My future
I ride in this path with the vehicle of mercy,
With the hope of kissing my destination.
A hope that whispers to me that I shouldn’t peep in to giving up.
And in me, I hugged the faith that promise me I will make it,
And sighting more effort to grab my goals.
The critics may criticize,
But it can never sink the water out of my basket.
I knew I have many holes but wish to patch them days to come.
Spokane
Disillusioned by
what was going
on around him
he tried to open
his life in another
window but was
never able to get
past the pop-ups.
Career Paths
At thirteen he decided to become a prophet. By nineteen he had died & been reborn five times. Nobody took him seriously. Youth is a hard barrier to overcome.
He then decided to emulate the form of regeneration that seemed to have been most successful for generating prophet recognition & had himself crucified. Unfortunately, one of the nails was rusty, & during the transition period he contracted tetanus. He came back unable to speak, & essentially illiterate since so certain had he been of his destiny he had neglected to acquire much of an education.
Nobody wants a prophet who cannot communicate his prophesies. He spent the rest of his allotted three-score & ten in silence. Alone.
Nothing ad-
ventured
nothing
gained
when you
rely on
toxicology
instead
of taste.
partly because the sun
was in an
inclement meridian
partially because
the moon was
in the wrong
quadrant of the sky
particularly because
the cusp between
daydream & nightmare
was a silver ribbon
with elastic properties
Ella in Budapest
Something I have always
found disappointing,
hearing a singer in concert,
hearing a recording of that
singer somewhere else, some
years later. The same song,
The Lady is a Tramp, music by
straight George, lyrics by gay
Ira, Ella Fitzgerald singing.
The voice a little harsher than
I remember but the phrasing is
the same. I sing along. We impro-
vise together. In unison. I know
what notes will come next.
I miss the hug
A hug that they give you and you forget the weaknesses of your existence.
I miss a kiss
The kiss that someone give you and your stomach make those noise like is full of butterflies
I miss the smile
That childish smile that you have
U are smiling and all nature become
Pink
I miss the walk to the beach
The waves
The perfume of the salt
I miss the sunshine and the sunset
All the simple things that I had
I miss the generosity of people
I miss the kindness of grandparents
I miss the relaxing moments of drinking a coffee
Now, they all want your friend, your position, your talent, your contact, your potential, your life almost but no one…
Nobody want to get in your shoes
They are too tide.!!!!
at the perfumery
the vibrant fragrance
of freshly peeled tangerine
my first time
dealing cards
Paul Callus (Malta) / Christina Chin (Malaysia)
– – – – – – – – – – –
the busy
holiday streets
lovely afternoon
hawkers experience
a sales bonanza
Christina Chin (Malaysia) / Paul Callus (Malta)
– – – – – – – – – – –
snow butterfly
clings to the leaf
beautiful spring
speckled wings
on a buddleia bush
Christina Chin (Malaysia) / Paul Callus (Malta)
1. Please share your thoughts about the future of literature..
It gives me the greatest honor to share and partake my own passion for literature, that ornament that embellishes our livelihood throughout lifetime, I am smitten by rendition and erudition of books in all life spheres, to build up a cultural cauldron inside my mind, to dissolve in the amalgam of civilizations and conception of the other, I am not that fond of traveling abroad, for fear of nostalgia to swathes of my endeared heartfelt homeland, rather I consider reading is the solution to unravel the riddle and decipher the intricacies of the others’ thoughts, attitudes and expectations.
It mirrors their torchlight guidance for the generations who are in dire need of your imagination and enlightenment to recognize who they really are, to perceive to what extent they reached out in their conceptualizing the core and crux of what is going on in the literary and scientific arenas.
I do start since the prim of my youth, as a curious onlooker youngling in pursuance of language exposure, I listen a lot to the radio transmissions, like BBC news, or VOA coverage, I wrote down what I was hearing with the help of pronunciation skills I gained, the process by which I acquired spontaneity and fluency in English, fundaments in some other languages, didactic methodological errands to tackle my subject matter helped me a lot, throughout planning to – do lists in English, to your amazement, I tried to find out equivalent in my Arabic Fus7a the mother tongue, regarding idiomatic structure, interjection and syntax.
That linguistic inclination granted me tools and opened up large scale horizons to address the other, the process reached its zenith alongside with the gigantic leap of the know how, technological platforms, I jumped into platforms and mobile apps dealing in learning languages, there are so many to imitate the inventory contents and speak with the other. Since then, I planned a pathway to work on translation as a bonfire or a kindled flame to light up minds and allure other to the benefits of linguistics, as I volunteer to do so, awaiting to reap the fruits and my words instilled and inscribed in the scroll of universal history of literature like the notable role models in prose and verse.
