Incomplete Texts

Incomplete Texts

by Mohammed Y. Burhan


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Incomplete Texts strives to encapsulate man's ordeal on this earth along with the story of the very beginning of creation in thirty short poems. How will we meet doomsday? What makes life what it is? Incomplete Texts is a collection of poems, essays and thoughts that reveal the author's perspective on the secrets of life and the unlocked feelings that memories of the past raise when they collide with the reality of the present and the fear of the unknown future.

The chemistry of happiness

Do not seize life
With struggle and strife.
Let pass of it
Without even a greet
Like a woman, a stranger,
We only wish we capture.
Among all things, the prettier
Leave in our memory a flower.

Do not seize delight
O beast, O hurt
Your prey is prettier before
It is eaten and killed, far more,
Spend your time just watching
Behind that wall of timing
Pray for the wheat for the smell
Of the rain over there where you dwell.
Share with the whisper of the wind
The delightful weddings that had passed.
Nations told nations and their speech spread
That the earth is round like a loaf of bread;

And that crying, like laughter,
Is a moment following the other...

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781426962141
Publisher: Trafford Publishing
Publication date: 03/29/2011
Pages: 108
Product dimensions: 5.50(w) x 8.50(h) x 0.26(d)

Read an Excerpt

Incomplete Texts

By Mohammed Y. Burhan

Trafford Publishing

Copyright © 2011 Mohammed Y. Burhan
All right reserved.

ISBN: 978-1-4269-6214-1

Chapter One

    The Story Of Creation

    With one finger
    In the overflowing water,
    A circle had He drawn.
    With two hands, therein
    Man had He drown!


    Sixty years ago
    Maybe over,
    I gave him birth.
    I crowned him with a new name.
    A man I made of him,
    A nearby brother,
    With my jugular vein
    He lived together.
    Sixty years never apart;
    My son "Dream",
    I slaughtered him
    Nearby the window the other day
    Having become old,
    Not true!

    A Wish

    A moon of flour
    And stars of sesame,
    It is the sky to the hungry.
    A loaf of bread ... Not more!


    With my only-left-waterless hand,
    I long waved to you
    At which you only raised your hands!
    Were you waving back?


    Fed up with food and flowers are we
    With TV screens.
    Fed up even with our
    Dead-like miens at the mirrors..
    Where to end up?
    Water. Where is water!

    Just If

    Had time been money
    All spent would it be
    Waiting to see her face!


    Europe whose whiteness
    Unburdened her to surrender
    And Africa whose blackness
    Pitied her not to burn
    Blessed is defeat ... a home for all.


    When her golden earring
    Tore my palm,
    My blood wept,
    White ... transparent
    Like tears


    Your black gown
    Goes much like my lone night.
    Why not open at the middle
    To light up my days!


    I gifted the sea with a flower
    That once was yours.
    I shed it into the water
    Why, the moon fell
    And my feet sobbed
    Over the sand ...


    She slept with me the whole night
    Flapped upon my chest like a partridge
    While our clothes,
    Aside on the bed
    And naked of us,
    Were shyly picking each other up!

    The Truth

    A woman never comes close
    For more tenderness to give,
    Rather, to smell more
    How sick you are of her!


    Another day passes by,
    And over the hands of the clock,
    It pours forth light
    To bite parts off our dreams
    Then to fade
    Even before
    We open our arms
    To welcome!


    The moon,
    It is a hole in the dress of night.
    The morning is ...
    The night's public hot flesh!


    Whenever in need to


    Ever since the apple
    Became the source of sin,
    For planting apples
    Famous my village has been!


    As it every day pays
        For getting there,
            The ladder is the only
            To hate peaks


    Whenever I hold my pen,
    I picture Moses
    Breaking his stick
    Kissing Pharaoh's hand
    Then shouts at me:
    You are drowning
    Along with your poems.


    I escort the poem
    To the wide-open door of glitter
    Then ... again ...
    Back to life
    An incomplete text that
    A poem might once
    Draw accomplished.

