Part of the poem ... The Butterfly's chant

Here I am
Dumozi,who choosed the underworld instead Ishtar
I'm Zeus,Oden,Baal
I'm Hecuba,the prince of the Olympus kingdom
I'm the Trojan Achilles
...I'm Shakespeare,Kafka,Hemingway
I'm the mad Dali
I'm Modigliani,Klimt and Da Vinci
I'm Mozart,and the Symphonies of the barren Beethoven
I'm Kawa,son of jinn
I'm the dust,air,dough
All of them in me dancing
and I be them
When you share me the dance in my exiled vacant.

J.P

من قصيدة ... إنشودة الفراش

ها أنا
دموزي,من اختارَ الجحيمَ لعشقٍ
أنا زيوس,أُودنْ,بعلْ
أنا هيكوبا أمير مملكةِ الأولمبْ
أنا أخيلٍ الطروادي
...أنا شكسبيرَ و كافكا و همنغواي
أنا ذاك َ المجنونَ داليْ
أنا مودغلياني و كليمتَ و دافنشيْ
أنا موزارتَ و سيمفونياتَ بيتهوفِنَ العقيمْ
أنا كاوا,سليلُ عشائِرِ الجنْ
أنا الترابَ و الهواءَ و العجينْ
كُلُّهُم فيَّ يتراقصون
و أصبِحُهُمْ
عندما تُشاركينني الرَّقصَ في خلائِيَ المنفيْ.

Rumîr ... come hither, leave the trail.

Shhhhhhhh...
Walk in a Parallel with the wall
Beware of the noisiness
Don't wake him up
Don't disturb his visions,
he is still trying
to avoide the realm,

Walk surreptitiously
drop as a thief
around his space - stealing the rubbels
leave him in his aim
for the subconscious he can't rule
for the entity he's seeking
for being recognized,

Walk as a phantom
never whisper
he is full of wailing on the rhythem
the one which he's frisked on
the hymn of his untouchable presence.

J.P.

رغباتٌ ... مجرد كلماتٍ لا تنتهي

(1)

أريدُ
أن أُصبحَ قادراً
على عشقِ امرأةٍ ..
تُنشِدُ معي
شكلَ الخزف
لبندقيَّةٍ خُلقت
من غُصنِ زيتونٍ
تنزفُ دماً
على يدِ جدِّي
الذي قال لي يوماً .... ..
" أريدُ أن أملكَ فَمين
كما تمتلكُ بعضُ المحرِّكاتِ مدخنتين
لأجمِّلَ وجهَ العالم بالبُصاق "


(2)


أريدُ
أن أرسُمَ مدفعاً..
لأُزْهِرَ فوهتها
بطقوسِ الفتنِ
لملئ كأسي ...
مرَّةً أخرى ...(بعد الرابعة)
بحليبِ أمي
الذي لم أذُقْ طعمهُ ....
لأقسمَ الغيمَ ...
و أجزِّأ الوديان
فأشكِّلَ الحرفَ
من قطراتٍ أربعٍ
دمعةُ أمي
شوقُ أبي
عشقُ أختي
و صديقاً ... روى قمحاً
على أرضٍ تبكي منَ العطشِ ...
ليُصبحَ في كلِّ سنبلةٍ مئةُ طلقة
لمئةِ صرخةٍ
ملعونةَ اللِسَان .....
تجذَّرتِ الصَّرخة .... حتى صارت زيتونةً
لتكتملَ خارطة َالوطن
بإبداعٍ
على صفحةٍ حمراء .

(3)

أريدُ أن أَخلُق َ
كينونةً ..
مع امرأةٍ
خُلقت على مسرحٍ
من رغبات ...
لتعزِفَ عليها أصابعَ الرياح
نبوءةً
لحلمِ سفرٍ
إلى مناطقَ محرمةً ...
من جسدِ السيدات .

(4)


أريدُ
أن أشرعَ بالحبِّ
دونَ الكلمات
لأحفُرَ صدراً
وأزرعَ جذراً للياسمين
ليُزهِرَ جسداً ... من يقِينٍ غريب

أبيضٌ ... هو زهرُها
رُويت بدمٍ ... من قلبٍ كبير

أريدُ أن أُهيمَ بحبِّكِ
كما لم يكن كلُّ الأولين
ممْ ... سيامندْ ... مجنونٌ
هم الشطرُ الأول
لقصيدتي
التي أنثرُها لكِ
كعاشقٍ مهبول ...

