Live Encounters Poetry & Writing Vol 6 November-December 2024 by Live Encounters

Dr Salwa Gouda The Birth of the Reader

Man is a creative creature, and creativity is a life force that pushes life forward to a dynamic existence. Literary writing, as a creative act, plays an essential role in this direction. People throughout history trusted creative writers and considered them supporting agents in explaining human behaviors, motives, histories, tendencies and attitudes before the emergence of Psychology and human sciences. Not only were writers the prophets of inspiration and revelation but also the vehicles of wisdom, meanings and the saviors of the world at certain time in history when the people lost confidence in the power of religion and politicians. Nevertheless, the French literary critic Roland Barthes‘s essay, The Death of the Author 1967, challenges the traditional literary views by arguing against the idea of authors as sole creators of meaning. Instead, he suggests that writing emerges from various cultural influences rather than a single authorial voice.

The essay explores the evolution of the concept of the author and analyzes how different writers have challenged this notion. Barthes emphasizes a transformation in contemporary literature wherein the significance of the author is reduced, allowing the text to assume a prominent role. He contends that the essence of writing resides in the reading process, positioning the reader as the site where all meanings of the text intersect. Barthes argues that linking a text to its author constrains its potential for interpretation. By advocating for the “death of the author,” he promotes the emergence of the reader, freeing the text from a singular interpretation and permitting a multitude of meanings. Barthes critiques conventional critical methods that aim to reveal the author’s intentions, calling for a more exploratory interaction with literary works.

The notion of “the death of the author” holds significant appeal and relevance in contemporary discourse. Many individuals interpret texts from the perspective of the author’s identity, forming opinions based on their sentiments towards the writer rather than engaging directly with the content of the ideas presented. Central to this discussion is our desire to comprehend art through the lens of its creators, while simultaneously striving for a more complete understanding. We are in pursuit of answers. The phenomenon often termed the “cult of the author” is, in fact, a relatively recent development. During the Middle Ages, the practice of imitation was widespread and accepted; it was not considered a breach of copyright but rather a normative aspect of literary creation.

The phrase “the death of the author” means denying that the text originates from the author or that it is an expression of the author’s experience and life knowledge. The result is the denial of the creative self, creativity, and the originality of the creator. There is no doubt that this is strange and shocking, but this is what Roland Barthes explicitly calls for in his essay “The Death of the Author”.

This nihilistic view of the creative process is nothing but part of a comprehensive tendency that excludes the individual’s self from the center of human existence, denying any active role it has in history and replacing it with language, so that the self becomes a product of language rather than language being a product of the self, and the world and everything turn into a text.

It has been previously indicated that the replacement of language for the authorial self is part of a broader trend that seeks to undermine the centrality of the individual self as a source of literary creativity and as an active element in the movement of history, stripping it of all the humanistic values for which it has long struggled and began to achieve during the European Enlightenment. For this reason, Barthes states: “The author is a modern idea; it is the product of our societies that discovered, after emerging from the Middle Ages, the value and status of the individual, thanks to English empiricism, French rationalism, and the personal doctrine of the Reformation.

Thus, it was natural for this situation, which represents the essence of capitalist ideology, to attribute great importance to the figure of the author.” Here, Barthes reveals his ideological inclination against values that elevate the self, describing them as bourgeois capitalist values.

However, the target of this elimination is not just the authorial self; rather, the elimination aims at the critic, interpretation, and the meaning of the text and the subject in all its realistic, social, and historical dimensions, making the call for the death of the author a call to negate all elements of literary activity. He states: “When the author is excluded, the claim for interpretation becomes futile. To link the text to the author means to impose a limit on the text and to impose a final meaning upon it, thereby closing off writing, which suits the critic perfectly. The critic sees his primary task as uncovering the author—uncovering society, history, the self, and freedom within the text. When the author is discovered, the text is interpreted, which is considered a victory for the critic. Therefore, it is not strange that the undermining of the author represents an undermining of the critic.”

