POETIC DELIGHTS BY NAYMA CHAMCHOUN-MOROCO
A journey to Bethnal Green.
It seems odd to take this path
when it doesn`t lead to you,
every weekend racing to merge.
Unpacking the whole weeks events.
when the words faded,
a flood of desire
carrying away the worlds lament.
Now the words have stopped.
The desire, terminated.
Faded snapshots of memory
as I alight at your stop.
A cat burglar in your hood.
Here for my own ends,
avoiding detection,
the places you stood.
In the rush hour trickle and flow,
beaming in your manor.
The Pearly King of banter,
lullabies of the Bells of Bow.
I am the thief of love,
taking hearts when mine is broken,
unbearable, hopeful longing, unspoken,
stealing through coves
of love`s end
in the East End.
2-NO FILTER
This is me; here I sit
growing into my aged jacket
accepting my invisibility.
Rebuking my fragility.
Am I irrelevant?
Wearing my wrinkles as a sackcloth and ashes.
Should I reinvent
myself for the applause
of the social media masses?
Twits twittering on Twitter
showcasing shells on Insta
scrolling and trolling
perfecting personas on FB,
a photoshopping melée.
A veil of airbrushed sadness.
I need more because I am less.
Filtering faces and not words,
subsisting on praises,
captive in like cages.
A pound of flesh under the knife,
erasing evidence of a lived life.
Fattening up my lips and ass,
a fatted calf,
as a stranger berates me in the looking glass.
Are my eyebrows "on fleek"?
Am I scathingly "savage" enough?
Am I too "woke" or not enough?
I log in and await your critique.
Let`s celebrate the cover, not the book.
Post a pic as the panel rates you.
Have an opinion and we hate you.
Losing our humanity on the Book.
I have wandered the London streets
donning my expiry as an invisibility cloak.
As the gaze of the "lit" quickly retreats,
before dissolving into the city`s big smoke
I have sat with Eliot as we shared despair
after shop-worn shared niceties
over tea and cakes and ices.
Exchanging troughs and peaks as we
laughed and cried
Bitching with Bukowski; waving to Sylvia
as we died.
Empty voices filling the space with speech,
their flawless faces behind a screen.
Me, out of touch.They, out of reach.
Where reality and the virtual scheme,
I have haunted the void in-between.
Should I question the truth whilst believing the lie?
The hoards flock to Tik Tok,
Famous for fifteen minutes
to shock, to rock, to mock,
to exhibit without limits.
But I am old and the light in their eyes has died.
3-CHASING POETS
I gazed into fields and blades of grass and my bones felt the cold.
At Wordsworth`s cherished crowds,
Densely adrift as the wayfaring clouds.
And of Brooke`s eternal England,
I searched sorrowfully for the strand
that could tie my restless hand
to belonging and the end of longing.
The crisp air greyly blurs the awning,
Dimming the warmth and staining the sun`s vivacious gold.
In Shakespeare`s Eden, the apple eaten
and the sins repeatedly died for.
Buoyed by Blake to ride thought`s soar,
The wings, heavy and lackadaisical.
Craving the heights of the astrophysical,
Dawn`s song that sang of the metaphysical.
Of exploding colour and scorching heat,
The light`s verve coaxing easy release.
Quenched by alpine streams softly seeping.
Browning`s amour of April brings but icy showers
Which douse and deaden the embers,
Still, the senses longingly remember
the thoughts of the home abroad
where the heart Titianly thawed
and the spirit sprawled in awe.
The shepards of Rossetti who save
seek the flock that in turn saves
as they herd the arduous days and hours.
The disturbance of Eliot`s Spring disturbs from deep within,
Her shades paled and grey like granite
as silver stealthily bleeds out the night.
Where are the mornings whose chorus awakes?
The birdsong that reaches the ear and makes
One rise from their bed to cheerfully embrace
each tiny tick of the calculating clock.
The beats that race and breathlessly stop
at the trailing voices in the air, cajoling the song bliss brings.
Affronted by Larkin`s bespectacled smirks
Tolling up life`s net and gross worth,
Desecrating the temple of the earth
as they profit and pass on expense
without conscience or penitence.
Still, your presence arms defense,
The oration that speaks life into living,
The company of the heart`s Thanksgiving,
The joysome Jannah of poetic converse.
AUTHOR:
Nayma Chamchoun is a British Moroccan writer, poet and performance poet. Her writing is
influenced by her cultural duality. She is interested in female voices in the diaspora community,
the challenges they face within both communities and the taboos around mental health within
their ancestral communities.
Nayma is an active member of London`s vibrant Poetry and Spoken Word community, the
international Poetry community online and has performed her work at several Poetry Open Mike
events including the Grenfell 5 year Anniversary, Women Writing Lockdown Exhibition at the
House of Commons, and had her work featured on West Wiltshire Radio & BBC Radio London
several times.
Her first poetry collection COVID: THE WORDY WILDS OF A MIND UNDER LOCKDOWN
was published to critical acclaim in 2022
Her second collection Saging Not Ageing, published on June 1st 2024.
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