فـَـيــَا رب ِّ ســَّــو ِّ الحبَّ بينى و بينها ~~~ يكون ُ كـَـفـَافـاً لا عـَلـَـى َّ ولا لـِـي َفما طلع َ النجم ُ الذى يـُهتدَى به ِ ~~~~ ولا الصبح ُ إلاّ هـَيـَّجا ذكرها لـِــى َ

فما أُشــرِف ُ الأبقاع َ إلاّ صبابة َ ~~~ ولا أُنـشــِـدُ الأشعار إلاّ تداويــاو قدْ يجمع ُ الله ُ الشــتــيــتـيْــن ِ بعدما ~~~ يظـُـنـّـان كُلّ الظن ِّ أن ْ لا تلاقــِــيـَا

যাত্রাভঙ্গহাত বাড়িয়ে ছুঁইনা তোকেমন বাড়িয়ে ছুঁই,দুইকে আমি এক করিনাএককে করি দুই ।নায়ের মাঝে বসব বটে , না এর মাঝে শোব ;হাত দিয়ে তো ছোবনা মুখ দুঃখ দিয়ে ছোব ।তুই কেমন করে যাবি ?

Healthy ChoicesHold stillKeep quiet.Get a degree to learn how to talksaying nothing.Catch a good manby being demure.the one your mother chooses.Let him climb youwhenever his urge,amidst headachesand menstrual achesand screaming infants.And when he bidsquick, turn over.Hold still.Make your tonguea slab of cementa white stone etchedwith your name.Kill your stories with knivesand knitting needlesand Clorox bleach.Hide in your mysteriousnessby saying nothing.Starch your thoughtswith ironed shirts.Tie your angerwith a knot inyour throatand when he comeswithout concernswallow it.Hold still.Keep desirehopeless as iceand sleepless nightsand painful as pinched eyelid.Keep your fingersfrom the razor,keep your longingto severhis condescensionsafely in your douchbag.Turn the bladeagainst yourself.Don't twitchas your slashed wristsstain your bathroom tiles.Disinfect with Pine Sol.Hold still. Keep quiet.Keep tight your lips,keep dead your dreams,keep cold your heart.Keep quiet.And he will shoutpraisesto yourperfection.

روح من درجهت تازه ی اشیا جاری است.روح من کم سال است.روح من گاهی از شوق سرفه اش میگیرد.روح من بیکار است:قطره های باران را،درز آجرها را،میشمارد.روح من گاهی مثل یک سنگ سر راه،حقیقت دارد

Перегортаю записник,Коли нестає сил.Люди зо зброєю:— Вірші можна писати олівцем,На старих ґазетах, кривавих сорочках,Вугликом на бетонній стіні,В окопах,Коли на тебе плюють І стають чоботами…

I keep my kindness in my eyes Gently folded around my iris Like a velvety, brown blanket That warms my vision I keep my shyness in my hair Tucked away into a ponytail Looking for a chance to escape On a few loose strands in the air I keep my anger on my lips Just waiting to unleash into the world But trust me; it’s never in my heart It evaporates into words I keep my dignity upon my chin Like a torch held up high For those who have betrayed me Radiating a silent, strong message I keep my gratitude in my smileA glistening waterfall in the sun Gently splashing at that personWho made me happy for some reason I keep my sensitivity in my hands Reaching out for your wet cheek Holding you, with all the love The love I want to share, and feel I keep my passion in my writing My words breathing like fire Screeching against an endless road As I continue to be inspired I keep my simplicity in my soul Spread over me like a clear sky Reflecting all that I am And all that’s ever passed me by And I hope you will look Beyond my ordinary faceMy simple, tied hairMy ordinary tastes And I hope you will see me From everyone...apart As I keep my beauty in my heart.

