poems in English The Artist and his Exhibition Aida Nasrallah At the height of the crisis The artist curled up to take a nap Crouching like a cat in the corner Glancing from his palace Watching the time His senses smelled the blood He had on him while dozing away * * * still the shoes of Ahmmad runing away clunk somewhere in the artist’s drawer Ahmmad’s shoes were lucky enough to escape the shot That blew up Ahmmad’s head * * * Ali’s shirt is still alive Ali hasn’t reached the age When girls dream about black eyes When girls dream about the white horse Ali was on the threshold of the dream When his shirt turned to a velvet color Ali’s shirt still hangs dreaming in the artist’s drawer More valuable was Ali’s shirt than Ali * * * In the middle of the street Miriam was singing: Ashii batta, wazi, deek, hmamai, Shabara amara , kalli Sisdi mosa eddi el-ashara One ..two …three… Before she’d reached ten Her song bled And little Miriam’s doll Still smiled, smeared with blood, in the artist’s drawer * * * at the height of the crisis the artist retreated to his studio like a cat lying down in the corner waiting for a chance to go and pick up the rest of the blood still, the artist gets the audience’s stamp of approval he climbs the eyelids of the homeland while Ahmmad’s shoes, Ali’s shirt and Miriam’s doll hold their rumbling ceremony in the artist’s drawer. Covered their dreams The Ceremony of Women Every morning women perform their ancient ceremony Embracing their warm dreams Weaving their nostalgias for the water wells And for the winds’ song coming on the wings ********* every morning women sew beds for their spoiled bodies bleeding the left lust from their eyelids and like a spoiled lentil grain grind their desires ******* in the morning women beautified by yellow smiles by counting the cups/the dresses/and the agony of the loss of their erect breasts women perform their old habits plucking their hair, waiting for the coming moaning spit out their old skin into coffee cups rummaging for their eyes in the drifting smoke ******* but when the roar of the iron monster sweeps their heads and when the blood spreads in the streets and the dead gazes intertwine the olive trees scream in the corners then women change their ceremonies hurl off their old meals made of nostalgia /their beautiful trifles when the blood soaks the dreams women change their ceremonies and turn all into one scream . edited by Vince Ford Just a moment ago They were here Still their beds healing their steps /running in place Their laughter still slips into the walls Just a moment ago I heard their music, Their cigarettes still burning The coats of men, of women, Babies’ dolls still whispering their songs Still here Before a final scream Covered their dreams In The Bottle Neck During the day, she grinds the walls of the house By her teeth Her skin absorbs the dust of the road. During the night, She grinds her shanks, Blood flows from her eyes, And water on her bed. during the day,she washes her empty time by counting the rooms by chewing the live meat, And at night ,an icy wall, A pile of dullness, slips between her thighs, she squeezes the agony of her time , an illusory man! during the day,she plucks out her hair, waiting for the coming mourning and at night ,she hides the key of her keyhole In the invisible For fear that a dead skin Might perch between her breasts During the day,she drives away flies from her spoiled memories And at night,she obsessed by madness That flows from her top to her bottom, She sleeps upon her face, With a crushed dream, Till a repeated day rises And wash, And pluck out, And drive away, Then another night falls…! ABDULLA When Abdulla is filled with sorrow, His shoulders embrace his eyebrows. Eating himself ,and Leaning on a chance, He carries his provisions: “Some olives and his mother`s breath.” He presses them to his bosom, And ties them to his waist, fearing about the slipping away Of the remaining drops of warmth, And wipes with his tattooted hands, By the leaves of years, A face like an old stone, Spoiled by waters at the bottom of the ocean. He smells twice, Open his mouth, Yawning like an over –bored cat , And moves his wood –feet, Dragging his nose ahead of him After a morsel! HYMNS WITHOUT RYTHHM O,You,Who is standing erect in front of me! Filled into your Frowining shirt, Your body is a Whale That preferred imprisonment Untie your nets! Set yourself free! Deflower the waves! And raise the foam ……………………….. your frowning shirt will melt away!
Posted on: Sun, 25 Aug 2013 04:55:22 +0000
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