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Best Algerian Poems

Below are the all-time best Algerian poems written by Poets on PoetrySoup. These top poems in list format are the best examples of Algerian poems written by PoetrySoup members

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The Best Algerian Poems

Details | Algerian Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Of Gods and Men

Men of cloth
Men of faith
Against all evils, lost hopes
Choose the light and will of the gods

They stay
Where all others flea
They reflect upon lost causes
Yet give of heart and sweat to the poor

They are not brave hearts
They are but kind souls
To the last breathe
Weep not for these heroes

The village adores and praises
For kindness transcends religious teachings
To cure and heal is god's gift
And natures way of life eternal

Pascal’s wager in the minds of a few
As old men contemplate
Wildflowers who by the grace of god, receive the sun
So in fate, planted, they stay, they do not run

They are not the last or only
They are but the hope of what can be
They reflect the goodness we all desire
In love of mankind

Des hommes et des dieux, dedicated to the Trappist monks who lived in harmony with the largely Muslim population of Algeria, until seven of them were kidnapped and assassinated in 1996 during the Algerian Civil War.

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2013

Details | Algerian Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Unquotable quotes: Outsiders and Odd Men - XXVIII

Unquotable quotes: Outsiders and Odd Men – XXVIII

                 for Colin Wilson (1931-1913) 
                    regrets for the “provoked” faux pas

To each his own: to Colin Wilson his alienated creators, doers and thinkers – Lawrence of Arabia, Nijinsky, Van Gogh (to name but a sample), but what about those who sweated their lives out within soft screen to hard covers: James Mason’s “Johnny McQueen” in Carol Reed’s version of Green’s Odd Man Out; Steinbeck’s mute mice and merciless military men in Viva Zapata; King Wen of Chou trapped within the hexagram Ming Yi for six years in the tyrant’s dungeons made ultimate sense of stray lines on tortoise shells or El Mancho of Lepanto languishing for years in Algerian stone quarries for want of 30 thousand ducats hatched his quixotic plot to appease those who let their whims overwhelm them; like a Ho who would not let a defeated people go down on their knees to superior fire power; like a Gandhiji who elevated and enshrined hundreds of millions of Dalit sous-hommes in articles of human rights in the sub-continent’s Constitution; like the Midnight Oil’s wail to keep sleeping on while their beds burn Down Under: ‘A fact’s a fact/It belongs to them/Let’s give it back’; like Kurosawa’s Seven Samurai come to the rescue of guileless peasants at the mercy of brigands and the waywardness of seasons; like a Mandela who steered his beaten down and trampled apartheid victims into the clear ground of fairplay in the aftermath of Botha detention; like a Lenin unwilling to let the Tsarist insouciance feed on the under-fed and over-worked proletariat corpse: like Mao who took his diehard followers on the Long March to re-possess his ravaged country equally from traitors and infiltrators and scheming conqueror hoards; like the general who turned the tables on his colonial masters to found the nucleus of the Republic now in Washington; like a Lincoln who forestalled Jefferson’s segregationist and cleansing plans of repatriation to bind the Union in mixed blood; like the ever-faithful Castro ready to sacrifice in bon-fires his women and children to face the Roman conqueror onslaught….
	All all “outsiders” who harbour the spirit of the “odd man out” in their psyches and willing at all cost to pay the ultimate price for wanting in their dreams to change this incorrigible world in the grasp of bigoted profiteers….

© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2016

Copyright © T Wignesan | Year Posted 2016

Details | Algerian Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Boomerang Bullets

A cosmic river
of boomerang bullets
fired decades ago ripping through
Indian flesh Black bodies 
Vietnamese heads
Lebanese souls and millions more
of assorted uncounted Others each
little lead blob morphing through
ancient mosques and bible belts
Algerian dead ends in Mexican villages 
erased lives scattering through space time
shape shifting as they return to the unholy 
source of gold diggers graves and Left Bank royals 
a rush of karma fueled vengeance
returning as a no-mans jihad against
everyone and 

Copyright © Ricardo Gonsalves | Year Posted 2015

Details | Algerian Poem | Create an image from this poem.


