why I love poetry

I wish I could write poetry.. 

Because the normal use of language can only describe what is normal. We, and you might find this controversial, are not normal. Most of the time we are like everyone else : pretending to be normal. What makes who we are, what distinguishes us as individuals, is the time we stop pretending and become abnormal. That's what the normal language cannot describe. 

Poems are the words we use every day, to describe the things we experience once in a lifetime. 

Poems free us from the boundaries of language to the limitless space of emotions. 

Poems teleport our memories from the past, our dreams from the future and set them free in us, in the "now". 

Poems do not tell us what we expect to hear, but rather make us feel, taste and sense the words. It turn words into moments that we can live, and relive. 

Poems freeze time, capture moments in words and set them free from our 4 dimensional world. 

Poems turn us into gods, creating our own worlds, setting our own rules, and becoming immortals... 

Poems are our tears flowing through the words, our laughters flying beyond the world. 

Poems carry the smell of dawn, paint the colours of sunsets, dance with the stary nights, and befriend the lonely hearts. 

Poems are the letters of lovers, without disclosing their names. The prisoners longing for freedom, without the walls of their cells. 

Poems are the metaphors of the speechless, the wisdom of the old, and the eagerness of the young. 

Poems are the sound of champagne glasses in weddings and the deafening silence of loss.

Poems are words revealing the joy and sorrow of the soul. Words saying what cannot be said. 

Poems are words, when a word is bigger than the world. 

That's why I wish I could write poetry.. 

Ahmad Baker

April 2022

small talk...

(this is not a poem, not a short story, just a small talk) 

How are you? She asked.

How to answer a question : you search for a word to say. 

when you must say something you lie, questions lead to lies, truth is spontaneous.

The Sun does not ask flowers questions when it softly touches the petals allowing them to blossom. Waves don't ask shores questions when it crash on it, hug it and die. Birds don't ask dawns questions when they meet and announce the day. Questions are small talk, for those who don't want to talk.

I am good. He said.

Language, is what humans invented to hide their feelings. Hugs, smiles and kisses are not words, but events. Good, OK and fine are lies we hide behind, words we say when we have nothing to show out loud. our life is not words, it is events.

And you? He asked. 

Is this a question, a sentence, or just small talk.. 

Ahmad Baker 

للشعر

لماذا الشعر...

لأننا بشر...

نعم، فنحن لا أجنحة ولا زعانف، محبوسون في حدود المكان.. 

نعم، فبعض الكلام لا يحتمل التصريح، وبعض المشاعر لا تحتملها اللغة.. 

نعم، لأن غالب ما نقوله "لا معنى له، لكننا نقوله ليتم معنى النصف الآخر"*.. 

نعم، فجمال البكاء تضيق به الألفاظ المنمقة.. 

نعم، فالنثر تَحدُّه القواعد من الشمال، وعجز الوحي من الجنوب، ولا له شرقٌ ولا غرب... 

نعم، لأن الشعر يحمل العاشق إلى مبتغاه، والغائب إلى وطنه، والفاقد إلى دمعه وقبره وحزنه... 

الشعر هو حرية التعبير، هو خواطر القلب، هو ما نبحث عنه عندما نريد أن نقول ما لا نجد ما يُقال.. 

الشعر هو نَفَسُ الصباح، رائحة الفجر، لون السماء قبل الغروب، عدد النجوم في سماء الوحيدين.. 

هو حنين التراب للمطر، طريق الحمام إلى عشه، عشق العاشق لإيحاءات المعشوق، وحدة المسافر في الليل الطويل، وصف الموت والحياة.. 

هو فروسية عنترة، حكم ابن أبي سلمى، فخر عمرو بن كلثوم، ومدح المتنبي. وهو أسئلة إيليا، وغناء جبران. هو لافتات أحمد مطر، وغزل نزار. هو وطن درويش، وهو مما يستحق الحياة.. 

أحمد بكر 

Walking...

 Walking..

My favourite sport

My solitude, my reading time, 

not reading black ink on white pages, 

but reading green leaves on new branches, 

not reading fictional stories, legends and gods, 

but reading flowers growing against the odds

Not reading War and Peace

But reading roses and daffodils

Not reading about people I don't know, 

but reading the eyes of people I don't know. 

Not reading numbers, graphs and statistics, 

but reading birds mastering its acoustics. 

Not reading history theories to prove or debunk, 

but reading footsteps in the mud, worn-out paths, and marks on a tree trunk.

Not reading others writing 

But living the creation 

I love walking,

It is my favourite sport,

My solitude

My reading time 

Ahmad 

fallen tree

Looking at my circles

Want to know how I aged

Did I have to die

So you know that I lived

Standing up holding the sky

That was not enough

My roots cuddling the earth

That was not enough

Dressing and undressing every season

Colours of love, fertility, and reason 

Looking tired, strong, weak and rough 

That was not enough 

I had to die, standing

Then falling

Then being chopped

All what I was, dropped 

So you can count my circles

To say that I lived..

Ahmad Baker