That is a philosophical question, compelling me to the inner self of mankind, good and evil deeds created and innate inside of us, instinctively we might be susceptible to both pathways, but the mighty hand of good and righteous so doing is the vanquisher at last, goodness is like the lofty sun light, a heavenly revelation, but all humans err, and have shortcomings and deficiencies engendered, that abomination and obscene inclination dimmed the lovely hearts, that may delude us and made us into an abyss of the hell. There are wise proverbs admonishing us all—do good and cast it into the seas, do as you would be done by. Therefore, emanating from that mundane truth, we must uphold the slogan or motto of good and faithfulness rather than malfide and diabolical intrigues.
And where can we find your books?
My printed out paper literary output was not that superfluous, I wrote about 10 short stories long time ago, but some of which were printed, in fact, 3 of which named: a human being.. But?.. The altars of imagination.. Snippets tinged with the savory of one’sself.. So many published electronically on Facebook prose symposia such as:the Golden Forum of short story, the Arab conference magazine platform.. Poetic anthologies are my passion, I wrote rhymed and free verse, my first diwan named : give me some sake, my poetic quill?..’ Hanaiki ‘Published and printed, but alot of poems scattered through websites and platforms, I also translate from other foreignlanguages into the Arabic.
Novels and novella play an important part of significance, the Adventurous novel ‘Nabhan and Dannan Alhazhaian’ – Nabhah and the Cask of Bewilderness, published this year, along with a translated novella— what’s after? Both Arabic and English versions of mine. For me, I dreamt to publish an encyclopedia encompassing most of luminaries around the globe with entire congregational literary genre masterpieces I have translated for them, still that dream awaiting a sponsor to make into the light. Translation is all in all undulating waves of outrageous sea of knowledge, full of untold sunken pearls in need to shine. A plea to all literary avant-garde laureates in all fields—give a keen eye on the translators, supposedly, I am one of them. Also, I am doing great in the sphere of literary criticism, you can follow my studies for the Arab writers through Arab symposium for contemporary criticism, and magazine like Amarjy, Damietta, blue world magazine, Nokhba, and other Greek, Romanian and Albanian podiums.
Anyone can search on my name through Google search engine in Arabic and English: Ahmed Farooq Baidoon أحمد فاروق بيضون.
The future is promising, throughout unprecedented microcosm of consensus of literate, authors, playwrights, novelists, poets and poetesses, along with the evolutionary literary new genres, like haiku, tanka, haibun, micro-fiction, micro novella, I wish the future of literature created a venue that shall simplify meeting of the notable acculutred from the entire global territories, to stand united as upholders of word beauty and firmaments, they build up mind apart from undermining mental calibers of the generation by trivial bandwagon of fallacies and violence. We all call upon peace, welfare and serenade, to populate the Earth, to be worthy living and let the children of the world sing the song of unity and unanimous psalms of love. I dreamt that I could hear the sparrows chirping again.
I wish it will be the turning point for a fruitful future, that’s all,
If only I could see the sunlight without imbued clouds,
If only I could see festivity world-wide without a droplet of tear or bereavement,
Let-alone a world of grudge-free and cherished with tempestuous sentiments.
Be it a dream in impelling need to come true or still the apparition of hatred looms?
(I Am The Wandering Letter)
Behold—here I am the solitary letter,
Let go astray in a paginated paper,
My ink fountain has muttered its insomnia,
I wrote down words and battle myself in a race,
I stay up late at daytime and darkness loom at night,
Therein – could hear all shall carry and trace,
I call upon everyone before the glow of twilight,
How come could eyes blink-my ribs fed up with stress,
How come shall we caress those melancholic setbacks with laughter alright,
And, hide all what may choke of distress,
And, flout all contemptuous abomination and dismiss,
Oh! Let-alone that blackout and sleepless eyelids perplexed till late times,
And, all inflected upon us—such lethal crimes,
I shall lay aside all overwhelming screams into oblivion rhymes,
Behold – the stroke of pens, ripped papers of mine; be it echoless as I feel down,
That serves me right as crippled, knitting my eyebrow and frown,
Does the croak of toads prevail in the universe and trumpet?
Verily, the celestial skies manifested as my salvation refuge to glimpse in slumber,
From color to another, we shall stomp it,
Behold-homesick of days, in grey tug of conflicting starry curtains – please hide,
If only I could be back in shape, a free letter without clipping wings – open- eyed.
i watch as your bright lights pollute the air
engulfing the sky in exhaustive energy that
stings my eyes, burning holes into my
pupils while searing your initials onto my
face. you believe i am yours to control,
yours to entirely claim, and never once
has my body willingly let itself into yours.
i can feel you coming down the hall, your
footsteps rattling inside my veins, and
while my soul fights for a breath free
from you, my feet never take me away.
why are you so relentless? why do you
fight to keep me by your side? there is
no continuity between us, no bonds
sealing us together as one. your autonomy
over me is fabricated, as it only exists
within the confines of your mind. all i
can ever beg for is that when i finally
leave your thoughts, i hope i never
linger within the depths of your brain.