A week in Spain, the Pyranees, a picturesque drive
from Barcelona, where I had not thought to become the owner
of sanity once more, there, where the command of a
mountain is to Look Up, leave the roiling band of unrest
over airways, TV screens, the front page unquiet
conversation we are accustomed to in our Nation,
no escape from that, except in rarified altitudes of no rape.
un-civil wars, terrorism, assaults with handguns, students killed
in classrooms.  "Loony Tunes" play in this country we love,
America, and abroad a Middle East in crisis.  It's a given,
said my husband, born Algerian: no peace, No Peace.
So, home again, I said, standing in a postal queue,
Mazel Tov to absence of all this among the hills
of rural Spain, where, Yes, there's rain, but much less
pain. The postal clerk was unkind, he said,
Girl?  Why Mazel Tov? When here you could
have merely turned your television off.

Copyright © Nola Perez | Year Posted 2014

Details | Algerian Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Spring In The Air

Hello, Spring !

Poesy season, has come to speard a shade
Say, hello spring *you're the prime of age*
Earth rubbed her eyes, to live new page
Regaining the fresh pretty looks, left behind

Hills awakening from deep, long sleep
By love fingers, they take gentle caress
Sendding the happiness to every steep
And to low lands, to dunes that impress

To the beautiful gardens, to the laughing flower
And to hills that smile, and their running streams
Touching the birds, on branches higher and lower
And to butterflies, spinning around flowers' rims

Joy in the vast spaces, joy on the high mountain
On its grass, and among the flocks that graze
To the sea waves, to the barque, its captain
Over the waves, and to the thunders that daze

In cheers singing, like birds with nice tongues
Send your poesy, like twitters and yell, hello !
Spring is here, this is the place, time is mellow
Verse it in these flowers and croon them in songs

And write a poem on skillfully scanned metrical feet
You have a thousand foutains, in each scenery
Poetic fountains, flowing with golden harmony

***Translated from Algerian poet * Mohammad Akhdar Essaihi***



Copyright © Lonely Shepherd | Year Posted 2016

Details | Algerian Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Bleeding Before Rome -1

The bombers began to bleed
their heavy tears of death
from 20,000 feet above the breathless battlefield, 
B-17 Flying Fortress formations
moving with apocalyptic aplomb
the shadows of high metal crosses by the hundreds
rippling along the rugged roman earth
bringing a crescending growl and the blind bomb,
defenders of the Gustav Line sat low
in concealed holes waiting for hell
smelling the sounds of a rushing scorch,
feeling the percussion of irrevocable panic
for in these ungodly moments
life was no longer theirs to expect,
either obliteration into wet dust
or resurrection into ruthless warfare
would be the soldier's legacy, 
Allied forces on the outskirts
of this unbridled bombardment
experienced a surreal sympathy for the entrenched enemy, 
every explosive burst
shocked their souls one step further
into this war's smoldering agony
where victory's luster looked more and more
like a reflection of burning insanity, 
the American 5th Army and British 8th
shared combat and confused humanity together
from Syracuse to the beaches of Salerno
saddling the spine of Italy's mountainous spikes
treking northwards into the Nazi winter hinterlands,
Britain's Commonwealth regiments were cast
from territories vast and volatile, 
New Zealand Irish Scots, Indian Punjabi, 
and Gurkha mountaineers from Himalayan Nepal,
French Foreign Legions that adopted
Moroccan daggers and Algerian amorality,
this was the Second Front of strategic slaughter
that Churchill and Stalin had barked for,
the butcher's bill for Normandy's upcoming beachheads,
the battle of Kursk in the East in '43
nearly broke the Russian Bear
this Italian theater was a desperate spear,
Monte Cassino's 6th century Benedictine Abbey
was more than a fort of Christian faith
it was a fortress overseeing Highway 6
the road to Rome and the Devil's fist,
walls of solid bone masonry 10 feet thick
having heights of 150 feet on a peak 1,800 feet tall,
from this colossal structure atop a mountain
German artillery spotters could pinpoint and pummel
Allied troop movements with immediate precision
while machine gunners, Nebelwerfers and mortar crews
would be enabled to effectuate their destruction efficiently, 
international law forbade the use or assault by military means
of this historic landmark, it was organic history
frescos of Genesis, an alter to God by Michelangelo
woodwork of Medieval work ethic
porticos inspired by the Pax Romana
and a library of genius groomed by intellectual love -


Copyright © Justin Bordner | Year Posted 2017

Details | Algerian Poem | Create an image from this poem.

dreams under dust 1of2

i read and hear online the words 
from the other side of the world, 
the bearded angst and deeply rutted face 
of a soul with far, far too much 
sorrow to carry.

my eyes well, as i 
cannot help but too, 
share in the sorrow 
of the loss born by 
farmer Muhammad Wazir

Muhammad, from Panjwai district lost:
his mother, Shakarina,
his wife, Zahra,
his four daughters, 
Massoma, Farida, Palwasha and Bibya
two of his sons, 
Ismatullah and Faizullah,
a brother, Akhtar,
a nephew and 
a sister-in-law

Only the youngest son
Habib Shah is still alive
How can a father, a husband,
a son, a brother, bare it?

