Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Ben Younes Majen

A Migrant\'s notebook (part 3)

O Sidi-Yahya , sage of all sages,
Lend me a beautiful Houria, and a magic flute,
Wild with passion,
For tomorrow, I shall leave for the unknown
Where no one await me,
To the land where all bitter seasons vanish.


I bless the sea of flame.
This sea of carnage massacred and decapitated by the ranging
waves,
With their woeful chanting rites,
Revived my memory of that intoxicating time
Echo by echo


Orphaned since the age of three severe winters,
I was born to taste the humble pie of monotonous sufferance.
One taught me to dream,
But my nights were too ephemeral
Where foretelling stars clash with each other.


My moist voice , choking from time to time,
Grazes the empty fringe (of my throat)
Which irritates me to let go my sotto voce (suppressed)curses.
I am baptised by the foams of Mediterannean snow
And the shadows of virgin seasons.


I was taught to write the words and rhythm,
I was taught that the human pride is a voice
Tamed by the desire of succulent and poisonous feat.
My voice with ruptured flow of fluid
Which became agitated in the night
As a gush of blood,
As a relentlessly burning furnace
In the bright fires of destiny and of passion.

I was born in a labyrinth where tears and sweat clash into each
other
In a criss-crossing deluge.
I  was told that my voice was like a source
Inundated by the thirsty Apocalypse.
I was born , for certain, to liberate my voice,
My longings, and my emotion.
The elders of the village N’gadi
Gave me enlightening advice
To rid of the boredom and the lingering nightmare.


I left    my village without their blessings.
I left them my sac of bric-a-brac full of holes.
My only companion was a talisman with the engravings
Of the beggars of Souk-al Joutia .
I became disoriented like a lame lark.
I pursued all roads to hell and to Avatar.


A foreboding invaded me , crushing my heart
So long, the oppressive loneliness and hopelessness
Good morning, the folly of dizzy dreams.

A Migrant\'s notebook (part 3)

Ô Sidi-Yahya sage de tous les sages
prête-moi une belle Houria ivre de passion et une flûte
magique.
Car demain, je partirai vers l\'inconnu qui n\'attendrai.
Cette terre échappante de toutes les saisons amères.
Je bénis la mer en feu.
Cette mer massacrée et décapitée par les vagues enragées.
Avec leurs chants tristes
elles revivent mon temps enivré écho par écho.
Orphelin depuis l\'âge de trois hivers rigoureux.
Je suis né pour goûter la galette de la souffrance monotone.
On m\'a apprit à rêver.
Mais mes nuits étaient éphémères
oû les étoiles prémonitoires se broyaient.


Ma voix humide, étouffante quelque fois écorche le vide
frange
qui de temps en temps suscite les incantations évasives
.
Je suis baptisé par les écumes de nuages méditerranéens
et les ombres de saisons vièrges.


On m\'a apprit à écrire les mots et les rythmes.
On m\'a apprit que la gloire humaine est une voix apprivoisée
par le desir de la prouesse succulente et vénéneuse.
Ma voix cette saliva rupture qui grouille dans la nuit comme
un gouffre de sang, comme une fournaise brûlante sans cesse
dans les brasiers du destin et de la passion.


Je suis né dans un labyrinthe où les larmes et les sueurs se
trébuchaient en deluge transfilant
.
On m\'a dit que ma voix ressemble à une source inondée par
l\'apocalypse assoiffé.
Certes, je suis né pour libérer ma voix, ma vocation et mon
émoi.


Des vieux sages du village N\'gadi pulvérisent des paroles
pétillantes pour chasser l\'ennui et le cauchemar perdurant.
J\'ai  quitté mon  village  sans  mener avec  moi  leurs
bénédictions.
J\'ai laissé avec eux ma toison aux mille trous.
Mon seul compagnon un talisman gravé par les mendiants du
Souk-al-Joutiya.
Je suis devenu dépaysé comme une alouette éclopée.
J\'ai parcouru les chemins de l\'enfer et de l\'avatar.
Une image superstitieuse m\'envahis, m\'écrase.
Adieu solitude écrasante et sans espoir.
Bonjour la folie des rêves pamoisons.