    Distance Grasp

    Here, beside me, lies he
    Stunned at the waiting death are we,
    Yet still makes mock of me:
    "Envy me O river
    I get there, no suffer."

    A wry smile I give, in secret
    And make sure that he not reach it;

    "He whose eagerness to reach be untried
    Will reach with his rapture aside."


    My poem
    Leaves betrayed of me
    When with silence it reacts
    To the love of the others ...


    I dress my silence up
    To out-sight the angel of death

    Alas, my smell betrays me:
    Whatever I do ...
    I smell of death.


    A loner
    A failure rebel
    Yet still obstinate,

    I shall always butt this rock
    Till the ever dwelling grief
    In my head
    Or else
    I better die for it.

    The Truth

    A bit of a heretic
    Makes God practise being in rapture
    More than a clan of believers, do or picture.

    The Hospital of Condolence

    When too much pain
    Is all you gain,
    Never envy the others
    For having less bothers.
    Think it over and over again
    And recall pain itself as main
    Can you stand all that it suffers?


    The Christ was not
    On the cross
    I did see Him
    He was holding the cross fast
    On his back ...

    Death "To Wasim"

    Twenty-five years
    A clown- like
    Dancing on the very edge of life ...
    Now ... Just now
    To the bed of your tomb
    ...... Get down
    And breathe up!

    Death Struggle

    A statue inside each
    Longs to find his niche,
    Longs to be inactant
    So why are we so hesitant?
    We go; we come and wait
    And often we get so late,
    So late, so late, so late,
    To becoming a corpse in state.


    On the gate of life
    And one on the afterlife
    A sign would save the strife:
    We are not responsible and never care
    For losing your hopes or feeling despair.


    Rapt as if God passed by him
    And with the eager left,
    So celebrately,
    Raphael smiles ...
    Eventually he is sounding the trumpet!
    A lone task
    That cost a humanity to wait.

The Poem of Insomnia

    The Gray Female Departure

    You strike my sadness
    As a crowned bride.
    Out of my gloomy orchard
    You pick up lilies
    And read me stories
    About lovers.

    From a window
    Outlooking the sea,
    You gather the stars to me
    Along with the fishermen songs.

    You drop, the gown of the dense night
    On my trembling shoulder.

    Are you part of me so that I feel
    Your agony dwelling my ribs?

    Am I part of you so that I come to life
    Every time you say, "good morning"?
    O, woman, who spreads over my poem
    Like meanings do,
    I wish you lent me your voice
    As speech no longer gets me.
    It is your indifference that
    Key secrets my death.

    I wish you lent me your blood
    So that I grow,
    In the veins of those
    Ever heading for sunrise,
    A home that gives them back
    Where they had cried.

    That is ... how.... you always do.
    You strike my sadness
    As a crowned bride,
    Treading my wheat and voice:
    Slowly my princess ... haste not
    My heart is clutching
    At that train of your dress.

    The Incomplete Crime

    Half close the door for my absence,
    Let not open of it!
    Night will get in
    So will neat men do
    After you.

    Foolish questions will they thrust
    Into my wounds
    And look, among the bags set,
    For an overtaking death.

    They will read a poem
    I am already rid of

    That is what they always do
    Shear off the truth in the neck
    To deeply scrutinize in light

    O Gentlemen,
    Be kind to my things,
    I still have a living song
    In the haziness of time
    It is not yet dead.
    I still have an old speech
    Hung over the wall

    An old sweater
    With sleeves out
    For stay ups.
    Some cigarette stubs
    Like stabs
    Planted over the dump.

    Nay, gentlemen
    Sail not in a stain
    Hanged under the pillow!
    Ink is no blood
    Nor my fingers daggers.

    At the middle of time
    After it be put out
    They will leave,
    When I rise up
    Out of my own heap
    To rearrange my ribs,
    And to bestow death a truce
    So that it, of my corpse
    And the chaos they left,
    Takes a rest.

    So then, half close the door
    And sweep your voice
    Off the air in the room.
    Let not your white gloves
    Stretch over my blood
    Like a prostitute!
    It is a pity
    To mark your crime
    As incomplete!