"I loved them all like 
they were parts of my body,... 
All my dreams are buried 
under a pile of dust now"
Wazir states. "My little boy, 
Habib Shah, is the only one 
left alive, and I love him 
very much" says Wazir.

I have a hard time
with the concept that it
must be God's will
to condemn anyone to this

Did Staff Sgt. Robert Bales
snap like a twig in the 
wanton disregard to sanctity
of children and mothers...
civilians. Who can forgive?
...Who can stand it?

Bales' wife Karilyn sends 
"condolences to all the people 
of the Panjawai District ... 
especially to the parents, 
brothers, sisters and grandparents 
of the children who perished"

Though heartfelt to be sure
she must realize that Bob
is beyond "normal" forgiveness
A strength like the Amish 
is needed to look into 
enraged hate filled eyes
with tearful forgiveness

What good...what good can
we possibly squeeze from
such tragic carnage?
Maybe God knows that answer.
I can only feel the sorrow.

meanwhile in Toulouse, France
Mr. Mohammed Merah,
a Frenchman of Algerian decent
knows in his heart that
retribution is necessary

and three French paratroopers, 
of North African descent, 
as well as a Rabbi and 
three Jewish schoolchildren,
pay with their lives

the Rabbi, and his two daughters
might have been aware of their
responsibility for the Panjwai
tragedy, perhaps not,

....{continued in 2of2}

© Goode Guy 2012-03-21

Copyright © Goode Guy | Year Posted 2012

Details | Algerian Poem | Create an image from this poem.

Frantz Fanon (From Pages)

Martinique is in our history too
Not just in our blood
Because Josephine seduced him
To make us reap more bitterness
From the ferment of the sugarcane
Martinique was also his home
His native shore
Long before Paris
It was his Algerian door
But why should I tell you this
For it is chronicled
In us who wear
A black mask
Over a white skin that do not appear
In the mirror of your soul
He could see beyond
The root of our insanity
Even when we were invisible
Not just to the whip cracker
Boot licker
Drum maker
Truce taker
This was our genius
Our noble gift to the barren world

Where shall I start over
My history, my image
I defended so long until I was washed in the night
And my bright brother does not see the carnage
Except Fanon tell them again
That in this polarized man
Are poles more wretched
And we wretched of the earth
Can hope now
For what? 
Steve Biko knew what direction the sun
Come crawling on the sky like a maggot
Biting in the apple of the eye.
There is so much frenzy in a storm
Death brings peace
The only peace we get for free
The one we never desire
Sometimes I wish I knew
How to turn the sun into fire
And cleanse the earth of me
As an image in another mind
But where would I get
Another mind to know
The litany of our regret.

We all have a Morocco dilemma
We are wounded there deeply
Like he was
What world is this they founded for us
This third marginalized
This obfuscation of reality
How shall we find in this
Another identity for a new begining
What woman is there
That will cease dancing with her shadow
And love me for the hope I am
For the absolutely beautiful reason
That I dream of death
Impaled like a fish
Gasping on the sand of his flesh

Copyright © David Smalling | Year Posted 2010

Details | Algerian Poem | Create an image from this poem.

unchain my heart from kabilya

Unchain my heart from Kabilya
Unchain my heart, my amazigh son

You make me weep

You left to Algiers

And I dare not cry

You are on your way to Rouiba

Oh amazigh son

You awakened my soul

I am your Kahina, my love

I die a thousand deaths each night

Because you are not with me

I had to help you get to your people

They need you more than me

Know that I love you, Algerian king

Know that I cry for you each night

I love you, my Algerian

Speak to the skies of Algeria 

Tell the skies and the mountains

I love you

I love you

Twahashtek Besef, ya oumri
Kathleen Voss Woolrich

Copyright © Kathleen Woolrich | Year Posted 2005