Poetryzine magazine presents the selected poems by the Saudi poet Raed Anis Al-Jishi
Too Young to be Drunk
I draw an “X” on my hand
to say: I will not drink
from the liquor of the dream;
I will not partake in the diversion of drugs;
I drink no milk with the meat of lust
or sip cold tea with lemon.
As a civilian
I enjoy the music of cawing,
condensed in the click of glass.
I used to call them the wings of the devil.
I don't trust in a trimmed scale,
constricting like a tomb
hidden by a cinematic crow,
its beak made from glass,
its tongue a cold corpse --
Maybe if I borrow more darkness;
maybe if I shatter the source of light in the mirrors of Earth,
maybe if I lash his back with the sun
as hard as a star could practice
its freedom of the press,
I may see him in a face
that won't swindle my thirst.
How many howling dogs should die?
And how many clowns should I heed
when I cross the nonsensical pasture?
Clowns are the wisest and the cruelest.
They laugh at our faces’ reflections
and our bashful cries of childish joy.
They tell themselves:
How petty you are!
Petty and tame like circus dogs...
…
The Body
With eyes half-closed
and a headache that won't be purged
by aspirin's priests,
which I eject from my body --
My body that I don't like so much,
but I don’t mock it as it should be mocked.
Or love it as it should be loved.
I never sip drowsiness all at once,
didn’t think of seeking it
from the shepherds' Sheikhs.
And I didn't learn the rules of love
before falling asleep.
I used to feel bored by Rumi’s speeches,
and I like to think of death as a mistress.
A mistress won’t repeat:
Must, must, must.
A mistress won’t say:
Follow me,
oh sheep of the Lord,
to the grassy hillock I''ll show you.
A mistress doesn't love
inadvertently or negligently.
A mistress wont swing like a gallows
nor wrap around like a snake
when she pursues you
through punctuation marks,
the mistress you chose to name
another name
like the detritus of a stray spider --
Do I say “the mistress” a lot?
My body is in pain,
and I don’t take care of myself.
My eyes can’t adjust to the darkness.
I don’t care about your answer.
You are suffocated like another beat
in a theatrical rhythm.
There is no genetic mutation rising
in the twilight of the trail.
Only the mistress
is spinning surreptitiously
the carpet for marching.
…
Lust
I keep lust in the flames of my heart,
but its fragrance strips the secrets
of the nebula's pulse.
The fragrance is the language
of the stolen senses in the cave.
It doesn't show its self-celebration
even to its owner – the host.
She tells him to cheer up
or be more humble or angry.
And anger,
it deludes him with his heroism
and superiority when he feels it.
The perfect wetness for a cat's nose
doesn't suit the repetition
of your dry cheeks.
The smell is its silent language
and our luminous lust,
and we are dependents,
nothing but dependents,
on the ether.
…
Comments