    One day you will get to know
    That it is not the blossoms that resemble me.
    And that the ninth tumbler is my father
    Who brought me up to heartache and cry.

    One day you will get to know
    That my chest,
    Whose manliness you drank,
    Would no more shelter
    Your little fragile bird
    That fears the tenderest breeze.

    Nor upon my chest you more can wilt
    Transparent like a tear.

    It may be life that shall, one day,
    Teach you
    How to perfect
    The loss
    Of the others ...


    Light is the news this evening.
    So coquettish sounds the reporter,
    Having worn her femininity,
    Replacing the helmet
    With a white rose on the hair.

    How female would she be
    When unequipped with war!

    Chaste is the news this evening,
    Less murder,
    Less is our blood in the barricades,
    Low the crown of the rapid death.

    Blind is the news this evening
    Come on love
    Let me snipe your lips
    With a brief kiss
    Before the raids
    Of breaking news!

    It is Damascus

    A face that slaps the roads
    And a sweetheart,
    Whose scarf on a bench of absence,
    She forgot.

    And trees stretching high,
    But no close to God
    As out of reach is the sky.

    Some peanuts between two glasses
    An ashtray for memory and cigarettes ...
    It is Damascus then!
    A poem that unveils her loincloth,
    To prostitute herself

    At the face of her ever raped poet:
    Deflower me wherever you wish.
    Stretch me a tight string
    To your arch of disappointment
    And leave my socks to the wind
    That will hang high the flag for you.

    Barada! O male river
    Penetrate my mud like a wedge
    And pour your dark milk out
    Over my navel
    So that the world restarts again
    Out of this point ...

    The Spacious

    On your way to her face
    You all march forth,
    Lightly and heavily
    Dressed in your silence
    And burdened with the questions,
    Looking into the mirrors
    For a pain like yourselves.
    This is you ...
    This is what you always do:
    Since the break out of creation
    You carouse in the merge of a woman
    Pawned to phantom.
    While I ...
    Whom God created of tears and depress
    Overpass your roads.

    I lay ropes over the trees
    And dance above your funeral:
    I am the one to have cut the hand of Venus
    I am the one to have slaughtered Astarte the cruel.

    Nay, statues are you all
    And the loss of yours, I foresee
    All.... You ... Who
    Ramble on the boundaries
    Of an expansive woman.

    The Caller

    She left the constellation of the firmament
    Why the night that moment dwelt.
    From the hole of the key would she enter,
    Forests and horses soon came after.
    Out of her navel, stars she hanged in the room's air.
    Over my body, she, her hair, then passed
    That was when my blood had shined.
    She frisked my pillows for dreams like her.

    She paged through my papers
    For words, she thought, of hers.
    All my clothes she threw into disorder,
    For a smell of a woman that might be there.
    When all she found was naught,
    She stole my sleep and went out.
    Over my bedsheet, she left a mare,
    And a moon on the words over there.
    Colorful trees on my lime-green shirt,
    She those had also left:
    The poem of insomnia loves me
    So jealous for me she seems she be.

    Pagan Tale

    Twenty cigarettes, after which we had lain,
    I and she, out of the loop, out of pain.
    A year each of us was, long, long ago
    Tales about ancient peoples, we were so.
    We exchanged the faces of the wind
    Over that tight and narrow bed.
    She, over me, sailed north,
    To her lands, I went far south.
    I deep reveled in the pine
    Sinking so deep in her wine.
    Then she sobbed with tears,
    Blowing out all her fears,
    Blowing out all her wonders:
    Oh, my dear where are your fingers?
    An arrow in the back street of my head
    Raced, looking for a victim straight ahead.
    O Noah: where are my fingers?
    She is asking! Fulfill her wonders.
    Collect not the sky of water ahead,
    Nor plow through the torrents of God,
    Without even looking behind
    Here I am, so alone, so aside.
    I am still preparing the winds
    And casting all I can, of spells
    So that God, the ship protects.
    Noah, you the prophet of waves
    Your blood mystically runs through my veins.
    When you asked me to be you,
    And that took place as if on cue.
    This was for nothing, but out of purity,
    I shall, thus, never show disloyalty.
    And from my complaint
    I shall be restrained.
    And for the mighty prophecy of yours
    Shall I build up a temple for waters.
    Here are all the trees of mine
    I burnt them all for the hands of thine.
    I picked up out of its leaves
    Places, for survival, and seats.

