have read never dared discuss this crucial and formative part of their writing career, especially that this period is the pinnacle of every writer's job. The part of the essay that actually attracted my attention was the one detailing the motives lying behind every single writer 's ambition to become a writer. It is principally due to this that I have admired his writings more and more. Personally, I share him the same motives and I believe that it is not all the time easy for any writer to admit these motives though no one can escape the latter.
George Orwell believes that before anyone sets out to write a piece, he or she must seek to be talked about, to be honoured posthumously, and to take revenge on those who used to look down on us during our troubled childhood. No one of us, I strongly believe, can deny them for one reason or another; I must admit that the latter motive has been the one affecting me most. I have always wondered what authors have already discussed this part of their development and which one of them is willing to admit them to the reader.
Here lies the secret behind considering George Orwell as totally different from distinguished authors in general and from novice ones in particular. Moreover, scientists, politicians, and other people holding notable positons are without exception in this case. Though not interested enough in money, appearances and trivial worldly concerns, authors are always deemed selfish, vain and more importantly self-centred. Actually, I could not agree more when Orwell described them in this manner.
With regards to " Such, Such were the Joys", another essay in which this author recounts plainly and without frills his painful experiences as a neglected, funny student, has appealed to me for some days. I have always wanted to write something similar to it, but haven't yet made up my mind; this amazing essay, some might argue, has been a very genuine account of Orwell's schooldays. Reading it from top to bottom makes me wonder how the author dared to divulge some secretive and very personal information about himself and his personality at large.
One of these secrets which struck me in the extreme was the fact that in the dormitory he lived in, he never woke up without having wet his bed. Rarely do we find authors relating such ignominious situations about themselves. I am not of course encouraging that they should be revealed. Quite the contrary, I am simply claiming that this is exactly what made me fall passionately in love with all of Orwell's works ranging from novels to essays." No one can look back on his schooldays and say with truth that they were altogether unhappy, " said Orwell in the aforementioned essay.
Here, I would like to make reference to the authors who in their biographies make the positives sides outweigh the negative ones. However, if each one of us looks back on his past days, we will surely find that we experienced sadness more than happiness and failures more than successes.
Apart from other works by the same author, such as 1984, Animal farm, etc. I would like to add that having authors who recount their experiences as they exactly happened will not necessarily distort their image in front of the reading public. On the contrary, the latter would certainly appreciate these harsh facts for one simple reason. It is that all of us have at one point in our lives gone through the same moments and when somebody mentions these moments to us, we feel precariously placated. And this is the attribute which has made me believe that George Orwell is totally different from other authors.
Frankly speaking, I can not help reading his essays one after another as I have found that they help me a lot become familiar with some harsh realities of life. This is in fact what some other authors have overlooked or ignored, especially when it comes to talking frankly and admittedly about their writing styles and the stages they went through to ultimately become distinguished authors. It is here where I have come to the conclusion that George Orwell, for me, is somewhat disimilar from the rest.
To begin with, as I have noticed in most of his articles touching on his writing style development, I believe that he is one of the rarest authors who addressed his reading public very objectively. For instance, in "Why I Write" , he talked about his childish attempts at writing and his parents' and teachers' reactions to them. He always looked down on his efforts and thought that writing creatively and originally was a most difficult and stultifying job at the time.
I suppose that the authors whose works I have read never dared discuss this crucial and formative part of their writing career, especially that this period is the pinnacle of every writer's job. The part of the essay that actually attracted my attention was the one detailing the motives lying behind every single writer 's ambition to become a writer. It is principally due to this that I have admired his writings more and more. Personally, I share him the same motives and I believe that it is not all the time easy for any writer to admit these motives though no one can escape the latter.
George Orwell believes that before anyone sets out to write a piece, he or she must seek to be talked about, to be honoured posthumously, and to take revenge on those who used to look down on us during our troubled childhood. No one of us, I strongly believe, can deny them for one reason or another; I must admit that the latter motive has been the one affecting me most. I have always wondered what authors have already discussed this part of their development and which one of them is willing to admit them to the reader.
Here lies the secret behind considering George Orwell as totally different from distinguished authors in general and from novice ones in particular. Moreover, scientists, politicians, and other people holding notable positons are without exception in this case. Though not interested enough in money, appearances and trivial worldly concerns, authors are always deemed selfish, vain and more importantly self-centred. Actually, I could not agree more when Orwell described them in this manner.