أبدأُ العدوَ
كفارسٍ على جوادٍ أبيضٍ مصقول
أبدأُ الرقصَ
مع نغماتٍ
تلكَ التي
كنتِ معي تنشُدين.


(5)


اعذريني
فلم أكن أنا
بل هو ... الَّذي عبثَ بشَعْرِكِ
بعدَ المنام ....
أخبرتهُ بأنَّهُ مقدَّسٌ
لم تدْنَسهُ يدُ إنسان
فشاءَ ... الحبَّ منكِ
فهل تسمحينَ لهُ
بأن يفتحَ بوابةَ العالمِ السّفلي
ليأذنَ بنهوضِ الشَّيطان
و يبدأَ أسطورةَ البقاء ...
المُزركشِ باللونِ الأحمر .

(6)

نافذةْ
قبلة ْ
فراغْ
لا شيء
بضعُ قطراتٍ
خريرُ مياه
كلُّهَا .... تُعلنُ مساءً
مع حبيبٍ
على لوحةٍ لم تُكتمل
من أسطورةٍ
لم تبدأ بعد...
خُصلاتُ شَعرٍ
شقراءٌ لم انتبه ...
بحرٌ على عينٍ
بقربِ شواطئ ونخيل
مع نصف غروبٍ ...
صوتُ اشتعالُ سيجارةٍ
تحرقُ فماً ..
رئةً ..
قلباً
ليسَ للعقلِ مكانٌ بيننا
سوى لصريرِ البابِ
ليعلنَ نهايةَ القصَّة .

إذاً فلتكتبي ما شئتِ
لإنِّيَ لستُ مهتمَّاً بعدُ بما ستقولين,
هكذا دائماً
تقتربينَ .. حاملةً ذاكِرةَ الأُنثى الأولى
حاملةً
...آثارَ شعوبٍ من نساءٍ اعترتهُم شهوُ الصِّبا
أنتِ
يا أيَّتُها المنقُوشةُ في لوحيْ
يا أميرةَ مملكة الشَّمالِ الجَّليدْ

Ezê jî destpêbikim ew xewna xeyalî
Ezê jî, tev hishisa şopa torevanin evînê
Ezê jî, di rojekê da dewlemandî be
strana noşa axê û bîranînan bêjim..

...Ezê jî werim
Tev dîrokek rengerengî
Tev paşerojekî bi dûmanê xemiliye,
dûmanek ji mala seydayan bilind buye

Ezê jî destpêbikim ew neqşa bê sînûr
Ezê jî bikim wek sirûş
Ew ne zûye,
Ew rabona xudaiyê çiraxê ye.

7/7/2010

هو الماضي يا صديقتي ... من يلعبُ دورَ البطولةِ الآن

Knock .. Knock .. Lady ...
The rain is One of who makes a sound and exist to the Silence.
No present to the Emptiness without the Darkness in.
No Prove we can have for the Darkness without the Silence in.
And, No Exist for what call "We" witho...ut the "Frankness" which be made by stuff like the rain.

I announce my worshiping to the rain which invade the silence of any moment...

إليكِ هناك
حيثُ تتجرَّعينَ وشاحَ الخمْرِ
و ترتيلَ الإله ..
إليكِ هُناك
حيثُ تتراقصُ حولكِ عرائِسُ ربَّاتِ معابِدَ أكَّادَ و آشورَ وبابل ...
حيثُ تتربَّعُ حولكِ قصائِدُ شعراءِ نينوى و شهرزورَ و آمد
محافِلُ سُكرٍ مُترَنِّمٍ بتعاويذَ شرقيةٍ لم تمُت
و ابتهلاتِ مُحاربينَ يتربَّصونَ قومَ إكسينيفون.

" As a rhythem , with a shining, I sprinkle the morning's dew drops around you. "
- the translation of the last Wall-Note -

Mîna sazek, tev ronahiyek, ez xwenava barana sibê li dur te belavdikim .

Mîna dûmanek bê reng ez li dur te li hestê xwe digarim .

