30th June 2014
Look at these people
Laughing at meeting
Crying for loss
Shouting for money
Smiling for children
Giving to the poor and the blind
Stay just one more minute
And you’ll see 10 billion souls
Coming in and out of the station
With their own histories
Their fights, their occupations
Their colonizations, their monarchies
Their flags blowing lonely
Signifying something that does not give or take
And their ancestors
Heavily placed on their shoulders
Their tanned skins under the R’zza or
The New York Yankees
Imagine for their families and their friends
Their good natures and bad natures
The food they need to eat
The drink they need to drink
The shoe cleaner will look only at your shoes
An – 8 – year – old will ask for a dirham
Tell him to come back later
And he will definitely come back
For a dirham or for a quarter
And for that small green coin
Or perhaps for the gesture
He will finally smile like an-8-year-old should
But he will look into your eyes with his hands placed on his heart
You will see how he is already too much of a grown up
His ancestors and his country
Already glued to his feet
That march 50 km a day in a less than 1000 mete square
Perhaps he will dream of travelling himself when he gets older
Perhaps such dream is vain and a luxury
That does not exist in the minds
So filled with petrol and horns
Perhaps the passing happenings of everyday life are enough
But then someone might come up to him oneday and say
“You are a smart boy. You look good. You know things. You should get out of here. You should see the world and see life. Live life while you live.”
And if the voice comes from both outside and inside
Perhaps he will go – just pack up and go
Into the world of terror and confusion
World of love and sadness
World of war and silence
World of tears and violence
World that he knew too well
World that he already learnt
When he was 8 years old
Cleaning shoes at the Gare Routier
(written at the Mahatta, Inzegane 2014.06.22)
Have you ever walked alone on a grey day in some village
And watched how the long evening soon become the past ?
How the small brief wind touches our shoulders
Full of question marks.
I make a hat out of these question marks
Question marks without questions.
You may wear it much later in the evening
When there is no reason to use
Body gestures and presumptions that can take us only to the river
But why is it that I say black and you look at the black sheep ?
Why is it that I say white and you think of purity ?
What have you done to me two years ago ?
What a strange disease you have passed it to me,
Why am I allowed to love everything that breathes ?
It is a morning’s work
That the moon has started.
It must be carried on
Finished by noon.
Oh ! But my poor poor soul !
You and your colourful thoughts
The thoughts in me like a rainbow in hell.
Better float on the ocean
Than to walk on the fragments.
Then, here comes a shiny boy
Mischiveous smiles and wild imaginations.
I wanna play hide & seek with you.
But he frowns at my smiles.
Smiles of fragile minds
Frowns of fragile minds
How we read the same book
But must live differently.
Like the angry poem I wrote last night
About the girl looking for me in a mountain of sunsets
But what is a language if not a shadow?
What is ‘I’ if not a benefit to ‘you’ ?
Come out of the cave of seriousness,
For it will always be there no matter what.
And do not let what I say to you be forgotten
Like a broken leaf blowing helplessly in apocalyptic storms.
Remember the times of conflicts and wasted sentiments.
I know it hurts growing up:
It hurts to let go of dead poets,
It hurts to come out of the prison
Of your mothers and fathers,
It hurts to hug the one in front of you,
It hurts to express your hatefulness,
It hurts me when she throws at me
The can full of yellow left-over paint.
It hurts her when I throw some blues at her.
Tomorrow she might bring me a camera to hear and a recorder to see
And that’s better for all.
Tomorrow I will be on a different train
To find other brothers and sisters.
Sometime in these doggy dreams of snow
In fields of blossomed flowers,
A chamaleon in silence, glued,
One of the roads must be taken
One of the instruments must be played.
The page of the book that cannot be turned.
I am sorry.
I am sorry.
Now look how selfish are the lovers,
Deciding to love only each other
Promising the stars
Making a pact with the heaven.
What is in between them?
A /, a , or a ! ?
Even the subtlest sand won’t able to go
In between their souls,
Firmer than a self
Firmer than the master with food
Firmer than the old man’s tears from half-closed eyes.
Perhaps they were born in a wrong place
Perhaps they were to born in a different place
Perhaps I was born in a wrong time.
But the world is round,
And so are the dimensions
We try hard to make our thoughts square
That are naturally round.
For we are part of nature and nature is round.
We can be in the same place but in different times
Or, in the same time but in different places.
Out in the forest of paranoia and silence,
Crying the tears of yesterday,
Taking an ideal travel in memory,
The telephone rings
« Girl, you gotta paint some heavenly landscape of your own imagination ! »
I am glad.
Thank you partner in crime
Thank you girl with a double bed
Thank you teacher of plants and stars
Thank you sculptor in rice fields
Thank you child of rational mind
Thank you painful acrobat
Thank you jazz enthusiast
Thank you endeavouring merchant
Thank you idle thinker
Thank you poetic dog
Thank you book keeper
Thank you sensitive lady of the house
Thank you the forgottten souls
A goodbye in future tense.
The guitar is more tuned. I will never jam with you but I will still listen to you play your blues.
- The Grateful Dead
box of rain
- Buena Vista Social Club
- Bob Dylan
you belong to me
- The Smiths
there is a light that never goes out
flowers in the window
- David Bowie
(Nina Simone) wild is the wind
- Jose Feliciano
The sun is different in Morocco. I have not realised that before. Hard for someone like me, someone in-between. There was a mandatory paper at school; we had to fill in our parents’ occupations. I remember saying that I want to become a painter when I grow up when I was only 10. I am/have 30 years (old/young) now and he is taking his exams. I sit over the black coffee and ponder about life. I feel my destiny knocking at the door. I do not see his destiny. His whys and whats I must know before leaving. I try to turn the wheels of destiny and fails. It’s only natural. Where to go, when to go and why to go. I support those who are good. There are over 100 men in the cafe watching football and I am the only woman. Or, 100 women and only one man. This. Football. A coffee. A small talk. Sun sets and Sun rises. The best thing I have ever done in my life and yet I have changed. It is not anymore. It was. Sometimes I wake up in panics because I’ve met someone in my dream and haven’t given him/her the right ‘advice’ But now that I am woken up I can’t go back to my dream and I can never meet this person again. Just hope this person is wise and will not have listened to me. Just hope that I haven’t screwed up someone’s life in my dream. The sun scratches my skin gently, before burning it. I learn something though. Imagination is morality. Exams are over finally. But what about the results? (06.08-06.16)