Yahia Lababidi
Fanciful creators
What fanciful creators we are: Bestowing shock absorbers on cars Sprinkling tenderizer on meats And stitching wrinkle-resistant shirts Such wishful thinking, this Gifting what we desire.
What do animals dream?
Do they dream of past lives and unlived dreams Unspeakably human or unimaginably bestial? Do they struggle to catch in their slumber What is too slippery for the fingers of day? Are there subtle
Clouds
to find the origin, Trace back the manifestations. Tao Between being and non-being Barely there These sails of water, ice, air – Indifferent drifters, wandering High on freedom Of the homeless Restlessly swithering Like
Dawning
There are hours when every thing creaks When chairs stretch their arms, tables their legs And closets crack their backs, incautiously Fed up with the polite fantasy Of having to stay in one place
Truth in advertising
morning epiphany Applicable to love and life In haiku-like purity: Only freshly squeezed Separation is natural Shake well to enjoy! In fructose veritas.
To Sylvia Plath
Sleepwalking she prepared breakfast For her still dreaming children, before Breaking fast, to satisfy her appetite No fire needed, she all-consuming flame Bravely cowered on the kitchen floor And slaked an antique thirst on
The Art of Storm-riding
I could not decipher the living riddle of my body Put it to sleep when it hungered, and overfed it When time came to dream I nearly choked on the forked tongue of my
Drylands
Tell me, have you found a sea Deep enough to swim in Deep enough to drown in Waters to engage you Distract you, keep you From crossing to the other shore?
If
If there were more than one of me I’d shave my head and grow my beard I’d be a Doctor of Theology In great coat of myth, impermeable to ridicule I’d raise my voice
Words
Words are like days: Coloring books or pickpockets, Signposts or scratching posts, Fakirs over hot coals. Certain words must be earned Just as emotions are suffered Before they can be uttered – clean as