My guarded caution
derails my fullest pursuit,
like a crippled sunflower
that first bloomed at night.
A fierce desire calls to you,
a propelling verse
singing of its own triumphs,
a connection, a transformation.
A desire that pulls, and pulls me in.
It does not abate: a daring dream
without borders or limitations,
an imagination that withstands fire.
Through redemption,
this desire gives way to more desire.
To me, it feels like a game of chess. The subtleties accumulate until they become overwhelming, yet each one can still be dismissed as business as usual. Is it all in my imagination? Am I overanalyzing, interpreting too much, seeing intention where there is none?
I can even trace the beginning of this latest, strong flare. I have a hunch, though nothing conclusive. When the other side is as formidable as it is idealized, I find it difficult to dismiss the possibility of meticulous planning on their part.
There are too many pieces still in motion, too many unseen lines converging beneath the surface. The uncertainty has brought on long, sleepless nights, and they take their toll. Yet the energy to keep dreaming is sustained by the sheer enormity of the dream itself. Perhaps, too, by a quiet sense that, in time, things will reveal themselves.
Only the slightest hint, as much as the circumstances permit, would be an extraordinary kindness. Not an answer, nor a declaration, but just enough to distinguish direction from illusion. Enough to quiet the storm without dispelling the mystery, and to let what is meant to unfold do so in its own time.
Then the rest could be left to time. The pieces would continue their patient movement, and whatever is meant to emerge could do so without being forced, arriving not as a surprise, but as the natural conclusion to a game that had been unfolding all along.
I stand at the edge of a fascination too vast.
A truth that overwhelms my thoughts.
It is no passing curiosity.
It is a sweet surrender,
and I have become a willing captive.
I consume every fragment,
every pattern, every possibility.
Captivated by this singular, burning light.
A beautiful insanity that sharpens desire.
A burning fire through the heavy, silent night.
A bolt of lightning that continuously strikes.
Through this devotion, the world is no longer fixed.
A single glance can bend the rules,
and turn the world into a wild, romantic dream.
It brings light to every dark corner.
The reckless courage of believing
the future can still be rewritten,
when hope finds a voice,
the impossible finally nods,
and dreams are born into light.
Relentless, without apology,
she pursues the work until it yields.
Not because victory flatters her,
but because unfinished things
refuse to let her sleep.
She is wise enough to laugh at herself,
witty enough to sharpen a room,
kind enough to make strangers feel expected.
She belongs easily,
until someone mistakes her grace for surrender.
Nothing wakes the fire faster
than careless thinking,
than dismissive voices,
than hands waving away
an idea before it has learned to breathe.
When the wildness returns,
she reminds everyone that conviction
need not ask permission.
She has gathered hesitant hearts
into a single purpose,
turned scattered voices into a chorus,
made ordinary people believe
they were capable of extraordinary work.
Always the next horizon.
Always another mountain calling her name.
She carries herself with quiet certainty.
Always prepared. Always moving.
Always one step ahead.
Even from the summit,
she is already searching for the next.
Feminism preceded the human race in the form of wildflowers. 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. Decisive like a daybreak, sober like a Monday. An eagle can only see forward. She feels like a wrecked ship, exhausted from long voyages, salted baths, and the weight of wrinkled luggage of young sailors. © 2025 Mohamed Chaouchi. All rights reserved.
A river wide and deep,
befriending fields and night stars,
trees and open skies.
Outshining poetry and melodies,
its grace touches snow
and cedars alike. It reshapes
meaning and leads to a safer space.
A moon we can look up to
despite our flaws and burdens.
Like a mirror, she invites us
to admire ourselves. A lifetime
dedicated to lifting art above
the mountains of Lebanon.
The voice of Arab nations,
seeking a pure beauty
despite civil wars, continuous losses.
Fayrouz stood, sang, resisted,
and helped us grow and bloom.
Her voice-- sacred, extraordinary–
is a daybreak, a beginning.
A confirmation that transformation
is possible, that hope has hope.
Her singing renders words complete,
and lends language new dimensions.
Her songs let poets, artists, writers,
and anyone sipping coffee
on rooftops overlooking other rooftops
affirm that life has merits,
that it fully deserves embracing.
Through her gifts we recover joy,
understand freedom without borders,
beyond politics, culture, the ordinary.
We return to Fayrouz for joy and inspiration,
we yearn her songs as we yearn for home
after a long absence, remembering
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.
Five years ago, I set out on a journey—and made a personal commitment—to self-publish one book of poetry each year for ten consecutive years. This year marks the midpoint. Along the way, I have learned a great deal about the art itself. I like to believe I have evolved, that my writing has grown stronger and more assured with time. Above all, my conviction that poetry is serious work has only deepened.
There is far more to a poem than the initial spark that gives birth to something beautiful in the poet’s mind. That first ignition merely signals a beginning. Its allure, its pull, and the moment of breakthrough are only invitations to continue. The finish line lies many drafts away, like a traveler who must endure a long journey before arriving home—only to discover that, even then, another journey begins.
A poem is more like a wedding than a destination. The bride must choose her groom by following her heart, certain of her love. What follows are long days and nights of careful planning. At the center stands the newly married couple, celebrating love and stepping into a shared future. There is food, drink, and music. Friends gather—bridesmaids, best men, honored guests—each dressed in their finest, each contributing, even subtly, to the occasion. There are hopeful singles scanning the room. There is the tipsy uncle who ignores the carefully rehearsed script. If we are lucky, the best man reveals a secret or two in a rambling speech after one drink too many.
And then there is the mother. Her tireless, heroic effort to make the day perfect deserves special notice. She sheds a few tears when the cake is cut, still uncertain whether the groom is truly worthy of caring for her beloved child. I recognize myself in her. I feel the same protective doubt toward the poet in me.
I look ahead to the next five years with hope, trusting they may bring gifts still unimagined. Until then, I leave you with these poems. Please be gentle when you encounter them.
I am excited to share with you the cover of my upcoming book of poetry!
