Letters

Poems

Introductions

Cheerfully conversing, she was warm and courteous.
She stood tall, smiling playfully, relaxed,
and quietly captivating.
Her long, wavy hair highlighting eyes full of nostalgia,
curiosity and wonder.
Many interactions together, where tensions of all sorts
would fade and flare, and when silence returned,
a single glance reignited new dreams.
Her presence radiated like the midday sun.
Splendid like a joyful greeting,
Fully engaged, graceful, and at ease.
Her delight was so strong, it became tangible—
something that could be seen, almost touched.
Something radiant that I recall
and to remember her genial interaction.
She carried an air of quiet dignity, delicate, and refined.
Elegance surrounded her fondly.
Gazing from afar, I felt immersed
in glory for she allowed me fleeting
glimpses to a magnificent beauty.

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My Sunshine 

Clouds may collide.
Conspiratorial fog
May thicken the plots.
Heavy rains may dampen
The evening’s fires.
But the sun does not ask
For permission.
It seizes the day.
Splendid and uncontested
It wanders across the land.
Lighting up everything,
Letting them glow,
Their shadows flow.
Basking in the sunlight
Is a joy the world awaits.
For when it touches you
It is your time to shine.

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Thinking of You

Please do not suggest songs,
poems, writers, or films to me.

These works are only distractions
from giving you my full devotion.

I would rather remember
your smile endlessly

than play a song
that reminds me of you.

I’d give up every literary masterpiece
for a short walk beside you.

The perfume you wear, your designer shoes,
your jewelry, and your fashionable clothes

would mean nothing on anyone else.
It is you I desire; it is your company I miss.

To your eyes I promise the endless blooming
of wildflowers in an eternal spring.

I long to protect your long fingers,
to caress your neck, and brush your hair.

When we are apart, I speak to you in silence,
wishing I were with you,

hoping you think of me as well,
and eagerly awaiting the moment I see you.

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Your Hopeful Responses

To keep this fire burning,
shower me
with your lingering gaze,
your genuine, unhurried smile,
or simply walk beside me
a little longer.
These quiet gifts
are your letters of approval,
as I await each one’s arrival.

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Selected Lines

Poems
Each of these lines appeared in a poem of mine.

 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.

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Fayrouz

Poems
“The legendary Lebanese singer and greatest living Arab diva” BBC, 2008
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.


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On Alert

Poems 


 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.

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The Needles in the Haystack

Poems 


 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.
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Preface of Wildflowers

Poems

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.

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Bending Line

Poems 
 



 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.
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Wounded Cheeks

Oasis of Doubts, Poems 


 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.
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Should I Engage?

Oasis of Doubts, Poems

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.Facebooktwittermail