Kejserens sidste åndedrag

Gående
dækket af masker, skjulende de gamle rynker
bærer de døden på deres skuldre
de bærer deres sjæle ind i det ukendte
de kommer fra det ukendte fjerne
de ledsager hinanden
drenge
yndlinge og fuldvoksne
ludere og lommetyve
sammen messer de uendelige bønner
de får luften til at vibrere omkring sig
udfylder intetheden
med deres forudsigelser ryster de det fremmedes mørke hjerte

De har valgt at være her
og ikke – ikke at være her

Knive
Pile
skjolde
huggerter
daggerter
sværd
øjne
hekse
astrologer
og en mager digter
træder støvet under fode
flænger den friske luft
og indånder den uendelige død
pludselig skriger en enorm kvindestemme mod dem:
Hvad gør I her i dette land, der er forudbestemt til ikke at blive betrådt af noget levende væsen
hvad gør I i mit rige
så I ikke skyernes inskriptioner
at der ingen frelse er for de vejfarende her
læste I det ikke tidligere på jeres guds templers vægge
at de vil leve I evig forbandelse
dem der indånder en håndfuld af min luft
og I vover at tale I min stilhed
bøj jer for majestæten, mig – for jeg er stilhedens Gud
Ellers blev I blive til støv i vinden

Jorden begyndte at ryste under deres fødder
de hørte Cerberus´ glammen
Mundskænken hvisker:
Vi er dine
En dreng råber:
Vi er dine
En ridder råber:
Tag mig sværd
En astrolog gør tegn:
Tag mine gåder
Kentauren, det halve menneske, skriger højt:
Tag mine vinger
En digter ler støjende...
Leende peger han mod Guden
De stirer bestyrtet på ham
og siger forskrækket:
Hvad tænker du dog på, fjols!
du blækkens efterkommer
kast din blækhus langt væk
skjul din galskab at ilden ikke skal rammer os med sine tunger.
Hvad gør du dog, du søn af blækkets forgængelighed.
Har du tabt din forstand.
Kast alle dine tanker ned I stilhedens brønd.
Kast dem fra dig
og lad ydmygheden svøbe sig om din stilhed.
Der er ingen vej for os, ingen retning, hvis vi ikke adlyder.

Han åbner armene
lukker øjnene
smiler vildt
og løfter hovedet.
Og udbryder med sprukken stemme:
Jeg er skriftens søn
efterkommer af ordenes folk
Jeg er den der blev forbandet af Mesopotamiens gåder
og jeg er ikke den eneste.

Jeg er den ukendte.

Ophidset af hans tale, slog Stilhedes gud skyerne sammen
og rystede lokkerne i sit hår, og sagde
Vover du at trodse min magt?
Forbandelserne voksede i hende som vindfarne meteorer
for i næste nu at tilintetgøre digteren
og lade ham brænde op i flammerne som Fugl Føniks
og kastede sin forbandelse:
Til evig tid skal du være husvild
af aske skal du du genopstå hvert 100. år
- det har du for din arrogance, du fantasiens betvinger
så lev du din egen udødelighed – som en ukendt myte.

Fugl Føniks skreg, og flaksede op af flammerne
og fløj skrigende op for at forsvinde mellem skyerne.
Hånligt hvisledeke hun til de vejfarende:
I er forbandede, I kurdere!
Den er forbandet, den historie som I skal leve
Intet land vil blive jeres.
Ingen himmel vil modtage jeres bønner.
I vil for evigt være fremmede.
Så forsvandt hun som en illusion
I den forbandede stilheds tomhed.

Årtusinder
og vi leder stadig efter Føniksfuglen
og en besværelse, der kan løfte forbandelsen på vores historie.