With regards to " Such, Such were the Joys", another essay in which this author recounts plainly and without frills his painful experiences as a neglected, funny student, has appealed to me for some days. I have always wanted to write something similar to it, but haven't yet made up my mind; this amazing essay, some might argue, has been a very genuine account of Orwell's schooldays. Reading it from top to bottom makes me wonder how the author dared to divulge some secretive and very personal information about himself and his personality at large.
One of these secrets which struck me in the extreme was the fact that in the dormitory he lived in, he never woke up without having wet his bed. Rarely do we find authors relating such ignominious situations about themselves. I am not of course encouraging that they should be revealed. Quite the contrary, I am simply claiming that this is exactly what made me fall passionately in love with all of Orwell's works ranging from novels to essays." No one can look back on his schooldays and say with truth that they were altogether unhappy, " said Orwell in the aforementioned essay.
Here, I would like to make reference to the authors who in their biographies make the positives sides outweigh the negative ones. However, if each one of us looks back on his past days, we will surely find that we experienced sadness more than happiness and failures more than successes.
Apart from other works by the same author, such as 1984, Animal farm, etc. I would like to add that having authors who recount their experiences as they exactly happened will not necessarily distort their image in front of the reading public. On the contrary, the latter would certainly appreciate these harsh facts for one simple reason. It is that all of us have at one point in our lives gone through the same moments and when somebody mentions these moments to us, we feel precariously placated. And this is the attribute which has made me believe that George Orwell is totally different from other authors.
Who Said That?
Who said that? Who said that?
I asked once again,
Who said that climbing the mountain,
Seeing the sun while at sunset and sunrise,
And listening to ants while partaking of
Little bread crumbs
Can ever be out of reach
For the lame, the blind and the deaf;
Who said that? Who said that?
I have asked and will always ask
Who said that.
I asked once again,
Who said that climbing the mountain,
Seeing the sun while at sunset and sunrise,
And listening to ants while partaking of
Little bread crumbs
Can ever be out of reach
For the lame, the blind and the deaf;
Who said that? Who said that?
I have asked and will always ask
Who said that.
A Black Cat Passing by my Bed
At midnight, falling helplessly asleep
As minutes slip by so slowly,
I always feel fondled by a black object deep
Ah, it is the cat whose tail goes curly.
I wonder how I can respond to her impulse,
The impulse to make me behold her face;
The ominous whiskers, however, make my heart pulse
Throb as she unties my shoes' lace!
Oh, uttering complaints of hundred nights!
Ever since the right woman I was amazed at ;
I have struggled hard never to put out her light,
Especially when she pays me a visit as a black cat.
As minutes slip by so slowly,
I always feel fondled by a black object deep
Ah, it is the cat whose tail goes curly.
I wonder how I can respond to her impulse,
The impulse to make me behold her face;
The ominous whiskers, however, make my heart pulse
Throb as she unties my shoes' lace!
Oh, uttering complaints of hundred nights!
Ever since the right woman I was amazed at ;
I have struggled hard never to put out her light,
Especially when she pays me a visit as a black cat.
How Some Teachers Die
While I was once reading a collection of some quotes related to the field of teaching and learning, I came across this quote which from that time on stamped something special on my mind; it runs thus: "He who dares to teach must never cease to learn," said Richard Henry Dann. Now that I have become a teacher, I am able to decide that this statement is undoubtedly valid. More importantly, not abiding by this quote makes teachers all over the world "die" with time, age and experience.
In fact, there are numerous ways whereby teachers lose their competences and in the end "die". Some of them however might well manage to survive only if they do something about their learning and their knowledge about their speciality. I suppose that rarely do we discuss this part of our teachers' professional development simply because we always think that whoever is a teacher must be doing a good job in their classes. Still, we keep asking ourselves why most teachers do not produce something which will benefit themselves at least and their community at most. This is simply how and why some teachers "die".
As any new teacher has experienced, having been trained and thus appointed to teach most of the time makes us change our retrospective attitude towards learning. The main reason why this occurs is that some teachers think that they have started to assume a new and the only responsibility, that of teaching students. And in fact teaching does not not lie only in coming to class and provide students with lessons, but in a far more important activity, which is learning more and new things. Here, I am talking about learning on the part of the teacher. Some teachers should update themselves on the newest if need be. Or at least they should keep reading extra-curricular books, texts, etc.