Dans mon ivresse
j\'ai rencontré le bonheur en lambeaux.
Soleil-Vengeur
j\'accuse tes rayons écorchants.
Soleil-Dieu exhalte mon endurance âpre.
Close

A Migrant\'s notebook (part 3)

O Sidi-Yahya , sage of all sages,
Lend me a beautiful Houria, and a magic flute,
Wild with passion,
For tomorrow, I shall leave for the unknown
Where no one await me,
To the land where all bitter seasons vanish.


I bless the sea of flame.
This sea of carnage massacred and decapitated by the ranging
waves,
With their woeful chanting rites,
Revived my memory of that intoxicating time
Echo by echo


Orphaned since the age of three severe winters,
I was born to taste the humble pie of monotonous sufferance.
One taught me to dream,
But my nights were too ephemeral
Where foretelling stars clash with each other.


My moist voice , choking from time to time,
Grazes the empty fringe (of my throat)
Which irritates me to let go my sotto voce (suppressed)curses.
I am baptised by the foams of Mediterannean snow
And the shadows of virgin seasons.


I was taught to write the words and rhythm,
I was taught that the human pride is a voice
Tamed by the desire of succulent and poisonous feat.
My voice with ruptured flow of fluid
Which became agitated in the night
As a gush of blood,
As a relentlessly burning furnace
In the bright fires of destiny and of passion.

I was born in a labyrinth where tears and sweat clash into each
other
In a criss-crossing deluge.
I  was told that my voice was like a source
Inundated by the thirsty Apocalypse.
I was born , for certain, to liberate my voice,
My longings, and my emotion.
The elders of the village N’gadi
Gave me enlightening advice
To rid of the boredom and the lingering nightmare.


I left    my village without their blessings.
I left them my sac of bric-a-brac full of holes.
My only companion was a talisman with the engravings
Of the beggars of Souk-al Joutia .
I became disoriented like a lame lark.
I pursued all roads to hell and to Avatar.


A foreboding invaded me , crushing my heart
So long, the oppressive loneliness and hopelessness
Good morning, the folly of dizzy dreams.

A Migrant\'s notebook (part 3)

O Sidi-Yahya , sage of all sages,
Lend me a beautiful Houria, and a magic flute,
Wild with passion,
For tomorrow, I shall leave for the unknown
Where no one await me,
To the land where all bitter seasons vanish.


I bless the sea of flame.
This sea of carnage massacred and decapitated by the ranging
waves,
With their woeful chanting rites,
Revived my memory of that intoxicating time
Echo by echo


Orphaned since the age of three severe winters,
I was born to taste the humble pie of monotonous sufferance.
One taught me to dream,
But my nights were too ephemeral
Where foretelling stars clash with each other.


My moist voice , choking from time to time,
Grazes the empty fringe (of my throat)
Which irritates me to let go my sotto voce (suppressed)curses.
I am baptised by the foams of Mediterannean snow
And the shadows of virgin seasons.


I was taught to write the words and rhythm,
I was taught that the human pride is a voice
Tamed by the desire of succulent and poisonous feat.
My voice with ruptured flow of fluid
Which became agitated in the night
As a gush of blood,
As a relentlessly burning furnace
In the bright fires of destiny and of passion.

I was born in a labyrinth where tears and sweat clash into each
other
In a criss-crossing deluge.
I  was told that my voice was like a source
Inundated by the thirsty Apocalypse.
I was born , for certain, to liberate my voice,
My longings, and my emotion.
The elders of the village N’gadi
Gave me enlightening advice
To rid of the boredom and the lingering nightmare.


I left    my village without their blessings.
I left them my sac of bric-a-brac full of holes.
My only companion was a talisman with the engravings
Of the beggars of Souk-al Joutia .
I became disoriented like a lame lark.
I pursued all roads to hell and to Avatar.


A foreboding invaded me , crushing my heart
So long, the oppressive loneliness and hopelessness
Good morning, the folly of dizzy dreams.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Lira fonds
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère