The page was starving white. Do flowers know when they are dying? Dawn may be a few generations away. Beauty is the electrical field that gives poetry its magnetic force. I think of a poem as an exhibitionist muse flashing her ankle. Feminism preceded the human race in the form of wildflowers. Decisive like a daybreak, sober like a Monday. An eagle can only see forward. © 2025 Mohamed Chaouchi. All rights reserved.
A river as wide as it is deep, befriending fields and night stars, trees, and skies. Outshining poetry and music, its elegance blesses snow and cedars. It shapes new meaning and leads to safer spaces, defiantly. A moon we can look up to despite our shortcomings and difficulties. Like a mirror, she encourages us to admire ourselves. A lifetime dedication to lift art above Lebanese mountains. The voice of all Arab nations, despite civil wars, in spite of continuous losses, to attain a pure beauty. Fayrouz stood there, sang, resisted, and gave us hope we will bloom. Her voice, sacred and extraordinary, is a daybreak, a beginning. A confirmation that a transformation is possible, that hope has hope. Her voice renders words complete, and helps language gain new dimensions. Her songs let poets, artists, writers, and anyone sipping their coffees on roofs overlooking other roofs affirm life has merits and is worth embracing to the fullest. Through her gifts and treasures, we rekindle happiness, realize freedom without borders, political failures, and cultural derailments. We come to Fayrouz for joy and inspiration, we long to hear her songs the way we long for home after a long absence, and to remember that Fayrouz stood tall to liberate us all.
I like to be on alert, all my alarms deployed, extended to the point of being spent. Like the day I carried a 2,000 year old vase inside a museum where I worked. Or the day I summoned the courage to hold your hand on that evening stroll.
Great poems deliver a few permanent sentences. Those that sharpen your mind, soften your stands, shake your confidence, double your realm of doubts, and serve you a blow, throwing you backwards, from their intensity. The virtue of scarring your psyche with the spell of words. Some call it magic. Others genius. I think of it as an exhibitionist muse flashing her ankle.
Today, I published my fifth book of poetry. It is a great coincidence that today would have been the 87 Birthday of Sylvia Plath.
Below is the preface of Wildflowers:
Five years ago, I embarked on a journey and a personal commitment to self-publish one book of poetry per year for ten consecutive years. This year marks the mid-point. Over time, I have learned a great deal about the art. I like to think that I have evolved and that my writing has strengthened along the way. My belief that writing poems is a serious business has only deepened.
There is so much that goes into a poem besides the initial spark that inspires the birth of something beautiful in the poet’s head. The initiation indicates a start while its allure, fascination, and breakthrough are encouraging signs to pursue it. The finish line is many drafts away. Like a traveler who endures a long journey before arriving home. Even when at home, another journey starts.
A poem is more like a wedding. The bride has to choose her groom following her heart and be sure about her love for him. Then she spends long days and nights in meticulous planning. At the center of the wedding, there is the newlywed couple celebrating their love, and starting a new beginning. There is great deal of food, drink, and music. Many friends are in attendance including bridesmaids, best men, and guests of honor. All are in their best attire and contribute even so subtly to commemorating this happy occasion. There are the hopeful singles who are looking for love. There is the tipsy uncle who will not follow the carefully rehearsed script from the night before. If we are lucky the best man may spill some beans in his rambling speech after consuming a few drinks. Let’s not forget the mother, her heroic efforts to make this day perfect. I would like to bring your attention especially to the mother as she sheds a few tears when the couple cuts the cake. I like how the mother is never sure that the groom is up to the task of taking good care of her baby girl. I feel the same way about the poet in me.
I look forward to embracing the upcoming five years, hopeful that they may bring gifts bearing promises. Until then, I leave you with these poems of mine. Please be gentle as you converse with them.
Thank you!
I am excited to share with you the cover of my upcoming book of poetry!
I denounce the factory owner for grabbing the land, underpaying for the raw material, and subjecting his employees to longer hours and mediocre conditions. From the third and upper floor of the building adjacent to the factory, he glances briefly at headlines of today's paper. Beneath him, a mob of mid-management awaits new instructions. Ownership has been in the family. Only they can buy and sell. Eager to show utter disregard for anyone else and other ways. He sips his coffee, curses the times, and mocks the news. He gives orders, puffs his pipe, and asks about the deliveries. Every day I rise early, put on my best attire, stand in line at the docks across the fields from his balcony, and I beg for a job.
She is among poets a Mozart. Always playful, forever joyful. Beauty not only a virtue, but an end unto itself. Her sensibilities as delicate as a debutante’s cheeks. Her prose shimmers with overflowing ambitions. Her pride dominates the stage, like an aura of grace struggling to hide its confidence. Begging the world to take a seat, not to miss the beginnings, discover stunning revelations. So contagious are her pleas, they require us to register her presence, as they humble her audience. Like the serenity of light, early morning, as it lands on trees and their leaves, Her metaphors standing out the way beautiful domes adorn long stained-glass walls of medieval churches.
Trapped in thoughts like punctuations between sentences.
Yet certain my contributions will clear the air,
invite intriguing conversations with my fellow travelers
on this train ride, during my visit to Morocco, my first home.
They must have guessed I now live abroad,
am an outsider— my Gap shirt is too white.
As if doubly bleached,
plus it stands out in contrast to the colors around.
They will shortly conclude
I reside in an English speaking country,
for I will let escape the inevitable ok, the affirmative yeah,
and the convenient wow as I nod in agreement.
My Mother’s tongue buried deep somewhere.
Despite my careful selection of words,
I struggle to finish a thought.
Rusty as I am, I need warming up.
Outmatched and out of practice;
no matter my precautions, traces of rough
edges float in my speech, a betrayal.
I will come across as calculating, may be preaching.
They will inevitably ask: where are you visiting from?
America— immediately prompting eyebrows to rise.
A vacationer, a gringo. Will they dismiss my ideas?
Or pretend to be impressed?
Not really, they genuinely smile, and flood me with questions.
A puppeteer feels vibration,
echoing from the puppet
as it reacts to the dictated directions.
Mentoring is no different.
*
Claims to being the source of light,
from self-inflated egos,
are felt hardest on other self-inflated egos;
until darkness suffocates all.
*
When a dictator makes light of his ugly self,
or self-deprecates, it does not make him less evil,
and certainly not human.
In suffering, normalization is off-limits.
*
Sadness has enormous rings
that are forever expanding,
easily shared among the miserable.
Pain is contagious.