قراءة كتاب Eyeshine
تنويه: تعرض هنا نبذة من اول ١٠ صفحات فقط من الكتاب الالكتروني، لقراءة الكتاب كاملا اضغط على الزر “اشتر الآن"
اللغة: English
الصفحة رقم: 3
of
waves dashing up straight to the shallow's grave, makes
memory drawn, any record of the little parish's dead flimsy
in the topsy context of soil and undulant peat.
A greened isle stares past the feckless scene, past again an
aged church noticeboard that scrapes out traces of news
worthy of import to the wormy road.
Whitewash, the colour of the shackled crypts, casts upon
the church a pallor of distraught gray.
A goat is seen foraging between such marker stones.
The day seems to cut into the marble white detachment
of the sarcophagi with abrupt candor.
Yet, while the cove pokes like a walking stick, the sun &
earth conspire to reclaim this space as their rightful bread.
A huge vegetative urge to growth is witness to abundant
further life - life in whorls of bamboo shoot, naseberry
thatches & canebreak all garnished a short stride across the barrier gate.
[13]
PROSPECTUS
In salt flats,
idle pools
bunching off the ocean,
multi-legged crabs, worsted stalks -
sea crimson weed
weigh the panoply
to heighten my deepening fervour.
In the bedrock shanks
of spread tidal basins
clothed in spools of enveloping
brackish water,
a plethora teeming with aqua towns
and untold gadgetry exists -
replete with mimicry
including primeval
flotilla tanks
and broadsheets for spreading
their way of life.
[14]
idle pools
bunching off the ocean,
multi-legged crabs, worsted stalks -
sea crimson weed
weigh the panoply
to heighten my deepening fervour.
In the bedrock shanks
of spread tidal basins
clothed in spools of enveloping
brackish water,
a plethora teeming with aqua towns
and untold gadgetry exists -
replete with mimicry
including primeval
flotilla tanks
and broadsheets for spreading
their way of life.
[14]
GLADIATORS
No broken visor, emptied glove
abandoned cudgel, opened net
- only gathering spots on spreading sand.
Clang of cymbals
wrench of flesh,
death is a morsel
delectably met.
[15]
abandoned cudgel, opened net
- only gathering spots on spreading sand.
Clang of cymbals
wrench of flesh,
death is a morsel
delectably met.
[15]
OCEAN SEA
All that is eternal is circular.
- Aristotle
Cueta and Tetuan are outposts within the Arab psyche,
frail islets jutting their Islamic consciousness
into the infidel mind.
A mere eight miles separates the tip of North Africa
from Iberia's reclining form.
An Arab dhow sits off the port of Tangier
where the unsuspecting can lose more than priapic curiosity.
Arabia, from Ormuz to Sofala,
an empire of sabulous plenitude -
shiekdoms, oil rich fiefs, and
luxurious enervation.
Da Gama rounds the Bight of Africa, needles the Saracen eye.
Tutankhamen rests dolefully within the dunes
away from bone merchants until 1923 draws nigh.
Ptolemy errs and extends Africa to the Poles.
The noblest failure in antiquity rests in Zama
while Jesus toiled for our betterment at Galilee.
Richard dies besieging Acre.
Carnage occurred at Lepanto with attendant demise of the Turk.
Marco Polo ignores the Levant for the riches of a Khan.
The memory of El Alamein burnt away any vestige of Tobruk.
The Casbah is my twain that confirms East & West shall never meet.
The False Prophet is in abundance, notwithstanding
Western civilization's fierce resistance to his ideas.
Minarets, prayer rugs face Mecca five times daily while
opium on a mother's breast induces premature death in
unwanted infant girls.
The purdah is an eerie monologue between the feminine
form and purloined courage.
Mysticism juxtaposes carnal delight in the halls of the
Saladein's concubines.
Harems & the seraglios are the coveted date wine.
In Cape Bojador, there lurks a primeval instinct,
a nagging supposition all is not right with Araby.
The bath, the cloying sweetness of duplicity,
stirs amidst trenchant eyes.
Marmelukes are more than adventure book fiction
in the silent quarters.
The swirling dust, the prohibition of alcoholic drink,
are dervishes in the hadji's brain.
Everywhere, the ragged people cluster,
almsgiving becomes a prayer in the saline night.
Any but the Moslem faith caught in the pilgrimmage
to Mecca meet swift death.
The shopfronts with their bronzed clatter,
decantered gold, near haggling that becomes
the economics of plea bargaining, wits
desire against pressing need.
Debarking from Algeciras, facing the sublime North African
desert as her colours coil, pitch forward amongst the hills,
squares this continent's personality against the Occident.
Europe found other continents soft butter to her trenchant blade.
Here, she must consider herself matched with the heady dictates of survival.
[16]
- Aristotle
Cueta and Tetuan are outposts within the Arab psyche,
frail islets jutting their Islamic consciousness
into the infidel mind.
A mere eight miles separates the tip of North Africa
from Iberia's reclining form.
An Arab dhow sits off the port of Tangier
where the unsuspecting can lose more than priapic curiosity.
Arabia, from Ormuz to Sofala,
an empire of sabulous plenitude -
shiekdoms, oil rich fiefs, and
luxurious enervation.
Da Gama rounds the Bight of Africa, needles the Saracen eye.
Tutankhamen rests dolefully within the dunes
away from bone merchants until 1923 draws nigh.