The Last breaths of the emperor of the Kingdom of mirage

Walking
covering with masks, hiding the outdated wrinkles
Carrying graves on their shoulders
Carrying their souls into the unknown coming behind the unknown distant
accompanying one another
Boys
youths and full ages
lad and whores,
together
chanting unscaled screams
Only .. Filling the vacuum imagination... Filling the nowhere
Trembles with their spells the hearts of the stranger dark,
They choose to be
Not to not be,
knives
arrows
barricades
knifes
daggers
Swords
Eyes
Witches
astrologers
And a lean poet
Combing the vulgar dust with their sandals
alternating the burned quilts
Breathe the eternal death
Tearing the newborn air,
To scream at them a great female voice suddenly:
What do you do in a land that is destined to not be stepped by a creature
What do you do in my kingdom
Did not you read the inscription on the clouds
That there is no salvation to a wayfarer
Did not you read the earlier what on the walls of your gods’ temples
That will live in eternal red who consuming a handful of my air
and you dare to whisper in my emptiness !!!
Bow down to the Majesty...me … I am the gods of silence
Otherwise; you will become dust with a great blowing.
The ground began shaking under their feet... they hear the howling of Cerberus
the sommelier utter:
We’re yours
A boy shout:
We’re yours
A knight Invoked:
Have my swords
an astrologer wave:
Take my spells
A Centaur the half human a loud screams:
yours are my wings
A Poet was guffawing and…
Guffawing and pointing with his finger at the phantasm of the god,
they stared at him madly
And saying cursing: What’s in your thoughts, O foolish
What are you doing, descendant of the ink!!
throw your inkwell to hell
throw your craziness unless we will be rolled into the spiral of fire,
What are you doing, son of the ink’s ash!!
What are you doing idiot!!!
Throw your imagination into the abyss of silence
Throw it and attach your silence with humility
there is no declared direction for us if did not obey.

Opening his arms
closing his eyes
with a crazy chuckling
He raised his head
And pronounced by the imagination of his vague tongue:
I'm the son of the directions’ scriptures
I am the descendant of people of the word
I am who had been cursed by Mesopotamia’s spells
I'm not only one
I’m the unknown.
To excited by his utterance the skies of the vacuum of silence’s god
Revolted the tufts of her gray hair, and said:
Do you dare to oppose my existence?
And rushed her curses like angry meteors
To turn the poet in an instant to burned phoenix
And spelled the curse:
An Eternity burn you will live
It’s ashes what will you born of every hundred year
So last with your arrogance O the hallucinations’ believer
And live your immortality … but as unseen myth.

The Phoenix shouted, fluttered
Then flew, to disappear between the clouds shouting.
She whispered to the wayfarers nastily:
You are coursed O Kardox
It’s coursed, your history which will you live
No lands will be yours
No sky will receive your prayers
You will be only everlasting stranger.
Then she vanished as an illusion in the emptiness of the course silence.

Thousands years
And are still looking for phoenix
And a spell to unlock the curse on our history.

Gotinin ji ber deriyê xewnan (1)

Were
Were...lê bê dûman
bigire ew deriya xeyalê bê ziman,
Were..û jibîr meke
te çawe şemal û çiraxê xewnan bi hesta xwe yan xemgînî vêdixistin,
...were...were
bu ev çirvandina bi laşê jiyanê darin bavê min ketî bi dawî bibe
bu ev hestin mizgînî
bu desmalê serê dîlanan
bu sazin tembûran
bu ax û dar û ba û av
bu min û te
û bu ew kesa ji me û te ê bibe berdewamî
were...û jibîr meke
tu dengê Ayşa şanê bi xwe ra bîne
Were
û metirse...çiyan û ezman zarokin,çem û golan hinî keçîndarin
were
û metirse...ew lêvin surgulan li benda hungivê buharê tene
were ...
û zanibe...ew hestin sed salan di sîngê min û hezaran da dikele
zanibe " lê xwidayê çand û dîrok û heft ezmana"
ew sirûşin xwedayên din hinî ne gîştina xaniyên me
ew bîrin gundan, wan li ser çiyanan belav bîne, ne mirine
...ew evîn li benda te ye
ew keç û xort li benda te ne
ew kal û pîr û bê xwidan li benda te ne
ew..ew..
(Rabe ji xew..Rabe..dem sibe bu)

21/08/2010 Ringsted, Denmark.

The Hymns of an Arrested Rebel

By Jan Pêt Khorto

At night, when the corpses are laid in queues
I sit...Alone
Staring at your offspring, Adam,
And I remember Able
Feeling shivering in my limbs without motion,
In fear of a sleep like your murderer son’s sleep.