Roland Barthes posits that the concept of the ‘death of the author’ signifies the ‘birth of the reader.’ This assertion implies that the author does not hold the position of ultimate authority over the text, and that the interpretation of the text is shaped by the reader’s personal insights rather than the author’s intentions. Viewing a text solely as the creation of an author suggests that it is an isolated work, disregarding the myriad influences, references, and allusions that contribute to its overall significance. Barthes argues that attributing an author to a text imposes constraints, providing it with a definitive meaning and thereby restricting the reader’s interpretative freedom. He contends that the author’s name serves as a marker of finality, limiting the scope of meaning and leaving little opportunity for diverse interpretations. The notion of the ‘death of the author’ is thus a complex idea that does not pertain to the literal or physical demise of an individual.

The concept known as the ‘death of the author’ presents a paradoxical notion that does not pertain to the actual or physical demise of an author, but rather signifies the absence of the author within the text itself. By eliminating the author from consideration, a space is created for diverse interpretations by readers, leading to a multitude of distinct understandings. Barthes challenges the conventional perspective that positions the author as the origin of the text, the source of its meaning, and the sole authority on its interpretation. This perspective, as articulated by Barthes, heralds the ‘birth of the reader,’ as it empowers readers to assume control over the interpretative process.

It is paradoxical that Barthes, having dismissed the author and all the fundamental components of literary creation, chose to retain the reader. Nevertheless, he permitted the reader’s presence only after removing all essential and human characteristics. He asserts: “The reader is the space on which all the references that make up writing are inscribed without losing their identity... The reader, devoid of history, biography, and psychology, is merely the person holding all the traces that constitute the written text... The birth of the reader must be at the expense of the death of the author.”

Photograph by Mark Ulyseas.

©Mark Ulyseas

Abdel Wahab Al-Melaweh

Abdel Wahab Al-Melaweh (1961) is a Tunisian poet, translator, and novelist who has published more than ten poetry collections, two novels, and several critical studies.

Depth

The gardens that stay awake at night disturb no one

The sea is not as deep as you might think

And the sky that rises is not, in turn, higher

Days do not follow one another

Sometimes they falter in completing

Their circle and twist around themselves

A little recklessness will suffice

To stop life from lying,

And the trees shed their leaves

In defiance of the supposed justice of the seasons

Woodstock was not merely a sensual celebration

Or promotional posters to generalize the benefits of chaos

In an era of collective suicide

How astonishing it was to bear the ecstasy

Of the universe on the wings of butterflies!

And the apple contradicts Newton’s final prayer

It is not about Ginsberg’s howl or Kerouac’s road

Or Kubrick’s apple

For the flower could no longer bear its fragrance

Trapped in the archive of the future

The trees were adept at mixing rock with blues

As for the air, it has abandoned its neutrality

And has become less shy

It was necessary

To break the chains of time

And invent a feeling deeper than the sea

Higher than the sky

And quieter than the gardens

It was necessary for music without rhythm

Crying without tears, joy without laughter

Dancing without drums, longing without sadness

That is depth.

Ahmed Hussein Humaidan

Ahmed Hussein Humaidan (1958) is a Syrian poet, literary critic, and short story writer. He was born in Aleppo and has many poetic and critical publications. He also won the United Arab Emirates Writer’s Union Award in short story in two consecutive sessions (1999–2000).

Lady of Travel

You depart

O queen

And the kohl of the poem

In your eyes

Moans from abandonment

And the rejection of exile

So who

Can pull the warmth of your heart

From my day

And sing for the killing of the rose of love

Who Pushes my blood

Into the veins of the grave

While I

Am the traveler from you

To you

I came to you

With the boats of longing

Carrying what remains of me

So the departure precedes me

To my eyes

With the colors of mirage

And the winds of yearning overpower my sails

So your hands take them

And you travel towards the shores of the sea

Songs follow you

And I depart

continued overleaf...

Between the banks of the dream

Enveloped by wishes

The rope of night surprised me

Hanging before sunset

Tighten the sun of your eyes from me

So where will you remove the clouds?

