Fareed Ghanem
Fareed Ghanem Poems
Along the road to an old city, within the wrinkles of mountains hanged by their heads, spiders are still spreading their webs at caves' doors.
Tales come out off embers, waiting for those who pass by. Canes which are forgetful of their green ancestors are cast on shoulders. Boys just perfected the ‘k' letter go out loitering at pavements stretching from babyhood to school desks. Men go out to war, which kills but not killed, and come back faceless. Women bathe in honeyed mirrors, by bees armed with hormones.
But inside, in the caves' bellies, time quits; centuries elapse in one gleam between two blinks; history of life and death is written in one lacking line. Flock of bats hatch nightmares, dropping from ceilings, in tone with echoes of armies' boots. A new light trembles over pure threads, whereat death dresses absolute white in a camouflage theater. Things lose their features at the collision of white with black, while colorful wishes climb up on stairs of frustration.
Yet, the old city still changes its roads, its people, flowers, voice, takes off its serpent skin, so only stones stay there, silently bleeding out their dust.
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(1)
If I were a lover, I would say:
Darkness is the drops of kohl
On my arid world,
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The Best Poem Of Fareed Ghanem
On Poetry
On Poetry//
By: Fareed Ghanem
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(1)
Poetry is holding eternity by its front curl, each time it passes through a transitory flicker.
It is seeing all winters in just a refraction of a water drop.
It is your face blushing whenever a firefly flames its lantern at a cave.
(2)
Poetry is filling a basket with lightening, to be kept for the darkness of your eyes.
It is seeing hurricanes inside yourself, each time a scarf flutters on a nymph's waist at the long way between the unreachable desire and your sighs.
It is your mirror flying through skies of another tale, each time you look at you in her.
It is a bed of peppermints greening on your lips, and columns of palm trees standing up on slopes of your eyelids.
(3)
Poetry is combing your hair by winds, and perfuming your face by a narcissus flower hanged from a book.
It is you becoming a potter kneading your own raw body with clay, each morning, by your own palms.
It is thee assembling of spaces all into a needle's hole.
It is the clashing of stars in an old tale, inside the peeling of an apple.
It is the travels of place in time, at highways between your eyelashes.
(4)
Poetry is interweaving your cigarette smoke into a cloud traveling to the end of time, over sliding words.
It is to cleave a river by the R letter, so you can re-pass it twice.
It is trees planted in your chest fructifying birds which migrate from yourself to you.
It is water clusters hanging down from two ivory breasts.
(5)
Poetry is a lonely sense flowering into a thousand ones, each time two contradictions embrace.
It is crying out, with utter hush, between two tones.
Poetry is being-not whenever you are, and being where you-are-not.
It is carrying your shadow on your back, and walking up to a road's end without your legs.
(6)
Poetry is seeing the unseen.
It is to open your eyes on one milky-way and to shut them down on an explosive pomegranate berry and two milky-ways.
It is searching for your heart fragments inside an oyster.
Poetry is the fog which gathers all paths in one sole path, and turns a lonely one into thousands more.
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12/6/2025 2:16:11 PM # 1.0.0