As we all know, a bad attitude is the worst disability; if we as teachers still adopt the attitude that teachers do not need to read anything in our specialities or revise lessons that are to be taught, I do believe that with the passing of time most of us will be challenged. That the majority of teachers, especially here in Morocco, do not produce or write articles, essays, etc is living proof that the disability I am talking about is taking place.
Of course, if we look back on this thorny problem more seriously, we will certainly find that countless reasons have been behind this. But the problem of note here is that most teachers do not read, do not produce and do not at least even make efforts to make up for their daily losses. As a role, some teachers have become notorious for sitting at cafes, watching football matches one after another, and keeping an eye on passers-by. It breaks everyone's heart to see some of them doing so; if only they would use those cafes for discussing the calamitous eductional system, or for writing something noteworthy for the community to read as so many writers have done before.
How come we are forever talking about this calamity without even taking into account the competence of our teaching staff? For me, this is exactly how our teachers "die" and I have doubted that some people might find this article a trifle critical or shocking. However, every one of us ought to be realistic about this topic, for this is the only way through which we will still prevent more teachers from "dying".
I still remember my teacher of English during my high school who spoke our mother tongue more than the target language English; I might not be against this traditional technique, but what affected me most was that he often did that so that we would raise our hands more frequently to participate. In fact, participating in the class did not neccessarily mean something related to the lessons; strangely enough, some of us raised their hands to tell a joke in Arabic or Berber; mentioning these incidents clearly indicates that this is a means , among other things, whereby teachers "die".
How could you expect a teacher who is not doing a good job in the class to do a better one at home? It might also be queer to say that the same teacher did not take his bag with him after class. He simply used to leave it under the desk so that he would not bother himself to bring it the following day. It is no wonder that the teaching field is full of queer incidents like these ones. But the message behind them is that some of those who claim to dare to teach have already ceased to learn. Therefore, what are we then waiting for?
Omar BIHMIDINE
In fact, there are numerous ways whereby teachers lose their competences and in the end "die". Some of them however might well manage to survive only if they do something about their learning and their knowledge about their speciality. I suppose that rarely do we discuss this part of our teachers' professional development simply because we always think that whoever is a teacher must be doing a good job in their classes. Still, we keep asking ourselves why most teachers do not produce something which will benefit themselves at least and their community at most. This is simply how and why some teachers "die".
As any new teacher has experienced, having been trained and thus appointed to teach most of the time makes us change our retrospective attitude towards learning. The main reason why this occurs is that some teachers think that they have started to assume a new and the only responsibility, that of teaching students. And in fact teaching does not not lie only in coming to class and provide students with lessons, but in a far more important activity, which is learning more and new things. Here, I am talking about learning on the part of the teacher. Some teachers should update themselves on the newest if need be. Or at least they should keep reading extra-curricular books, texts, etc.
As we all know, a bad attitude is the worst disability; if we as teachers still adopt the attitude that teachers do not need to read anything in our specialities or revise lessons that are to be taught, I do believe that with the passing of time most of us will be challenged. That the majority of teachers, especially here in Morocco, do not produce or write articles, essays, etc is living proof that the disability I am talking about is taking place.
Of course, if we look back on this thorny problem more seriously, we will certainly find that countless reasons have been behind this. But the problem of note here is that most teachers do not read, do not produce and do not at least even make efforts to make up for their daily losses. As a role, some teachers have become notorious for sitting at cafes, watching football matches one after another, and keeping an eye on passers-by. It breaks everyone's heart to see some of them doing so; if only they would use those cafes for discussing the calamitous eductional system, or for writing something noteworthy for the community to read as so many writers have done before.
How come we are forever talking about this calamity without even taking into account the competence of our teaching staff? For me, this is exactly how our teachers "die" and I have doubted that some people might find this article a trifle critical or shocking. However, every one of us ought to be realistic about this topic, for this is the only way through which we will still prevent more teachers from "dying".
I still remember my teacher of English during my high school who spoke our mother tongue more than the target language English; I might not be against this traditional technique, but what affected me most was that he often did that so that we would raise our hands more frequently to participate. In fact, participating in the class did not neccessarily mean something related to the lessons; strangely enough, some of us raised their hands to tell a joke in Arabic or Berber; mentioning these incidents clearly indicates that this is a means , among other things, whereby teachers "die".
How could you expect a teacher who is not doing a good job in the class to do a better one at home? It might also be queer to say that the same teacher did not take his bag with him after class. He simply used to leave it under the desk so that he would not bother himself to bring it the following day. It is no wonder that the teaching field is full of queer incidents like these ones. But the message behind them is that some of those who claim to dare to teach have already ceased to learn. Therefore, what are we then waiting for?
Omar BIHMIDINE
Sunday, May 16, 2010
The Wife Whose Permission Was Not Asked
Aicha, the second eldest girl in the Oussaids after Fatima, who got married a few months ago, had just come home tired from toilsome work in the meadows and from grazing some cattle when her father started shouting to her at the top of his voice to go downstairs and see her mother. Aicha, a short, plain-looking girl, immediately did as her father ordered. Her father, Ahmed, a fierce-looking and merciless greengrocer, whose terrible mood swings frighten everyone at home, including his clients at work.
Her mother, an old-looking, generous and kind-hearted woman, though a trifle submissive to her husband's unreasonable and foolish orders, had just asked for her daughter once again. As the little girl, aged almost fourteen, was descending the stairs, she heard her mother and other women talking about some mysterious visitors being expected the following day. In astonishment, she stopped for a while and then shrugged her shoulders. She found her mother awaiting her on the doorstep and they all went into the living-room.
" Dear daughter," said the mother.
" Yes, Mum!" said Aicha curiously.
" I called you to tell you that you have to dress well for tomorrow," continued the mother.
" What for, Mum?" inquired Aicha, aghast!
" You know, we are expecting some visitors from the nearby village"
" OK, Mum, I promise I will, " said Aicha.
As she went upstairs, her mother called her again.
" Don't forget to do the washing-up!" said the mother.
" Don't worry, Mum! Everything will be all right!" replied Aicha.
" What a very obedient girl she is!" the mother said to herself.
" I feel awfully sorry that she is going to leave this house so soon," added the mother, " it is really a pity."
Unaware of what was going on in the house, the little girl carried on her household chores. While everyone in the house and the neighbourhood was expecting the visitor who was coming to ask for Aicha's hand, the latter did not know anything about this event and surprisingly she was not even consulted on the matter. All her friends felt sorry for her. There was no doubt that she would marry the coming man, for at the time her father whom she feared a lot would never deign to discuss this matter to her. At lunchtime and after Aicha and her mother seated themselves at the dining table, the doorbell rang.
" Who could that be, Mum?" asked Aicha.
" It is just your father coming back from the flea market," replied the mother.
" Hey dad!" said the Aicha as she opened the door.
" Where is your mother?" said the father indifferently.
Aicha could never understand why her father treated her in that manner. Notwithstanding, she loved him as much as she did her mother. Ahmed had just sold Aicha's beloved calf so as to provide victuals for the visitors who were expected the following day. To Aicha's dismay, she was grieved in the extreme to know that her beloved calf was finally sold. She that instant shed some tears, but who was going to placate her. No one, actually! Khadija, her mother, was scared of her husband. Every time she said something in defense of their daughter, she always received harsh blows from Ahmed. So no use!
Next day khadija was the first one to wake up, then Ahmed who had some work to do at the greengrocer's and Aicha was the last one. That day was the only day in which Aicha slept longer than usual and in which she did not go for work outside. She wondered why for a moment and then gave up the idea. Until that time, she had not yet understood that she was going to get married the soonest possible. After making the bed and having breakfast with her mother, she immediately went to her wardrobe to get out the best clothes as her mother told her yesterday.
As soon as she dressed up, she happily ran hurriedly to her mother to show herself anew.
" What a very charming girl you are !" said Khadija
"So kind of you, Mum!" replied Aicha blushed.
At the time, Aicha still thought that the visitors expected were just coming to pay them a visit and that was all. Suddenly, she heard her mother weeping very quietly in her bedroom while arranging her private belongings into a bundle.
" Dear Mum, what made you cry?" asked Aicha sadly.
" Nothing special, darling! Go and prepare some tea for your father," Replied the mother," he will be back in a minute."
" Ah, what are you doing with all those winter clothes of mine?" wondered Aicha.
" It is the summer now, isn't it?" added Aicha.