Guide me

Where can I meet you

Perhaps

I can present the offerings of love

Perhaps I can see the rose of your face

Guide me

So I can read in you my prayer

And grant

The book of departure my greeting And something of my story And a chapter from my conclusion And take off My sails upon you

For your hands to fold them

You My queen Lady of travel.

Photograph by Mark Ulyseas.

©Mark Ulyseas

Ahmed Nabawi

Ahmed Nabawi is an Egyptian poet and academic. He deals with humanitarian themes in his poetry. His poetic career began early in the nineties. He has five collections of poetry: (Testimony of Love), (Wounds Have Tributaries), (Flames of Questions), (Scenes from the Refugee Camp), (The Brilliance of Colors), and two collections in print entitled (An Ant Said - The Doors). In addition, he has a collection of critical books, including The Poet’s Culture and the Production of Significance - The Poetics of Small Details - The Contemplative Tendency in Andalusian Poetry - The Heritage Tributaries in Andalusian Poetry.

A man without a head

Walks And behind him

A people without their heads They reproduce.

A man Without a head

Walks backwards

He treads upon the ruins of ages And digs through the days For images

Of an ancestor like him

Sources have told That thousands of innocent victims

Left life at his hands And that...

A man from ancient times

Leads the morning engine With lightness And pulls the train cars

Backwards

A man

Moved by his hands

Have you ever seen

A man Without a head

Walking?!

The door of joy

I hear his sobbing as he sings And both of his hands are hanging on the door He never leaves it He is trying hard to laugh He opens his lips But the muscles of his cheeks do not obey him He tries But it is a withered laugh Extinguished.

***

- O man: Your days have decayed And time has withered on your forehead And your beard has aged From how much it has soaked in your tears - O my son: Since they entered And closed the door And I am at the door.

***

I tried But it did not open And did not respond. ***

At the door

The rust of days has accumulated

Barricades of misery

Locks of pain

The bleeding of wounds

Chains of helplessness circle around him

And our friend

At the door has not left

Has not departed And has not disappeared.

In the house

I extend my hand to the food

I see in the plates

Our friend’s tears

And his melodious voice

I curl up inside

I open the window of imagination, hoping to...

I hear my wife shouting, complaining

And I see our pious elder

Throwing his garbage into the street

And our devoted guard

Steals from the garden

And sells its fruits in front of the mosque—

After he prays the evening prayer—

While he thanks God for his lawful earnings

The voice of our annoying neighbor

Who never stops screaming day and night

Pulls me out of my window.

I flee towards our friend

Standing by the closed door

His voice comforts me

As he sings:

His stone house is made of flower And its ceiling is the joy

The loved ones have vanished in the corridor of its allure And in the fields of light

No matter how deeply they delve into the light

They have not departed From their overwhelming charm

They stretched out their arms And closed the door

Since then I am by the door

They have not returned Nor have they opened it.

Photograph by Mark Ulyseas.

©Mark Ulyseas

Aicha Bassry

Aicha Bassry is a Moroccan poet, novelist, and storyteller. She has published several novels and poetry collections. She also won the International Prize for the Novel, Kateb Yassin (Algeria 2016) for the novel (Greta Garbo’s Granddaughters), the Simone Landry Prize for Women’s Poetry (Paris 2017) for her Divan (The Bathers in Thirst), and the Prize for Best Arabic Novel for the year 2018 (Sharjah Exhibition - United Arab Emirates). Her books have been translated into English, French, Spanish, Italian and Turkish. In addition, she has participated in many Arab and international cultural events (book fairs, festivals, and conferences).

Exercises on Solitude

(Every woman for herself)

To leave the bed

Without searching for an arm that embraced your night.

To enter the bathroom

Without stumbling over wet towels

Or mistaking the only toothbrush.

To gaze into the mirror

To comb your hair

To shake off the lingering sadness in your heart

To arrange the collar of your dress

And to admire yourself:

“How beautiful I am without the eyes of a man.”

To say to the sun:

“Good morning, light...”

Without drawing the curtains of chronic depression.

To enjoy the rhythm of the monotonous coffee bubbles

As they boil in the silence of the spacious house

Without running your hand over the silk fabric with a sigh: - Why didn’t I put out two cups?