At night,
When the owls escaping from our smells
I sit
And penetrate with my eyes the webs of spiders that surrounding me,
I push with my deadbeats arms
Flies that are bored like me of the breath deadbeat people,
And remember you, father
I remember you Noah,
Remember your drowned people
Remember your pigeon and crow
Remember the olive brunch
And close my eyes.

At night,
When the lamps of God are putting off,
And the light is taken off our solitude,
I sit
With creaking overwhelming my ears,
Humming, probably, I don’t know
I hit my forehead with my fist .. I hit .. hit
Fleeing from your talks about me in your houses
Among your women and children
Among your parents,
And a monster wears me.
I stand in rebelliously
Rapping the silence of the night
Pressing the air with my hands
Right...left
Keeping you away
I fight with imaginary knives, phantoms that lurk for me
I cruse you,
I cruse the nights, the days, lamps, knives
I cruse ethnicities, revolutions and nations
I cruse the scriptures, maids and hymns;
And I reach the borders of God
To be blocked
After a punch from a warden who calls me a Kurdish...

I close my eyes,
Bend my head
And sleep under a rain of swearwords.

Exile IN Exile

By Jan Pêt Khorto

“Extremely unbelievable!” Many newcomers in Denmark say this when they compare between the ways of processing the asylum system and treating of foreigners here with their homelands or other EU countries.
Especially when it comes to the “patience” and “slowness” of processing cases, moving between the asylum centers every while, the living conditions, the way of handling their situations if their cases being rejected and what happens in the “Kommune” after getting the permission to stay in Denmark, and the ways of integrating the refugees (school, praktik, ... etc). Problematic is also how refugees are expected to know all the system and rules in a few months, the authorities confusing them with their letters in Danish every day without worrying about if they got the meaning of it or not, and plus all of that, the updating news from the Danish People’s Party and their leaders who are making the situation of asylum seekers and refugees being worse and worse here in Denmark.
I didn’t mean that the system is not in “working mode”, it’s absolutely systematic and well-organized, but if the government here is used to it - even though that I heard a lot of criticisms about the health care system and other topics from some Danish people - they should not expect from the newcomers in a short time to know everything, therefore the general picture becomes that the foreigners are dumb or they “came from behind the cows", as a kurdish saying goes, which means that they only know farming, so many of them are not able to be integrated.
Some spent months, others spent years in their way to Denmark, having the dreams in their imagination for a better life, living, future..., and suddenly being in front of a huge wall of rules and laws against the foreigners, smashing all their hope’s columns, and being ordered to be a Danish person - whereas no European would be Somalian or Iranian, if we changed the positions. And those rules are not only aimed at the asylum seekers or refugees, it’s concerning all the foreigners who come to Denmark. But would the Danish people, when they have to be in another country for any reason, have to change all him/her self to be a part of that community?
Before some days, I read an article in “Copenhagen Post” about comparing the leaders of the Danish People's Party to Hitler, and actually – if we tried to remember that period of time – we will see that when he was talking about the “pure Germany”, and now hearing about deporting the foreigners and having the “pure Denmark” as Pia Kjærsgaard likes it, don’t you think it’s a bit close?

“Becoming a part of the 'selected'", as Michala Clante Bendixen, member of the Committee for Underground Refugees says in her last article in Politiken newspaper on 16 of May, or being a citizen, is getting to be a kind of dream for the foreigners or let’s say “the Aliens”. Or, as Michael Svennevig, the Danish Novelist and play writer, says: “to be accepted in the group is one of the main targets which you have to work on”. But, let’s have a moment of thinking; many reasons were under the light when those people fled from their homelands, political reasons or humanitarian, and now they have another kind of surviving project in this community called “holding the spider’s network” where every body have what's call "starting help" from the government, which you have to make a dramatic system for your self to reach to the end of the month doing nothing - just eating and school. But, what kind of integrating it will be if you are just attending school and have no ability - because of the Financial situation - to do any thing else?. So this network is the lowest limit to live which you will feel like you had been stock in it with no moves.
So, do the humanitarian organizations - Amnesty International, Red Cross-Asylum Department, Danish Refugee Counsel to name a few - have any kind of effects on the present government with the situation of “Aliens” here, I don’t think so, and if, it will be like a painkiller injection for a short period of time while they cook more new laws and rules in their “politician’s kitchen” for the guests.