" Please, don't get angry if I told you that a visitor is coming to take you from us!" explained the mother, " he will marry you."
The little girl was instantly at a loss for words. It was the first time she had ever heard the word 'marriage', and at that age she knew nothing about it. She went tongued-tied and did not respond to her mother's ensuing questions to the extent that the mother began to worry about her situation more than before. Had it not been for the furious, capricious father who began to shout too loudly as usual, she would neither have moved nor have gone to open the door.
From that time on, her face grew paler and more panic-stricken. She tried hard not to utter a word of objection or evince any feelings that might berate her father, a very peevish man.
Like all other girls, she might have hoped for marriage at one point in her life, and it was something every female friend of hers chrished. So what made her sad then? She on the spot remembered her father's conversation with a shopkeeper about a very old, affluent man who had worked abroad for some years and now was living in the village next to theirs. As she and other villagers heard about that man, he had already got married to three other women whom he divorced only after five years.
Her father did not at all make a fuss about this old man's background. His daughter getting married was all that mattered to him.
In the roof, alone and pensive, deliberating for some moments about the matter and beginning to contemplate her new future, she ultimately came to the conclusion that she had no other choice but to say 'yes' to the coming suitor. No sooner had her mother laid all the four tables in the living-room than Aicha saw the expected visitors approaching the house. Immediately, she came down to to tell her mother. It was then striking around three o'clock in the afternoon.
"They are coming, Mum, they are coming!" cried Aicha melancholy.
"Ok, dear Aicha!" replied the mother, "everything is ready!"
" Where is your father?" asked the mother.
"I am here! As I told you, don't do anything that might make us lose face, ok?" warned the father.
" Right, dad!" said the daughter sadly.
Apart from the little girl, everyone welcomed the visitors with outstretched arms. Even the neighbours did. Aicha's parents were glad that somebody had at last come to their house to ask them for their daughter. Meanwhile, Aicha felt sat at heart, but never showed it because she knew very well that if she did, her father might hurl his usual insults at her.
As soon as everybody was in and well served, they sat down together to discuss the matter of Aicha. The suitor named Mohamed was very much excited to see the little girl. At the time, it was notoriously known that he vehemently hankered after very young girls. Also, ignorance pervaded those villages and people there still thought that money and worldly possessions were all that counted. No one even cared about one's feelings and emotions. Like other young girls before her, Aicha would fall prey to this rampant problem the minute her wedding was announced.
Contrary to popular belief, neither the Oussaids nor Mohamed's family celebrated Aicha's wedding. All they did that day was that Ahmed asked the suitor for the dowry.
" how much do I have to pay for it," asked Mohamed.
" Well, I think a cow would do, don't you think so?" replied Ahmed.
" Ok, let it be so!" said Mohamed.
Ahmed was over the moon when he got such an invaluable dowry. Poor Aicha was not around while discussing the dowry. Anyway, she was not even going to be consulted. So why should she be around? At six that very day and while Aicha was preparing her private possessions, her mother was weeping lightly. Parting with her daughter affected her deeply. As for her father, he did not even care. On the contrary, he was smiling all day. On the night of that day, Aicha knew very well that she had become Mohamed's fourth wife.
Two years had gone by when Aicha gave birth to her first child. She then thought that this child, a boy, was a consolation to her. She then set to placate her misfortune by bringing up this child and by feeling his warmth every time she felt forlorn and lonely.
"Such an old man is replusive to me and to my life as a whole," she once told her new neighbour.
" Just be patient, dear!" the neighbour calmed her, " this child of yours will soon help you."
" I really hope so; but when exactly? I'm really disappointed, " said Aicha in despair.
Seldom did she hear from her parents and had she not taken the iniative to inquire after them from time to time, they would never have done that in return, she thought. With the passage of time, Aicha began to forget about the past and to turn over a new leaf. She managed to do that soon after her son whose name was Ali did his primary schooling and was about to get into high school.
Towards the end of 1995, the last year of Ali's high schooling, Aicha felt gladder than before as she observed that her son was growing up faster and faster.
"Time flies, doesn't it?" Aicha asked her son.
" sure, dear Mum!" replied Ali goloriously as he obtained his baccaluareate degree that year.
As for his father, he left Morocco two years ago to live temporarily abroad and ever since they had rarely heard from him except that every month they received little money from him which seldom provided a dignified livelihood for the home. One day, Aicha all of a sudden heard that Mohamed was thinking of getting married to the fifth one.