To contemplate from the kitchen window

A lonely woman on the opposite sidewalk

Rocking the wait for someone who doesn’t come

Without whispering: That woman resembles me.

continued overleaf...

And indifferently, you turn your gaze Away from the scene of lovers exchanging love Without feeling a pang of nostalgia.

To start your day with a silent cup of coffee Without your eyes shedding tears.

To listen to the morning news Without remembering yesterday’s dreams

To follow the weather forecasts Without guessing that a rainy storm Will delay someone from the evening appointment.

When you sit at the desk You scold your fingers every time they attempt To open the email or Facebook You plunge into the blankness of the paper Then, You start writing a poem In celebration of solitude With just one condition: That you do not cry.

Photograph by Mark Ulyseas.

©Mark Ulyseas

Ali Al-Hazmi

Ali Al-Hazmi (1970) is a Saudi poet who obtained BA from the Arabic Language Department at Umm Al-Qura University in Mecca. His poems were published in Arab newspapers, magazines and many specialized cultural periodicals. He participated in reviving many poetry evenings in many local literary clubs, literary festivals and forums in a number of countries around the world. He has published nearly seven poetry books. Moreover, his poetry collections have been translated into French, English, Turkish, Romanian, German, Spanish and other languages. Al-Hazmi, also, awarded national and international prizes, among them: Poetry Prize at the Uruguayan Poetry Festival 201, The Grand International Prize of the International Poetry Nights Festival in Romania 2017, “Verbumlandi” International Poetry Prize, Italy, 2017, “Best International Poet of 2018” award from the International Poetry Translation and Research Center in China (IPRC).

Residing in Echo

I never turned to the past, I walked toward my tomorrow

Wrapped in clouds and light rain

I listen to the melody of life as if I were born at dawn

And I did not ask about those who shared my wandering dream

About those who fell into the pulse of my wounded song

Who walked in the wake of the anthem’s rhyme

And awakened a slender flute in the depths of the soul.

I never turned to the past, I walked toward my tomorrow

Advancing my steps, racing through the paths of dreams

A child of my pains, I step and open a smile for the light in his eyes

Clinging to the wing of a song, I soar behind questions that overlook absence

I chose from the flock of metallic faces to gaze into the void

And to initiate my residence outside as I see my shadow there

Clearly at sunset.

I never turned to the past, I walked toward my tomorrow

From the first cry before the call of those who passed from the ancestors

In my language, I was born, I was born from the wombs of the thirsty deserts

To the dew, I embraced the shawl of the wind in its wandering and drank

From a thirst that looms over the chants of the horizon.

But I have never bowed to the shade of a cloud that crossed

The wasteland of the soul and the distant yesterday.

I am the heir of confusion and memory

Residing in my free absence, bound to the snare of dust

I am the guardian of dreams from their tomorrow

And the priest of my first and last desire

I lean in my night towards a twilight enveloped in confusion

Captivated by the dwelling in the echoes of silence

Lightening the burden of the weights of existence

Nothing matters to me to touch in my imagination its shade

A phantom I see whenever I spoke to my face

In the mirrors of my solitude at dawn.

Ali Al-Shalah

Ali Al-Shalah (1965) born in Babylon, Iraq. He obtained a BA in Literature from the College of Arts, University of Baghdad, 1987 and an MA in Modern Literature, Yarmouk University, Jordan, 1996. He also obtained a PhD in Philosophy and History, University of Bern, Switzerland, 2007. Furthermore, he published five poetry collections and five books on criticism. He was the Founder and President of many cultural institutions, events and festivals, including the following: The founder and president of the Swiss Arab Cultural Center in 1995 and Al-Mutanabbi International Cultural Festival in Switzerland in 2000, President of Babel House for Cultures, Arts and Media, with two branches in Baghdad and Babylon, 2003; the founder and President of the Babylon Festival for International Cultures and Arts 2010, Chairman of the Culture and Media Committee in the Iraqi Parliament in 2010; and the Chairman of the Board of Trustees and President of the Iraqi Media Network 2014-2018.

Separation

My hands wept over hers

When she was about to gather her remnants

From the shade of my soul

She turned her gaze

In the desolation of the walls

Searching for salvation in her coldness

I calmed the walls

So they would remain captive to their silence

While the winds of that hand sang for escape

I didn’t know until today

What the pain of the wall truly was

Until I saw its ice weeping

But constrained by dignity

And all the storms spoke within my blood

So I fell silent from the overwhelming Dialogue.

After Ten Years

After ten years... I will not sit in the poets’ café, Nor in the artists’ taverns

I will not contemplate the minaret of the ascetics

Nor the feasts of my indulgent friends for worldly pleasures

I will not rejoice in the tales of lovers

Nor will I hold the door for Zuleikhas who are reborn.

After ten years

I will not read the news of the victors

I will not weep at the shrines of the defeated

I will not contemplate the colors of paintings

Nor the dreams of the portrayed

I will not smile at lovers dragging Their instincts in the squares

I will not build a house inhabited by others

Who curse me in it and bury the names of the builders.

After ten years

I will not walk

I will not cry

I will not laugh

I will not sing

I will not live...

I will die at the door of death alone

Refusing to leave me for a few seconds

So that my limbs may grow in this world

My language, my sighs will not help me to be exempted I scream in it and in me

Why today?

Why after ten years?

Why death?

Photograph by Mark Ulyseas.

©Mark Ulyseas

Ali Hassan

Some birds do not fly

When she spotted the first kite in the sky, she realized it was summer; it returned with its beautiful kites, but her father did not return. He promised her he would make her a kite from reeds, decorating it with all the colors she loved, then he left quickly and did not keep his promise!

She remembered her father; she wiped away a tear that escaped from her eye with one hand, and with the other, she waved to a kite soaring in the sky.

Despite her brokenness, her sorrow for her father quickly dissipated when joy blossomed in her heart, flowers sparkling in colors resembling the colors of the kite on the horizon.

She followed it passionately as it danced before her among the clear blue summer clouds, fueled by hope and longing. Every time she examined the sky, dozens of kites appeared to her; it was hard for her small heart to count them, but it raced faster, almost escaping from her chest, soaring high with these amazing flocks!

She jumped like a bird that had never flown before; she failed. She tried again with determination, hoping to catch one, to reach a dream that had been haunting her since she spotted the first beautifully colored kite in the air, its long tail carried by the wind, playing on the bells, making it look like a bird flapping its wings!

But she was a girl; kites in our village are only for boys, just like orphanhood and poverty. Obstacles stand between her and flying, to grasp with her small hand the string of a kite in the colors of the flag: red, white, and black.

That night she dreamed; her kite soared before her sleepy eyes. The dream grew, becoming gigantic, the size of her room, her world.

Ali Hassan is an Egyptian novelist and short storyteller. He is also a member of the Egyptian Writers Union.

She could see nothing else in the dark; it had taken over her and her tender heart. And when he realized that his little one would not calm down until she achieved what they both longed for, he surrendered to a sweet sleep with her!

The morning awakened her gently, with the warmth of a sun she had never known before; she carried a small cob, telling her mother as she climbed the stairs:

- I will gather whatever eggs I find and change the water for the birds.

She did not wait for her mother’s response; she hurried to the roof, scattering corn kernels on the ground. Although the chickens were still locked up, they made a clucking sound that indicated hunger and thirst. She paid no attention to the birds! She was watching her dream in the sky, searching for her plane, while the time was still early, and sleep reigned over the neighborhood children.

She picked up one of the corn cobs scattered on the ground; she tied a strong rope around it, spun around holding the end of the rope, every time she tried to throw the paddle far away, whenever she made progress, she felt her goal was getting closer, that she would not sleep that night until her beautiful plane was in her arms. She began to devise the plan, setting her traps; she prepared for the precious hunt, with only the first plane rising in the horizon left to wait for. Her heart quickly leaped with joy, as the first plane appeared before her eyes calling to her. Its bright colors and stability in the sky dazzled her mind. She curled up around herself, hiding her head between her arms like a hedgehog, watching her prey with piercing eyes, her poised arm like a snake, waiting for the right moment to seize its prey.

The plane’s thread in the sky resembled a large arc, drawing closer to her, becoming nearer than she had anticipated; she fluffed up, launched her projectile, in the blink of an eye, she wrapped the paddle around the thread several times, managed to catch it, and began to pull it towards her with strength. The faster she pulled it, the closer the plane came, until it crashed onto the wooden roof of the chicken coop. She tried to remove it, it broke free, falling near her, the shock stunned her; its paper had torn, its bright colors lost, it became a skeleton of bamboo, she cried as she had never cried before, while the hens in their confinement ran in fright, the continuous crowing of the roosters tearing the silence!

She lay on the ground for a long time, sad, frightened, exhausted; she had been battling the winds, the taut rope, the airplane that was difficult to control, its owner who was trying like a madman to scale every height that might allow him to spot the wretch who had shot down his plane, yet he could not see him, did not know where he was, and could do nothing but curse him, vowing to hang him like a rat by its tail!

She crawled on her stomach until she grasped the airplane; she wiped her tears and examined it as if it were a precious treasure in her hands! A torrent of questions was tearing down the walls that isolated her from the world. How would she fix her airplane? What would she tell her mother? Did the boy find his way to her house? How would she escape from him?

“No one will take away the dream I have wished to fulfill for years.”

She tried to mend what had been torn from her, gathered her tattered papers, glued them until they were close to their original form, then sneaked into the house, hiding them from her mother to avoid her questions. Each time someone knocked on the door, she was seized by intense panic!

She did not sleep; she spent the night pondering how her airplane would soar in the sky, as she had dreamed for years of “dancing with a large cloud above it.”

With the dawn of a new day, she walked with her dream on tiptoes, climbed to the roof, placed the airplane on the ground, and imagined it flying. She felt content, elated in her innocence, while her imagination stubbornly refused to become reality!

She was enchanted by the sweetness of the experience; she entered a world without deprivation, where she was a queen. She jumped, rising higher, as if she were on the moon, and her airplane ascended with her. She gradually loosened the string, allowing it to travel far, penetrating the sky; now happiness was complete, and she held its silky threads.

She could hardly believe her eyes; it was far greater than her mind could comprehend, her heartbeat quickened, and her emotions swayed between joy and fear as the airplane soared higher.

She tightens the thread with her fist, shrinking and sticking to the ground for fear that someone might see her, then happiness overwhelms her, and she lets go of the thread, sending more to the plane. Her hands tremble when the plane appears smaller; she grips the thread tighter. The plane flirts with her with its graceful dances, as if trying to tease her eyes and send joy her way. There is a love and passion that has grown between them, a passion she cannot express, and a silent joy releases all its trills within her small chest, making her feel a shiver of happiness shake her entire being and steal her mind away. The plane does not relent and teases her with its dances to the right and left!

The plane moves away and shrinks; she tightens her grip on the thread, staring at the plane as she sees it fade away. She looks at the thread in her hands, squeezing it with both hands, while the plane sways from afar. She realized that the thread had snapped; her plane was free, unbound, delving into the distance, falling!

She tried to catch the thread, jumping on her hands and feet; she could not find the end of the thread. Muffled screams tore her aching heart apart. She jumped powerfully without aim, catching a glimpse of the thread’s end near the edge of the roof. She summoned all the determination she had left, which was nearly fading, and her waning strength, hoping to save her dream from loss; and she leaped like a small bird trying to escape death, but she had not mastered flying yet. The delicate body falls, crashing onto the ground of the skylight, while the small hand still clutches the dream!

Photograph by Mark Ulyseas.

©Mark Ulyseas

Al-Mothanna Alcheikh Atiah

Al-Mothanna Alcheikh Atiah, a Syrian poet and novelist, was born in Deir ez-Zor - Syria in 1953. He graduated from the College of Agriculture in Damascus in 1980. He published a poetry collection for Dar Al-Haqiqat in Beirut under the title “Yes, there is More” in 1979, and a collection of poetry under the title “Mouth of The Rose” in 1989, and a novel under the title “Lady of the Kingdom” in 2006, from the Arab Foundation for Studies and Publishing in Beirut. In addition, he published a critical book under the title “The Poetic Rhythm of the Intifada” in 1990 from Dar Al-Aswar in Akka. He worked in journalism as managing editor for cultural affairs in Al-Sharq Al-Awsat newspaper in 1984 and managing editor of the new Shahrazad magazine in Cyprus in 1990.

