The retirement book

The retirement book 


writtn by: Ali Al-Dimshawy 

Translation from Arabic by: Ali Al-Dimshawy 


The retirement poem  

As if it had never trembled recording a point in the walls of first seduction, now my damn pen is shaking Oh, my God!
Am I dying in the bed of the poem as cowards?
Like a priest giving his last confession I write:

The final words are the same as the beginning ones; I write to know that I'm alive and recite my poems to keep recognizing the road to myself; I am the beloved of myself in the poem, Lord of the sovereignty, domination dominant, prophet and expert.
I write as if I confess and admit as if writing now from the platform at the edge of the hole of silence I confess:

• I have not been true all along to my prayer, destroyed my heart with my own teeth and spread it with my hands amongst beautiful that were identified in my woman.
• I loved my family very much, I was a very normal person, 
• I have never finished what I started and always started endless tasks. 
• I was stubborn, patient and good until my death. 

-          My genetic defect was the unrest against pleasant things.
(I write to know I'm alive, I write on the rhythm of the feet of approaching death, or write to write.)
Appropriate titles for the preface of a retirement poem in which I say:
- Be the god of chaos, smashed the systems as you go.
So repeated after you: Wherever you are, take the road to the absurd.
I have ratified your words, poetry father, and I followed you faithfully hence I could not recognize you yourself at the end.
So I'll write my future poems with more unruly voices and insist on keeping my faults of pronunciation, you will believe my following poems and you'll be able to see extended and tangled like a tree, my nervous system, and be about to see my face on the role of the poem:
That's what an old man might say in a retirement poem.

In front of the great Nile you'll witness my last poem:
I polluted the river water and did not take to the other world where no one has returned, neither a feather nor a papyrus to my grave.
Sorry, because I listen to what you do not listen; I write what you do not realize.
Yes it is still what drives this old man groping the walls of temples with his ears with his eyes closed as if listening passionately wants to hear what is not said from the mouth of the stone in holiness as a doctor listening to the last breathing of his last patient, or as a professional loser with his growing beard under the photo of his first girlfriend.
But my heart never stops reminding Merritt, then back to my confessions:
So far, when a luscious pricks my amazement I cry: Merritt.
There is still movement in the corpse of the elderly; my genius still points at you Merritt.

Fragments of dramatic poetry 

We need three characters of the same age to play the role of the protagonist, in his childhood, his youth and his death.

1 - The Chalice

It had to find a partner after being betrayed by the bottle that exploded out of boredom and committed suicide by temper strong poisoning.
From that time the guy kept remembering his girl that he loved first and that he had to grab their first kiss like a confession from her when she intended to leave, it was therefore logic that the cup extended a hand to greet the boy's empty hand. 


2 - On another sunny day

I'll tell you about an old man who is sitting alone in the corner of the park crying for his lost Mary. 
(Eternal abandoned, the lonely from the start will be alone until the end) 
That's what the old man said in his notebook; perhaps put an elegy to his youth life while the cup is still young . 

3 - The hero dies 

As normal people die.

The Lord of the reincarnation 

Despite of the apparent recklessness of my writing lately, my life was sad and boring like the noise from the collision of train iron wheels against the heart of the traveller and the stranger, a voice that pushes to  madness.
Persist in betting on the pen and the letter to become the lord of reincarnation.

Now the poets applaud, while you feel ashamed, you take a step back and stare at the palms of your hands:
Have you broken, you two, again a protective mask? (Raises his voice) Oh traitors!(crying voice) Damn!
Applaud you and laugh hysterically. Now you must die, fool poet, you die just like your comrades.
Here you can hear the blow of the axe of maturity on your body, as you lean and withered you, you die, poet flower.
Are you the director of the movie of your life, sir? You're awesome

You hear the voice of singer Maguida Al-Rumi (If you wanted to escape could not fly or change your destination).

On the street 
 
Says a girl: the streets transfer the houses´ talk about the two lovers after dark, the girl says: doors’ wood broke and the stones of the houses were melted, even the asphalt of the streets, none endured the heavy secrecy.
All were melted under my bare feet and I flew. 

The lovers say that a female paradise was hovering around their as usual in the lunar nights when suddenly, a sun burned it.

Little of beer, lots of hash
.
Make you a witch or a bewitched, genius or a madman, a charlatan or a scientist who does not speak.
(Little of, lots of) Two opposite brothers uncover your truth in front of your eyes:

Congenital mad and biased, waiting to see where it tips, a double-edged sword you are injures wherever you touch ultimate in peace, ultimate in war, well born, Arab brother.

(Little of, lots of) another duality, you could put logic in the meeting of opposites, then, each one is dressed with the body of his enemy to get just one person who fights against himself /his most vicious enemy .

A person who rejects himself and by himself is rejected.

Once you read my poem will be able to stretch your hands in the mirror to kiss faces you have just recognised.

Vanity 

Sometimes I feel like being the most awesome creature, then, I start singing with my hoarse voice, crippled by a wave of vanity, but I get up again to continue the march of sublimity oddly raising my chin up ... like this
In a storm at sea you could see me from your position on the coast, with my blue shawl over a wave saying that you poor are shipwrecked!

I write about you because I write about myself ...
I wanted to see, I got blinded,
I wanted to hear, I got deafened,
whenever I want, I lose;
So I grew up with my desire like an arm that every time stretches, a mysterious jaw bites.
Every thing became an enemy of mine, so I am here before you and I throwing my curses with loudest voices.
Hebrew ate over our heads like in the Sura of (Yossof), intruders still eat our heads. Is this true?
I cast my mind to not get interrupted by a voice, I raise my voice to hear, I write about all things not to conclude a truce. Did not I tell you that I am the dominant of domination?

To where? 

What does the body of one man with a nation of women like you, poem?
We must destroy the wall that separates us.

My axe is broken; you help me so I can see you.
I hear your voice coming from inside and I take refuge in our old house at the end of the alley, sit like the ancient Egyptian Writer on the humidity of the basement of dust and listen to your feet going away while your coming from inside voice rising up.

Who can protect me from my madness? 

So I wrote my last poem like a knight alighted his life to fight death with his bare hands ...
I need a wail which is as long as the path from childhood to death. 

To where will I be travelling when the road has no end? To where will I be travelling whend the other end is a dam?