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يا حزين يا قـُـمـقـُم تحت بحر الضياع حزين أنا زيـَّك و إيه مستطاع ؟! الحزن ما بقالهوش جلال يا جدع ! الحزن زي البرد ... زي الصداع عجبي !!!! ↗
There is such a thing as the poetry of a mistake, and when you say, "Mistakes were made," you deprive an action of its poetry, and you sound like a weasel. ↗
I will meet you on the nape of your neck one day, on the surface of intention, word becoming act. We will breathe into each other the high mountain tales, where the snows come from, where the waters begin.” -In the yellow time of pollen ↗
أنا الذي مشيت أدوَّر باشتياق و حنين ... على مصر ، و المشي خَدني من سنين لسنين لحد ما سنيـنهـا و سنـيني بـَقـُم واحد و عاصرتها يوم بــِـيـوم ، لم فاتني يوم واحد و حضرت شاهد عيان مَوْلـِد و موت ملايين ما زعلت من كلمة قـَدّ .....: " البـَركة في الجايين " ! مين هم دول يا جدع .. ما توحد الواحد ، البركة فينا و في السامعين بالواحد أنا قلتها بنرفزة ..، من غيرة الواحد على اسم مصر . ↗
I thought you said that after this many years nothing should embarrass him?" Leigh said with gentle amusement. Lucian grunted. "I guess he's more sensitive than I thought." "I am NOT sensitive," Cale snapped, irritated by the very suggestion. "It's probably his mother's fault," Lucian said, ignoring him. "Martine named him after Caliope, the muse of poetry. Between that and his father dying when he was only fifty, he's probably suffered under Martine's namby-pamby influence. ↗
أما العمل الأخطر فهو أن تحضر مهرجانًا شعريًّا يؤمّه هذا الطّراز من الشّعراء، عامّة هناك نوعان من الشّعر حاليًّا... شعر (أتدحرج عبر الطّرقات الشّتويّة... تختفي أزمنة اللّاجدوى...) [...] النّوع الثّاني من الشّعر السّائد حاليًّا هو (مات الّذي قد كان نبراسًا... من بعده ساد الأسى النّاسا)... سوف تسمع الكثير جدًّا من هذا الكلام حتّى ينفجر رأسك، ثمّ يظهر ناقد يمطّ شفته السّفلى في قرف ويتكلّم عن: "البنية الإبداعيّة الكوزموبوليتانيّة في إرهاصات ما بعد الحداثة. هذه هي الممارسة المنهجيّة القوليّة الّقديّة تشكف عن نفسها داخل الطّرح البنيويّ". ↗
তবু তোমাকে ভালোবেসে মুহূর্তের মধ্যে ফিরে এসে বুঝেছি অকূলে জেগে রয় ঘড়ির সময়ে আর মহাকালে যেখানেই রাখি এ হৃদয় । ↗
I'm nobody! Who are you? Are you nobody, too? Then there's a pair of us -- don't tell! They'd banish us, you know. How dreary to be somebody! How public, like a frog To tell your name the livelong day To an admiring bog! ↗
Boast of Quietness" Writings of light assault the darkness, more prodigious than meteors. The tall unknowable city takes over the countryside. Sure of my life and death, I observe the ambitious and would like to understand them. Their day is greedy as a lariat in the air. Their night is a rest from the rage within steel, quick to attack. They speak of humanity. My humanity is in feeling we are all voices of that same poverty. They speak of homeland. My homeland is the rhythm of a guitar, a few portraits, an old sword, the willow grove's visible prayer as evening falls. Time is living me. More silent than my shadow, I pass through the loftily covetous multitude. They are indispensable, singular, worthy of tomorrow. My name is someone and anyone. I walk slowly, like one who comes from so far away he doesn't expect to arrive ↗