    Why discard me and all my silver?
    Does my shadow look much higher
    Than that shadow of your ship?
    Then I shall kill and even snip.
    Or I might gift
    Half of it
    For those who go
    Without a single shadow.
    Just take me with you, take me
    For who, without a sun, shall you be?
    A sun of my speech in your sky,
    That makes your sun and sky that high?
    And who, without my dreams, shall you be?
    I have always been with you, and you with me.
    I have always sweated over your timber,
    The milky wishes of mine in whisper.
    Your reckless nails still moan inside my head,
    And that reddish rust over them is my blood.
    Why, then, go far without me?
    Why discard me and all my silver in the sea?

    She shook my shoulder while sobbing
    She rather shook so hard for asking:
    So they left you! Had they done?

    I had no mate, why without me
            The ship had gone.

    Intimate Companionship

    Over the choppy river,
    With an envy flavor,
    The tree throws a handful
            Of a flower:

    If I had his spirit, the restless,
    All the plains would I embrace.
    Over the peaks would I have drawn
    A scented sketch of a crown.

    In his secret, with the rambling sound
    The river says with his voice bound:
    "Just if, I, my shadow found,
    Like a tree would I stand erect
    Only then would I have a rest."

    The chemistry of happiness

    Do not seize life
    With struggle and strife.
    Let pass of it
    Without even a greet
    Like a woman, a stranger,
    We only wish we capture.
    Among all things, the prettier
    Leave in our memory a flower.

    Do not seize delight
    O beast, O hurt
    Your prey is prettier before
    It is eaten and killed, far more,
    Spend your time just watching
    Behind that wall of timing
    Pray for the wheat for the smell
    Of the rain over there where you dwell.
    Share with the whisper of the wind
    The delightful weddings that had passed.
    Nations told nations and their speech spread
    That the earth is round like a loaf of bread;

    And that crying, like laughter,
    Is a moment following the other.

    Do not set a trap for happiness.
    Wise would Adam have been
    If he just
    for the apple
        To fall ! ...
        if .....


    Here, we strangers, in the faraway lands
    Wave for time with our poor hands.
    We, our tobacco, generously give
    For the by-passers who never here live.
    We sip the hunger of the heart
    On the very benches of the wait.
    Truth has held some dizziness
    That befalls our souls and heads.
    A stranger is born a stranger
    In the winds and lands of danger.
    He sings on, on and on
    For the memories that all have gone.
    He dances round the lastest of his candles
    With mere words, the dying soul he handles.

    He is like the obstinate swans
    To death, through the doors of joy, he runs.
    Fall has the ever-bewailing leaves
    The pallor of seasons is all we seize.
    How much agony feeling must come
    Before of names we all have become?
    Names that would one time with raring
    Remind us of our being and meaning.
    We strangers in the faraway lands,
    In the winds and everlasting exiles
    We sing for memory and dance for swans.

    We shout at the faces of all the prophets
    Is there no such holy scriptures,
    That might one day fall and guide us?

    O you panel of quick death,
    On this very and same earth.
    Had the road had legs been done
    So fast to reach would it have gone.
    If the rain had got a face,
    It would have shined with all its grace.
    If the river had got a mouth,
    It would have kissed the sea at the mouth.
    Oh ... if only we are the same,
    Nay, we never this can claim:
    That we are same in the pleasures
    Of inhaling and exhaling
    That we are same in the desires
    For the trees and birds nor in loving.
    Nay, we are never the same the moments we die;
    We eagerly wait for good death, to which we fly,
    While, for the sake of your life, you always pray.


Excerpted from Incomplete Texts by Mohammed Y. Burhan Copyright © 2011 by Mohammed Y. Burhan. Excerpted by permission of Trafford Publishing. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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