P E N A B E R ... Kurdish literature in exile 2

En eftermiddag i selskab med kurdisk og dansk poesi, litteratur og musik
Firat Ceweri, Dorthe Nors, Alan Pary, Jan Pêt Khorto, Niels Hav, Axin Welat, Line-Maria Lång og Adil Erdem.


For Dansk PEN er litteratur en brobygger mellem kulturer. Vi vil med Shahrazade-turnéerne gerne give et dansk publikum mulighed for at stifte bekendtskab med en række forfattere, med rødder i andre kulturer og litterære traditioner, der har slået sig ned i de nordiske lande. Flere har omfattende forfatterskaber bag sig og er kendt blandt læsere verden over, andre er nye stemmer.

Samtidig er det i PENs ånd, at skabe rum for forfattermøder på tværs af nationale og litterære grænser, og vi er derfor også meget glade for at præsentere forfattere, der er rundet af de danske traditioner.

P E N A B E R ... Kurdish literature in exile 1

En eftermiddag i selskab med kurdisk og dansk poesi, litteratur og musik
Firat Ceweri, Dorthe Nors, Alan Pary, Jan Pêt Khorto, Niels Hav, Axin Welat, Line-Maria Lång og Adil Erdem.


For Dansk PEN er litteratur en brobygger mellem kulturer. Vi vil med Shahrazade-turnéerne gerne give et dansk publikum mulighed for at stifte bekendtskab med en række forfattere, med rødder i andre kulturer og litterære traditioner, der har slået sig ned i de nordiske lande. Flere har omfattende forfatterskaber bag sig og er kendt blandt læsere verden over, andre er nye stemmer.

Samtidig er det i PENs ånd, at skabe rum for forfattermøder på tværs af nationale og litterære grænser, og vi er derfor også meget glade for at præsentere forfattere, der er rundet af de danske traditioner.

Confusions

Ignore me...go over...as you can... Ma'am...until I'll hear this voice in my head, annoying me "hey...hey...get off...that's not your Terminal",,,,He said it after his second bottle of wine to the Picture while he was trying to find a way to apologize to his friend.

Confusions

What is the purpose of THROWING the caring and the interest aside from the women...there is someone who try to be IN the Liking Process - I think always- but you(women) have to know who and when and where to start ? HEY females need your whispers.....

Interview med Jan Pêt Khorto - Berlingske Tidende 14/10/2009

En ung og fremadstormende kurdisk/syrisk intellektuel sidder på sit værelse og skriver på en roman om sin flugt fra de syriske sikkerhedsstyrker i Aleppo til livet i et isoleret asylcenter i Danmark.

Udenfor ligger de lave gule murstensbygninger på toppen af Stevns Klint, hjemsted for Nike- og Hawk-raketbatteri 533, indtil Murens fald gjorde jord-til-luft-forsvaret af København overflødigt. Den tidligere fremskudte base mod den røde fare er nu indrettet og nyåbnet som midlertidigt asylcenter.

»Vi er så mange her. Men her er god plads, og det er meget bedre end Sandholm,« siger Jan Pêt Khorto. Han er journalist, digter og forfatter med drømme om en karriere som filminstruktør. Men hjemme i Aleppo kom han som kurdisk nationalist og menneskerettighedsaktivist, der forfægter sin ytringsfrihed, hurtigt i den syriske sikkerhedstjenestes søgelys.

Fire måneders fængsel med tæsk og brækkede lemmer. Et liv under jorden i Damaskus. Nye møder. Ny arrestation.

»Jeg betalte en menneskesmugler 2.000 euro for at komme fra Syrien via Tyrkiet til Grækenland. Derfra via Tyskland til Tønder. Og nu er jeg her,« fortæller Jan Pêt Khorto – som er det kunstnernavn, han tog i Syrien i et forgæves forsøg på at snyde sikkerhedstjenesten, Mukhabarat.

Jan viser rundt i Sigerslevlejren. Det er hurtigt overset. Her til højre er basketbanen og fitnesscentret. Til venstre ligger lave, gule murstenshuse med kontorer og værelser til asylansøgerne. Receptionsbygningen rummer TV-stue, internetcafe og billardrum. Og bagerst ud mod klinten og Køge Bugt ligger fodboldbanen.