I is for immortality, which for some poets is a necessary compensation. Presumably miserable in this life, they will be remembered when the rest of us are long forgotten. None of them asks about the quality of that remembrance--what it will be like to crouch in the dim hallways of somebody's mind until the moment of recollection occurs, or to be lifted off suddenly and forever into the pastures of obscurity. Most poets know better than to concern themselves with such things. They know the chances are better than good that their poems will die when they do and never be heard of again, that they'll be replaced by poems sporting a new look in a language more current. They also know that even if individual poems die, though in some cases slowly, poetry will continue: that its subjects, it constant themes, are less liable to change than fashions in language, and that this is where an alternate, less lustrous immortality might be. We all know that a poem can influence other poems, remain alive in them, just as previous poems are alive in it. Could we not say, therefore, that individual poems succeed most by encouraging revisions of themselves and inducing their own erasure? Yes, but is this immortality, or simply a purposeful way of being dead?

Ah güzel Ahmet abim benim İnsan yaşadığı yere benzer O yerin suyuna, o yerin toprağına benzer Suyunda yüzen balığa Toprağını iten çiçeğe Dağlarının, tepelerinin dumanlı eğimine Konyanın beyaz Antebin kırmızı düzlüğüne benzer Göğüne benzer ki gözyaşları mavidir Denize benzer ki dalgalıdır bakışları Evlerine, sokaklarına, köşebaşlarına Öylesine benzer ki Ve avlularına (Bir kuyu halkasıyla sıkıştırılmıştır kalbi) Ve sözlerine (Yani bir cep aynası alım-satımına belki) Ve bir gün birinin adres sormasına benzer Sorarken sorarken üzünçlü bir görüntüsüne Camcının cam kesmesine, dülgerin rende tutmasına Öyle bir cıgara yakımına, birinin gazoz açmasına Minibüslerine, gecekondularına Hasretine, yalanına benzerAnısı işsizliktirAcısı bilincidirBıçağı gözyaşlarıdır kurumakta olanGülemiyorsun ya, gülmekBir halk gülüyorsa gülmektirNe kadar benziyoruz Türkiye'ye Ahmet Abi.

I had let it all grow. I had supposed It was all OK. Your lifeWas a liner I voyaged in.Costly education had fitted you out.Financiers and committees and consultantsEffaced themselves in the gleam of your finish.You trembled with the new life of those engines.That first morning,Before your first class at College, you sat thereSipping coffee. Now I know, as I did not,What eyes waited at the back of the classTo check your first professional performanceAgainst their expectations. What assessorsWaited to see you justify the costAnd redeem their gamble. What a furnaceOf eyes waited to prove your metal. I watchedThe strange dummy stiffness, the misery,Of your blue flannel suit, its straitjacket, uglyHalf-approximation to your ideaOf the properties you hoped to ease into,And your horror in it. And the tannedAlmost green undertinge of your faceShrunk to its wick, your scar lumpish, your plaitedHead pathetically tiny.You waited,Knowing yourself helpless in the tweezersOf the life that judges you, and I sawThe flayed nerve, the unhealable face-woundWhich was all you had for courage.I saw that what you gripped, as you sipped,Were terrors that killed you once already.Now I see, I saw, sitting, the lonelyGirl who was going to die.That blue suit.A mad, execution uniform,Survived your sentence. But then I sat, stilled,Unable to fathom what stilled youAs I looked at you, as I am stilledPermanently now, permanentlyBending so briefly at your open coffin.

عن الصمود ’’لو يذكرُ الزيتون غارسَهُلصار الزيت دمعا !يا حكمة الأجدادلو من لحمنا نعطيك درعا !لكن سهل الريح ,لا يعطي عبيد الريح زرعا !إنّا سنقلع بالرموشالشوكَ والأحزانَ... قلعا !وإلام نحمل عارنا وصليبنا!والكونُ يسعى...سنظل في الزيتون خُضرتَه’وحولَ الأرضِ درعا

روح طائر ( )بي رغبة الإفضاء ِ ..,فاسكن ْ قليلا ً ..,ثم غادر ْ .. ,أوكلما سددت ُ وقتي باتجاهك َ ..تنتحي صوب السرائر ْ ..إني وحيدك َ .. ,والمدى بقع ٌ تعاقر ُ بؤسها .. ,والظل ُ عاقر ْ .., إني وحيدك َ ..,والكتابة ُ بيننا عمر ٌ من التضييع ِ حائر ْ ..,إني وحيدك َ ..,يا قصيا ً في القصي َّ ..,وساكنا ً في روح ِ طائر ْ ..