Poem 1:
In Memory of Donald Vruwink (Senior)
Your almanac was always breathing.
The heart’s imaginary twin
Will die. “We’ll all be lovely then,”
You’d say. My bones are done, done reading
The soil. A clever fever’s scribbling
Its high opinion of the moon
On it. We’ll all be lovely, then
We’ll banish imitation’s sibling.
The death of plethora seems tawdry
When thunder darts the dirt with thin
Flashes. We’ll all be lovely, then
Tornados will be riding shotty.
Poem 2:
In Memory of Sol Sheff
Words are like eyes; we often fail
To see a thing until it’s said.
Each poem’s a mental pyramid
That stands because of memory’s pull.
The rough perfection of a gull
You stewarded in Jacksonville.
And in Milwaukee, there’s a thrill
That stands because of memory’s pull.
The sun’s ushabti may console
An Army corporal on the beach
At dawn. You gave a crippled speech
That stands because of memory’s pull.
Poem 3:
In Honor of Louis Pasteur
“The picturesqueness of human thought may console us for its imperfection.”
– George Santayana, The Sense of Beauty
Nobody honestly reports
On the beliefs of others. Wolves
Explain what alchemy involves
To beakers blackened by beaux arts.
You said that men who run from warts
Are like a bear that runs from fish.
And logic’s like a petri dish
To beakers blackened by beaux arts.
Your era loved what love distorts…
One cannot trust the naked eye
Which craves the novel modesty
Of beakers blackened by beaux arts.
Poem 4:
Blackguarding Merles
You mock a dahlia’s faith in rain
And March’s hieratic pain
In Wotan’s one good eye. I show
The only serious dog I know
The absence of a final task.
(His bark becomes so plateresque.)
Jocasta’s hardship melts the snow…
The only serious dog I know
Is on precocious wisdom’s trail.
Your apperception tugs his tail.
For Tiresias, you set aglow
The only serious dog I know.
Poem 5:
Schtupping Philosophy
After Mark Strand
“If only it were so easy to soothe hunger by rubbing an empty belly.”
– Diogenes the Cynic, on public masturbation
“Qui veut faire l’ange fait la bête.”
– Blaise Pascal, Pensées
Fear pats the propaganda on
Each head. Hate rubs the belly of
Hypocrisy. There’s Puppy-Love,
Schtupping Philosophy again.
“O, History, you’re not strapped for time,”
She moans while strapping me in wings.
Her drunken master drily sings:
“Schtupping Philosophy turns wine
To dust!” When we extremes do meet
In bed, what’s born reveals our chains
And all but holy sweetness feigns.
Schtupping Philosophy, one ought
To pause one’s speech, but not one’s thought.
Play Water Music, let all see
The truth’s invisibility.
Schtupping Philosophy brings out
Third eyes. This post-renewal age
Can’t fathom seasons. Anger warps
Each blossom, buzzing does each corpse…
Schtupping Philosophy onstage,
I feel the sunlight’s bearded breath.
The earth lets go of hardness. This
Gets harder moonlight, as does Bliss
Schtupping Philosophy to death.
Poem 6:
Ode on My Daughter’s Bat Mitzvah (an Acrostic)
“If faith is the sail on a relationship, one with a broken faith is a hardship. What do you build a new sail with when your faith is broken? Hardiness. Jacob is hardy… Hardiness is not the same as hardness. The ‘i’ in hardiness is a reaching hand; hardiness strives, it reaches through hardness.” – Madeleine Sheff, from her d’var Torah
Do not too aggressively light upon
Adulthood, nor too agreeably go
Usurp its tumultuous limits. Snow
Greets every shoeless shaliach whose crown,
Humility, isn’t the brownest brown.
Take Laban, who wears mankind’s to-and-fro
Every season, and his deceptive chatter
Richly to the bottom of Jacob’s ladder.
Of intellectual hatred, we’ve Yeats
For removing any gray gratitude
(Tantamount to cemetery gates):
Haunted by it, your life’s just a bladder
Emptied at the bottom of Jacob’s ladder.
Comedy’s cruelty makes men brood.
Oh, even tragedy must look away.
Muteness sympathizes with nature’s food;
Made wingless in wine glass novels by day,
All of it runs full speed from decay.
Normal Saturdays are mad as a hatter
Dimmed by the shadow of Jacob’s ladder.
May the chuppah embrace each ah! bright ray
Eternal nature absorbs from your frame.
Nouns have more beauty than verbs; don’t name
This place Terra Terribilis then shatter
Seraphs at the bottom of Jacob’s ladder.