Ptolemy errs and extends Africa to the Poles.
The noblest failure in antiquity rests in Zama
while Jesus toiled for our betterment at Galilee.
Richard dies besieging Acre.
Carnage occurred at Lepanto with attendant demise of the Turk.
Marco Polo ignores the Levant for the riches of a Khan.
The memory of El Alamein burnt away any vestige of Tobruk.
The Casbah is my twain that confirms East & West shall never meet.
The False Prophet is in abundance, notwithstanding
Western civilization's fierce resistance to his ideas.
Minarets, prayer rugs face Mecca five times daily while
opium on a mother's breast induces premature death in
unwanted infant girls.
The purdah is an eerie monologue between the feminine
form and purloined courage.
Mysticism juxtaposes carnal delight in the halls of the
Saladein's concubines.
Harems & the seraglios are the coveted date wine.
In Cape Bojador, there lurks a primeval instinct,
a nagging supposition all is not right with Araby.
The bath, the cloying sweetness of duplicity,
stirs amidst trenchant eyes.
Marmelukes are more than adventure book fiction
in the silent quarters.
The swirling dust, the prohibition of alcoholic drink,
are dervishes in the hadji's brain.
Everywhere, the ragged people cluster,
almsgiving becomes a prayer in the saline night.
Any but the Moslem faith caught in the pilgrimmage
to Mecca meet swift death.
The shopfronts with their bronzed clatter,
decantered gold, near haggling that becomes
the economics of plea bargaining, wits
desire against pressing need.
Debarking from Algeciras, facing the sublime North African
desert as her colours coil, pitch forward amongst the hills,
squares this continent's personality against the Occident.
Europe found other continents soft butter to her trenchant blade.
Here, she must consider herself matched with the heady dictates of survival.
[16]
COLD PASSION
Some dead undid undid their bushy jaws,
and bags of blood let out their flies...
Dylan Thomas
The land is barren
wears straw wisps
as an unkempt man
might razor stubble.
The land is dry, a faded yellow
in its barrenness.
A sky broods from afar,
a stalactite sun accounts merely a jot
above that thin road into despair.
Grass lies everywhere dead,
faded tongues above an
earth afflicted with scleroderma,
deadliest of skin disturbances,
forerunner of deeper pestilence.
An erasing wind whips the fields
further into bereavement;
turns tiny bits of chaff to pursue themselves
in a mad St. Vitus dance
of cold passion.
Starry night. With halos
about the moon, pale and languid, big as crimson,
far as wind driven flax.
The orange pallor, pale
with liquid swoon and ability
to churn itself about the
night sky or flood in endless
beams our poorer spectacle below.
[19]
and bags of blood let out their flies...
Dylan Thomas
The land is barren
wears straw wisps
as an unkempt man
might razor stubble.
The land is dry, a faded yellow
in its barrenness.
A sky broods from afar,
a stalactite sun accounts merely a jot
above that thin road into despair.
Grass lies everywhere dead,
faded tongues above an
earth afflicted with scleroderma,
deadliest of skin disturbances,
forerunner of deeper pestilence.
An erasing wind whips the fields
further into bereavement;
turns tiny bits of chaff to pursue themselves
in a mad St. Vitus dance
of cold passion.
Starry night. With halos
about the moon, pale and languid, big as crimson,
far as wind driven flax.
The orange pallor, pale
with liquid swoon and ability
to churn itself about the
night sky or flood in endless
beams our poorer spectacle below.
[19]
FOR TOM THOMSON
I have thrust my fists
up to ice in the
galactic mire of lake,
lured my minnow wriggler
eyes as bait to ensnare
inroads, lake bed wreaths,
across the windchill spine of
brooding heart.
I am on the essence of the North
where latitudes of cold spontaneity
remind me the nameless lakes
part not easily with their secrets.
A man's bones go easily to rot
in the frigid perspiration
called primeval ooze,
precambrian sweat,
the tertiary stage syphilitic crawl
of advancing ice.
All those terms your detractors, analyzers,
devotees coin to define you: the Boreal,
taiga, subarctic steppes, white hell,
recoil under the onslaught, the lustrate message straining
up alkaline clear.
Water is your blood.
A vast hoarding, most of this
planet's fresh drink
is flushed through your
bowels, with kidneys
separating the renic
qualities as snow and
sleet, the night side of
your character.
Tom, son of Thomson fame,
his little canoe immeshed
as scrubbed floorboards now,
a giant winnowing such scattered
firewood over
up to ice in the
galactic mire of lake,
lured my minnow wriggler
eyes as bait to ensnare
inroads, lake bed wreaths,
across the windchill spine of
brooding heart.
I am on the essence of the North
where latitudes of cold spontaneity
remind me the nameless lakes
part not easily with their secrets.
A man's bones go easily to rot
in the frigid perspiration
called primeval ooze,
precambrian sweat,
the tertiary stage syphilitic crawl
of advancing ice.
All those terms your detractors, analyzers,
devotees coin to define you: the Boreal,
taiga, subarctic steppes, white hell,
recoil under the onslaught, the lustrate message straining
up alkaline clear.
Water is your blood.
A vast hoarding, most of this
planet's fresh drink
is flushed through your
bowels, with kidneys
separating the renic
qualities as snow and
sleet, the night side of
your character.
Tom, son of Thomson fame,
his little canoe immeshed
as scrubbed floorboards now,
a giant winnowing such scattered
firewood over