Ali Al Hazmi (Saudi Arabia)


Ali Al Hazmi (Saudi Arabia)

Born in Damadd, Saudi Arabia 1970, , Ali startedpublishinghispoetry in a varietyof local and Arabicinternational . He International PoetryFestivalsincluding; Costa Rica (2013), Spain (2014), Uruguay (2015), Cuba, Colombia and Turkey (2016), Italy and Romania (2017) and Spain (2018). Hiswork has beentranslatedintomanylanguages, and hispublicationsinclude: A Gate fortheBody (1993), Loss (2000), DeerDrinkItsOwnImage (2004), Comfortableonthe Edge (2009), and Now in thePast (2018). Hisawardsinclude: MedalofPoetry (Uruguay, 2015), TheWorld Grand PrizeforPoetry, (Romania 2017), theVerbumlandiPrize (Italy, 2017) and Best International Poet (China, 2018) , Global IconAward 2020

A Road through the Walls

To be agonized by a lady in your daydream;
A lady made by your own conceit;
A lady conceived from illusion and sentimental pangs;
To sleep, happily, on the thorns of her laughs;
To see her, with closed eyes, wandering on the prairies
Of your defeats;

To submit to the snares of her splendor,
Weaved softly
To grasp your soul;
To feel her tender footsteps
Moving leisurely towards your night room

To watch her lightness ascending,
Like butterflies,
To the shore of your blazing bed;
To follow her up to the remote borders of the skies,
As she touches, with the feathers of her hands,
The freckles covering the sighs of your chest;

To embrace her, like a dove,
Passionately, in your arms;
To pour the cloud of her love,
Drop by drop;
To wrap the hems of her desires
With your unmanageable horses
Till sunrise

A lady that recklessly split your life-dream
Into two halves;
A lady that opened a road through the walls
Of your muddle,
With a single glance;
A lady that hammered the nails of her image,
Into the head of your imagination;
A lady that never leaves the fences of your illusion
When you fall asleep.

Her sole sin was that she smiled,
On the sidewalk, to a passerby;
You kept looking at her alluringcharms,
You had no idea that waiting there
Has delayed an ample cuddle
That would spread its hands
To take her away
In a few minutes…!

Tears Rolling down Her Salted BurningLips

Near the coast, we used to build sand homes. When he left for fishing, for the last time… We raced to return the trimmings of his net To his little canoe.
With little hands
We waved unceasingly to the last waves That snatched his boat away,
Away from the times of our childhood.
Behind the window bars, our little heads squeezed; With eyes fixed on the coast road;
Mother’s wings spread over our little shoulders
As she injected her body among ours;
Immensely worried about our budding innocent souls.
I was scared that her long hair may submit to the winds, If she forward on the metal rail ;
I drew her back towards the warmness of the timber room; Then I stared at the seashores dwelling in her eyes,
And saw the sea travelling far beyond the sand homes.

“Sure, he will return,” she said,
Before her tear floored upon my lips— mysalted burning lips.
Twenty years did not avail to demolish the sand homes
In our eyes.
The dried out face of my father, laid upon the waves Became a window thatlooks at the silver years of our age; An age abandoned in muddy traps.
Still, my beloved mother conceals her regrets behind her shadow. Still, on the mornings,
She makes fresh bread with her dreams;
And at midnights,
She reheats what remains of her wishes on the stove of her soul. Still, we trust her and eat the bread of her lie,
Just to live on

A Corner in a Tavern

She paid no attention to me,
As she sat close to my table,
In the oriental corner of the tavern.
She paid no attention to my chaotic solitude, Reflected on my two palms holding a cigarette, That extended its flame to my blood.
Smoke flew away like white poems
Wiping off the spotlight that fell down,
To uncover the cloud of stately passions Before my eyes.
Forcibly, she started to hide
The silver of silence that spilled over pulses,
Framing us,
To complete the portrait of passion in her palms.
She, then, reassembled a lock of her hair that spontaneously fell Over her left eye,
When she was absently looking at a bouquet of roses
On a table separating us,
Hiding half my face.

How much I wished I would become a complete string
In her eyes,
To notice what painful yearning had raged on my last half. To see a wretched person inhabiting the bottom of my cup,
Drowned in profound agonies.

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