POD RALOMRalo tvog blagog čelicnog pogledaizbrazdalo je moje srcei iz te zemlje preoranecvet rastanka je zaridaoDanasu istom graduu kome smo se rastalijedino ja vidim tvoju statuuna trgu IzgubljenjaHiljade dana vec je prošlood dana kada smo se poslednji put ljubilinekad se gledam u ogledalonemajući hrabrosti da se obrijemI to uvek padne ponedeljkomponedeljkom kad su berbernice zatvorenei onda se dosađujemI onda otvaram prozorzovem tei ti si tusa zlatnim brijačem i srebrnom četkomu paklenoj kadi tvog poslednjeg ljubavnikasa četrdeset konja od groma i vetraI letim tii brijem se kako se nijedan princ nije obrijaoi kupam se sa sto pedeset na satkako se niko na svetusem onih kojima se tako nešto već desilookupao nijeNe pitam te čak ni kamo idemone zato što me ne zanimaveć zato što znamda ni ti sama ne znašI kao što ti to umeš postavljaš mi pitalicete kada je rođena smrtte kada će život konačno umretionda zašto se smejemi zašto smo se ono rastaliZa volanom je čovek plemenita rodaa ni on ne znako mu je sve u kolimaI ja onako još nasapunjanih rukuzatvaram mu očiUU uu! pogodi ko jeI kola tako polete u stranu da...Ali u zidini zime uvek će postojati otvorkroz koji će se moći videti ono najlepše letoSmotana gvožđurija prelivena krvljueksplozija radostiA da ih i ne zovešsrećne uspomene javljaju se tu sami vraćaju se na svoja mesta kraj neugašene vatreVreme ne zna koje je dobadoba ne zna koje je vremeJednoga dana talas toploteoboje nas je zahvatiomodrica srećekoja se više ne da izbrisati.

সে যখন বিদায় নিয়ে গেল,তখন নবমীর চাঁদ অস্তাচলে যায় গভীর রাতি নিঝুম চারি দিক,আকাশেতে তারা অনিমিখ,ধরণী নীরবে ঘুমায় ।হাত দুটি তার ধরে দুই হাতেমুখের পানে চেয়ে সে রহিল ,কাননে বকুল তরুতলেএকটিও সে কথা না কহিল ।অধরে প্রাণের মলিন ছায়া ,চোখের জলে মলিন চাঁদের আলো ,যাবার বেলা দুটি কথা বলেবনপথ দিয়ে সে চলে গেল ।

আজিকে চাঁদ উঠবে প্রথম রাতেনদীর পারে নারিকেলের বনে,দেবালয়ের বিজন আঙিনাতেপড়বে আলো গাছের ছায়া-সনে ।দখিন-হাওয়া উঠবে হঠাত্‍ বেগে,আসবে জোয়ার সঙ্গে তারি ছুটে-বাঁধা তরী টেউয়ের দোলা লেগেঘাটের পরে মরবে মাথা কুটে ।জোয়ার যখন মিশিয়ে যাবে কূলে,থমথমিয়ে আসবে যখন জল,বাতাস যখন পড়বে ঢুলে ঢুলে,চন্দ্র যখন নামবে অস্তাচল,শিথিল তনু তোমার ছোঁওয়া ঘুমেচরণতলে পড়বে লুটে তবে ।বসে আছি শয়ন পাতি ভূমে,তোমার এবার সময় হবে কবে ?