A personal card from an everlasting poetic memorandum

                                    (1)

When poetry muse visit me, it sits near my desk

 moving away my books, having coffee with me

 and chatting very much.

It is sometimes as heavy as summer

sometimes it is as light as guest

And other times it is as moody as the sword .

I sometimes could lose it

So I miss it when it does not visit me..

I ask about it searching for it in stations

 , airports, parks.

And then it finds me between commas and words.

                        (2)

I could then be called friendship poet.

And what I write and decorate to be called something.

Without rhythm, buttons nor collars.

It lacks, in my opinion, all neat criteria.

All of this does not upset me nor mind me.

I make poems alone in my laps.

I draw my raw materials of words in my experiments.

And I engineer them through my language.

I don't care if their news is as cold as the snow in winter.

Or as hot as a desert heart.

Or as colorless as water glass.

Or as bloody as a battle of bloods.

                        (3)

I don't like from music its noises.

Nor its waist vibration.

Neither it's harps flu.

But I like its flowers smell when its

Fragrance spreads,

Its winter rhythm when it's singing spreads.

And Tatar's swords melting when its tenderness exist.

                        (4)

I like music when

It invites me to have a walk with it.

It takes me to a remote cottage

away from my world, among the trees.

It sits with me over grass and over the green lands saying to me:

Look at the way the sparrows sing about the trees' branches.

Look to the calmness of nature here but there is no human being.

Look how the due drops dance over flowers, leaves.

                        (5)

I don't want from a friend more than

 being a friend.

I don't want him to carry my dullness's bags

 and to throw them into a river or into a trash container.

All I want from him is to understand

 my language, to listen to my wishes song

 and to see how light shines from them.

                        (6)

I may be a rebel sometimes

, to the extent that

I explode like explosives inside my poems.

But I am sometimes weak and other time hesitant

and never mentioned nervous but I don't forget my talent in poetry.

Because I don't let my childhood to be homeless in the streets of sadness.

I don't lose my personality criteria.

                        (7)

When the first sun of my life appeared.

I had no idea that there in my heart a spot

can take one quantity of love.

At then my poetry decided to wear a new suit

 to be decorated through spring strings.

My poetry wore a hat ornamented by

the colors of a lovely dusk.

It took me in front of a water area

 and it ordered me: move there

The weather at day was on vacation

 without introducing any apology

 for the people who came to enjoy it.

The weather went leaving in my disk the winds

, the clouds and rains.

At that time, I had neither boat to arrive

 nor one carriage with horses to drag.

My goal was that to reach the island

even if it needs to be reached by swimming.

I crossed the water and once

 I reached and my feet touched the sand

, the clouds vanished, the waves eased and darkness ended.

I saw an island which does not exist

 but in dreams and I saw a women stands in front of me saying …

I love you..

I love you...

I felt at that time that the waves of the sea

left and they became brides just like the planets and moon.

I felt that the sky turned into a ceiling

from which balloons, flowers drop.

I felt that all the land became one carpet color

 ornamented with lovely pictures, places and birds.

I felt as if I turned into an angle not a human

any more and that I live for the first time and I love.

                        (8)

I look into myself in people's mirrors

I see a picture of one person

Then I look into my self in my mirror.

I see two pictures of one person.

                        (9)

I don't believe in parties likes

 or in public conferences, or in regional prayers

 but I believe in one link

which is the everlasting friendship.

                        (10)

What kind of world in which we live

 as chickens surrounded by fences

, personal cards, blockades and walls.

In which our hand prints are kept our names are kept.

Our faces features are known whenever we go.

The birthdates is written to the as well as

 the death and marriage.

                        (11)

It occurs to me that

 I leave my father's tent one day ,

to travel away from it even if it was

 in fantasy , to escape a little from the busy questions

 where have you been?

With whom have you been?

Since when you are here?

How did you spend your day time?

How did you spend your night?

And to escape a little from my mother's questions

whom she fills me with among which,

Did you drink?

Did you succeed?

Did you study?

I am looking for a remote hotel which

does not ask me (will you be late tonight sir) ?

I am looking for a lover whom she will ask me

 when will be our dating tomorrow?

I am looking for a lonely street

which doesn't blame me when I walk over it.

I am looking for a happy homeland

which does not deprive me from my freedom criteria.

                        (12)

I did not imagine that my age train would go

 that fast in which the entire tickets one

 reserved forward with no back retreat.

With no station to be called the station of memories.

I am looking for a station to bring me back

 a little to my childhood, a station which can

 bring me back my innocence when I was young.

I asked all the passengers about the place

 of that station.

But I didn't find anybody who knew the

answer, because everybody of them aims at his goals.

                        (13)

I never dreamed of entering caves

or the composition columns puzzles,

 or the details of quantities of cement mixtures

 nor in holes in which the human feelings became very hard

why-how-when did the engineering formulas come from?

My dreams all flows into one river

led by feelings only to reach a romantic love island.

                        (14)

I don't want to try my poetry music

over a note of rhythm

just like the bright of prayers

do not shine from flames.

I agree to write my poems names

using my friends' name, sadness and joy.

Wheat tears ask me why I like

the west having its frenzy, mind, eyes

, science and art.

I answer that when a nation

 disown its stems , it does not

 find any enemy to fight so it fights

 it self then it does not deserve a spot of

 land even if the land is fed up with rubbish.

                        (15)

I don't want to compose a case or poems

 from my home land.

I don't want to wear politics as a winter

 coast or a wool hat.

Because homeland is bigger than me

 and than others.

To me it is enough to have an identity

under its umbrella.

                        (16)

I dream one morning

to wake up finding that pains

 have packed its bags and left from here.

To find that crying found mourning homes other ours.

To find shares are no more

directed to our breasts .

To find that fighting

becomes growing from our fields.

Unfortunately, our dreams are leaves of trees

 in autumn season, they fall by the winds.

                        (17)

I know that the poems which don't start

 or end without any verbal decorations do not live

 and become a history.

But I know that many alive creatures

die while they are alive and other dead creatures live while they are dead .

So I decided and chose to die inside

 the eyes and heart of the people who love me.