Five poems (1974-1986) / by :Abdul kader Al janabi

Abdul kader el janabi

Five poems (1974-1986)

History always wants to refer me to you,

andre breton

These lines are decicated to 

The bandits of the windy city

André breton,

Windows are open

And your becoming is eyed by their curtains.

From under the blanket of unapplied thought

I see you holding a dream

Curved between your hands

A phoenix smeared with blond haze rises up

And gives you a sultry look

For you are handsome like “a militant swan”

Whose tongue is wading into my enemies’mouths.

Indications of flames you smile

Foresights which permit

Civilizations to melt into celestial bodies

Streets to pile in mobile corpses

And flowers to bleed the four corners of the air.

There is no bird curious to fornicate a wood

The old-timers are of no consequence.

To furbish their sobered call

They kneaded the tongues of a horizontal insomnia

They are priest-ridden dogs

The needle of death is their phallic symbol

And i should say

You have to go down the paper

Loaded with a growling anguish

To be hurled on the bedrooms of their visions.

But you come to me never with what they know.

For i see you a woodfire butterfly

Cleaving cascades of knowledge

A blazing running water

Whose depth is a shape of elsewhere

An epicurean domain engraved on the stone of flesh

With fingers comparable

To the interior convulsions of uneven sounds

Then i se you “touching only the heart of things”

And mossy vibration

As a limpid nightfall

Tiptoes in my wide-awake sleep.

You “hold the thread”

And i still see a curious childhood

Stronger than death

Weaving invisible sands.

Implanted in the shores of sleepless mirrors

Where the gesture of insurrections

Sings its reincarnation.

The poem is a being

And history – the hive of ironies – is in no hurry

To see that a windy city

Is reserved

For your springs.

The time before a rendez-vous with my bed

In an absent manner i remember things.

My chair is barking beneath me

A shoal of fun minds my wrist

And the high level hailstorm headlines my nobody.

I am a tiger of languages

Contemplating in a jungle of dictionaries.

Wandering in despair

I saw the blond girl whose nightie made of insomnia

Infringing the caper of the laughter

I can get nothing out of her gingerbread

Which is melted like a cirrus

In the nomad’s mouth where i generated

The experience of last night.

I was anguished

I moved to the abyss of thing

Hoping to knock the nation over.

I rushed into the street

And it was dark like a piece of ice.

I didn’t have a knife

But before you could say knife

I skinned time

Taking its flesh and bones

Making of them

A barbarian full of ardent shrieks

Having no equal in snaring a look

Nor in denting a passing smile.

I released him hovering on the mountains

Where dreams lurked everywhere

Ramifying the rampage of the i.

And then on returning

He could not find the way

And fell into deep discouragement

Smoking his last bun of nexus.

I retraced my steps

Went up many times

And not seeing how to get out

Ifell asleep

Instantly waking to him

Vomiting his own flesh

In the vessel of darkness

And he told me

    ” you will find here what you seek”

And disappeared.

The celebration day of my childhood

When the sun reclines along the shoulder of the night

When the people drink their remembrance 

And disappear in a faucet

When the outcry of an injured cloud honks the town

When solitude goes foundering between my hands

When the roar of the seer leaks out of my door

When the mouth swallows the word with a glass of haze

When the dream throws the ocean into disorder

When my laughter wanders in despair near your table

When eyesight swarms the void with labyrinth

When boredom falls to decay

And the moment rises up voyaging in a timeless region

I will plunge in there

Bringing you here 

And balancing my childhood on your absence

Like a bald light

On a distance of ice.


For ladislav guderna

Does the image eat 

Does the word drink

Does the brush itself think.

On the fingertips

A shadow, a river

And moisture capable of giving birth

To living things.

Make money not love

Says the motto

And the oil rises up

In a pasture of thoughts

Breaking through the crust

To blink on the untrodden.

The image does not eat

The word does not drink

The brush does not think

But they keep hungering for a man

Benighted on the road

In the core of his eyes

A reverence, a hair

And a rill of ire.


Homage to g. E. Von gruebaum

Here is my share of sand :

A purple soul

Born in the desert

Sheltered in a tent

They removed my foreskin

They showed me my totemic ancestor 

Picturesque vestiges without redemption

They taught me what is guts

What is ink

Granted me the scripture

Let me thieve through medieval nights

Holding  moon against  sun

Hitting on a solution.

When the day of reason broke

They brought me a camel 

– the prophet’s mount –

Sent me to work amidst the debris

Splintering mirrors of otherness

In the hope of being attuned to that very rhetorization

And before falling asleep

They advised me not to dream of perfection

It’s lagging behind

They told me

Decay is in the present

Tomorrow is also decay

Everything will fall apart

Dust is master of all 

All poems were written directly in english

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