»I begyndelsen, da jeg kom til Sandholm, var jeg chokeret. Jeg følte mig som i et fængsel igen. Vi var fire i et rum, og det var forfærdeligt, når man som jeg er et læsende menneske. De andre skulle høre musik og se TV, så det var umuligt at tænke. Her i Sigerslev er det meget bedre,« siger Jan, der har taget initiativ til at udgive en asylansøger avis på engelsk.

Confusions

كحفنةِ ثلجٍ اسكندنافيٍّ خذيني

و مرِّغيني

مرِّغي تاريخيَ المشؤومَ الحريْقَ في بحرِ البلطيقْ

فقد خارتْ مسلَّاتُ ديانتيَ الأولى

و ها أنا أعتنِقُ دينَ الحِبْرِ الموشومِ على سُرَّتِكْ

Confusions

As a Scandinavian handful of snow take me

and saturate me

Saturate my fateful burned history in the Baltic Sea

because already my first believes collapse

and now, believe in the ink religion which i draw around your navel.

Confusions

يرفَعُ يَدَهُ اليُسرى باتجاهِ إلهِ يومه و يصرخْ ... يصرُخُ حتى يُحطِّمَ أعمدةَ سمائِهِ هامِساً : لماذا , لماذا قتلتَ ذاكرتي.

Confusions

أحملُ طُبُولي على كتفي واصرخُ كما اعتادت أوداجيَ على الهمسَ المحرَّمْ : كفاكَ هياجا على التبغ ابتيْ .... أعطي الشَّواهِدَ حقَّ الدُّخانِ.

Confusions

Raises his left hand towards the God of his day and screaming ... shouting until he collapse the sky's columns, whispering:

why, why did you killed my memories.

يستقيمُ اليقينُ هُنا مُجدَّداً

من على نافذةٍ ..نافذتيْ

لتتمشَّقَ أصواتٌ قديمةٌ من شرقٍ أعلنَ استبسالهُ في عُمقيْ

فتترنَّحَ قابضةً بأكفِّ العماءِ خِواءَ قاعاتِ سلاطينِ الكوردِ الموءودةْ.

Di nav ewrin xwedê de... tîrevana xwedî evînê rewastiye.... ku kejalekî bi hestekî hurayî bankê û qêrîn bike.... ey xwedan,,ey dilovan,,ev çi setem te li ser gemîyê çemê ciyanê me nivîsandiye,, ev çi sînor û ferman te li dor zarokin kurdan dijîye,, ev çi xewn û xeyal te di dilê her xort û keç û şivan kiriye.... ez guhdarim xwedan,,, mizgîno..

الكتابة

إن نقل حقائق الدنيا نقلاً صحيحاً إلى الكتابة أو الشعر.. هو انتزاعها من الحياة في إسلوب و إظهارها للحياة في إسلوبٍ آخر يكون أوفى و أدق و أجمل ,لوضعه كلَّ شيء في خاصِّ معناه, وكشفه حقائق الدنيا كشفةً تحت ظاهرها الملتبس .

تلك هي الصناعة الفنية الكاملة , تستدرك النَّقصَ فتتممه,و تتناول السرَّ فتعلنه , و تلمسُ المقيَّدَ فتطلعه , و تأخذ المُطْلقَ فتَجُدَّه , و تكشف الجمال فتظهره, و ترفع الحياة درجةً في المعنى , وتجعلُ الكلامَ كأنَّهُ وجد لنفسه عقلاً يعيشُ به .