" What an unlucky wife she would be, " she contemplated.
" May God stand by her! " she innocently prayed.
Meanwhile, Aicha began to take no notice of what people were saying about her and her husband as well. All that mattered to her at the time was that her son would soon find some work so as to earn a living. And that was what really happened. No sooner had three years elapsed than Ali earned his B.A in Arabic Studies and applied for the position of teacher." He got it at last, thanks God!" Aicham once said as she breathed a deep sigh of relief. Afterwards, Ali became a teacher and his mother was very glad about that. Living in dignity no longer concerned them then.
They thought that Mohamed's coming back from abroad in two weeks' time would be a nuisance. Mohamed later learned that his son earned the job, but he did not express any approval whatsoever. Instead, he stopped sending them that little money and warned his son not to waste his salary too much. Ali did not appreciate all these commandments, and he and his mother immediately thought of running away from him and living somewhere else. Just both of them!
Two weeks later, Mohamed arrived bringing a new car. All neighbours were happy about his arrival except his wife and son. They knew very well that his moody character might surely bring about more rows. Intelligently, Aicha made up her mind and dared to face him this time. Therefore, the first row he made about some work not properly done at home finally ended in divorce.
" please, enough is enough!" said Aicha angrily.
"oh, what has become of you?" responded Mohamed mockingly, " I am not used to such a character."
" I proposed that we get divorced the soonest possible!" added Aicha defiantly.
" Ok, as you like; here we go! Tomorrow, you will have everything you are asking for!" said Mohamed.
" that's the best you can do for me!" said Aicha enraged.
Until that time, Aicha had seldom heard from her merciless parents. One day, she was informed that her father no longer worked as a greengrocer and that he spent the whole days lying in bed. He was not able to move or shout like before anymore. He had gone bald and too senile. During his convalescence, Khadija kept a round-the-clock vigil at his bedside. After two years of this predicament and to khadija's consternation, she learned that she was diagnosed with cancer. From that time, she too would suffer.
She began to shed tears heavily at the bad news. What a very kind-hearted, forgiving woman Aicha is! Glimmers of love for her parents still resided in her heart. Instantly, she paid them a visit to see how they were. Before she arrived at her parent's house, she started remembering when she was ill-treated and the indelible moments she and her friends spent there.
She knocked the door and in she went. Her older sister Fatima, who got married before her, was there taking care of her parents. In the living-room, she found her father and mother lying in their beds, each one separately. She looked at her mother, pale and bony-looking, first, then moved to her father, who was hiding his face all the time. At the time, she was in a hurry, for her son was waiting for her so that they would go to live in the region he was appointed in.
" Dear, Mum, I hope you get over soon! May God be with you, " cried Aicha.
" Dear daughter, please don't ever cry. I beg you a thousand times to forgive me, " uttered her mother with difficulty.
" Don't bother yourself, dear Mum! I did fifteen years ago, "assured Aicha, " never worry about that again, ok?" added Aicha.
" I'm ineffably glad that you did! How sweet of you; dear!" said the mother as she kissed Aicha on the forehead.
Aicha bade her mother good-bye and moved towards her father's bed only to find him dead. " May Allah rest his soul in peace!" she uttered as she wept hysterically. Everyone wept in the room, including Kadija. Aicha immediately got out of the house the fastest possible and barely had she walked for about five minutes when all of a sudden she stopped as if she heard somebody calling her name. Actually, no one called it, she assured herself. She then looked around and contemplated her parent's house. At that moment, she was certain that that was the last she would ever come back there. And the off she went.
Soon after she got home, she found that Ali had prepared everything for their long journey. Next day they reached Mhamid, the town in which he was appointed to teach. They settled down there and had lived happily ever since for ten years. Ali had got married and, now he had two sons and one daughter. She was the happiest woman on earth, she once said to herself while cooking lunch for her dear son, Ali.
One day, as a narrator of this story, I was talking to Ali, a teacher of Arabic, who had become my colleague in the same school, about my own parents and the life they led. On the spot, he intervened to say that mine was exactly the same as his. I then sat down to write this poignant story entitled " The Wife Whose Permission Was Not Asked".
THE END
By Omar BIHMIDINE
Zagora, May 16, 2010
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