Groan

He waved
the day he was going rebelling to the mountain,
kissed me on my forehead
surrounded me with his arms
to implant in my back
the finger's pain over the years.
We were alone
killing time
making time's hands drunk
writing
singing together
he heard me in an instant
an old symphony
the forefathers were involved in,
inspired the fingers
became a prophet, playing on the strings
a song for Shivan
called in Kurdish
"Havale bar giranim"
Followed by
"Welat", then "Ciwan Haco"
to thunder the sky upon us
a bridge of tears.
Under olive trees, we were singing
in the land
which my father inherited from a spiteful father
we drew a dream
on red dust
carved our names on an old trunk
to keep the memory
of something missing.
Told me a secretly
to write characters on the chest of a crazy man
to write the story of spite
to a kind mother
to write a history
of the land
for people
who know only the language of the graves.
He stands as a blatant fool
"Here I am. Hey land!
Here I am. Hey sky!
I am a bird
accepting to be slaughtered to be humble
I am denying my body, for an unbelieving soul
here I am
releasing the groan of the Ink from my fingers
to write an epic
of blood and tyranny.
This I am, who are you?"
He put the tambur on his shoulder
then he said
"I hand you my pen
If I don't come back
write to my mother about me
and tell her that I found myself..."
and started walking
singing loudly
"Ey Reqip Her"
to leave me silent and alone,
with no words.

The eternal scribbler - Interview with Jan Pêt Khorto

By David

A Kurd of high education, Jan studied Mass Media in Syria where he couldn't complete his degree because he was expelled for political issues and his offensive poetry to the Government.

He has been here in Denmark as an asylum seeker for five months now. Already he is presently editor in chief of ID ZONE, a newspaper dealing with issues of asylum seekers in Center Sigerslev. He is also a member of Dansk Pen (Danish Association of Writers).

He is not new in this business as, at the age of 18, he established a newspaper back in Syria in Arabic - but sadly it was stopped. He was also founder of "KOMA BEJE", whose target was to publish a magazine about the Kurds in Arabic. However, the newspaper never saw the light of day because of members being arrested and detained.

Apart from this, Jan is a fine poet and has published 2 poem books in Arabic called "It's just never ending words" and "The puzzles". A third one which he wrote in Denmark is now in progress and will be published soon. Lately and presently he is working on a novel.

A cultural man, A and is also actively involved in the NEW TIMES newspaper in Copenhagen.

Life experienced

When asked how this young man became such a fine poet, journalist, writer, play producer, he answered: "I am not specially trained in any institutions for this talents, rather it was inspired by the life style, social and political situations of the Kurds living in Syria, and also by their problems in the four parts of Kurdistan in the Middle East. The horrible feeling of everyday killings, arrests, tortures, marginalization and forced displacement. These things had a deep impact on me", he said.

He wrote the first poem when he was 15 and since then his inspirations have been the situations around him. He had many plans and had hoped to achieve a lot in communicating to the people through his talents the idea of love and peace and injustice in the world, but now he is trying to harmonize with his new environment, i.e. Denmark, in terms of the culture, lifestyle and the weather.

New challenges
Asked how he is coping with his new life in Denmark, he said: "I like the lifestyle because the system is working perfectly, i.e. the social system, and there are lots of opportunities to improve oneself if you really look for it in the right places."
In his free time, when not on his busy and hard schedule, he is an ardent reader and painter and listens so much to classical music to help him relax. Asked what he feels about the Danish women, he replied, "I like the Scandinavian women so much that they inspired me to write my latest poem. I dont believe that the women here are as cold as people believe".
Asked what he doesn't like about Denmark so far, he answered, "I find the health care system in Denmark not so good, and I dont like the gap they make between the religions, especially between the Muslims and Christians. I believe that human morals and beliefs should be respected, and I believe in intergrating humans together irrespective of race, colour and religion."
"Overall, though," he continues, "I feel very well here in Denmark because I have been been given the chance to do what I like doing".

Go for it

He has got no regret so far in his life and advises people who already are, or are aspiring to be in this line of work, to feel free and have the will to be what they want to be.
Through and through he thinks he still has a long way to go and when asked about his goal in the future, he said: "In the nearest future, I hope to improve on things I like so much, such as writing and researching, and I am trying to study Film-making here in Denmark or Germany. It all depends on my next situation, but above all I want to be a world acclaimed humanity poet".

Confusions

تجرَّعي ترتيليَ يا أيَّتُها الطَّلاسِمُ المُخردلةُ في أقبيةِ سُفُرِ رياحِ الشَّمال.

Confusions

It's wrong to live life as it is ..... Make a Revolution in your thought every once in a while to have the wisdom.

Confusions

It's time for the noise to be shy ... For The silence to be loud, even once.

Confusions

Why are the thoughts always trying to sweep into the great gate inside us exhausting our will to prove their existence?