Lady of the Stars

With a proud shimmer atop the mountain

Before the child

A red dot for the embrace of earth and sky

And does not reveal to him to which of them it belongs

A captivating seductress that freezes his heart with chains of fire

And quickens the flutter of his wings to what precedes the light

And stands waiting

For his arrival in the form he chose after the ice of the cave/

We are climbers of the mountains of doom

We have prepared the thorns of our feet for the ascent and to attain it

Just as golden cups are harvested after running marathons

Just as pearls are plucked after breathless moments in the depths of the seas

Just as a bride is snatched away surrounded by merciless cousins

And just as every heart hides its imagination from others

For her...

We are climbers of the mountains of doom

We have sharpened the teeth of our gear for ascent

Enthralled by our dreams, illusions, and ambitions

Our muscles charged with the confidence of the rock we tread

Our skins tanned by the coming frost to bite the flesh

Our maps erase the mirage of loss on the fringes of the stars

Our popular books unravel the mysteries of the wilderness and the fangs of the bends

And our songs nourish us when we despair with hope

That people before us have plucked

The lady of the stars

From the mouth of doom...

continued overleaf...

On the long path of our clamor that we climb

We gaze with envious eyes at one another

Among us, the unknown mock our names and our attire

And they pass by, indifferent to our disputes

Among us, the famous who have plucked it and the spears in their hearts

Climb again with us

Because whoever has tasted it will be deprived of the flavor of forgetfulness

Among us, one has become a shrine for its lovers

One who drew it as a red star on his cap

One who transformed himself into a white rose and a bottle of water,

sealing the mouths of rifles

One who accepted to have his tomb eaten by the guardians of darkness

To remain a light in our hearts...

On the path of doom, we pass through the barriers of upbringing, taboos, and coercion

Pointed by the riddle of the monster’s question about humanity

And with its blades preventing us

Pass by the mountain mirrors, set up wherever we turn in front of us

Terrifyingly displaying our images in the fangs of torment

In hell, we are intoxicated on skewers held by the priests

In hell, our skins are melted by the calculators and grow back to be melted again

Hanging by the hooks of our screams that bounce back to us

Stunned by the glass of the man who watches us

We pass by the mirrors of our torture in prisons

Whips that skin our flesh

Batons that shatter the vertebrae of our backs

Fire, electricity, acids that dissolve us

Stakes and mallets that crush the organs of our fertility

Rapes of our women, our girls, our boys, and our men in front of us

We pass by the mirrors of our abduction

By the fangs of the road and our honor

We pass by our mirrors, eating each other

On the path of confusion toward it...

Photograph by Mark Ulyseas.

©Mark Ulyseas

Asaad AlFakhry is a Syrian poet and critic residing in France. He has published four books, in poetry “The yearning of desire”, in literary criticism “The Narrative of the Senses”, “The Image of the Armenian in Arabic Literature,” and “Psychoanalysis and Literature”.

Nero of the Fires

Rise up

Beasts of Nero

Surrounded

By the embers of the hearths

To witness

The slaughter of your bleeding celestial bull

The lamentations of Dante’s sad Hell

On the marble

The eternity of Purgatory and the gardens of its gentle breezes

Here you are, Nero

The loaves of Utnapishtim, deep in

The distant

Where the drowsiness of the pliable Gilgamesh

And his tigers

Are wrapped in the suspicions of the timings of the loaves of slumber

And the prayer

Of the blind trap of the temple at sunset.

***

Your praise

The toast of death on the balconies

Is hanging with

The limbs of Achilles

And your skilled fingers plunged

To its end

Here is Nero

You slaughtered the air in the throat of the whale

And you placed me in the vast

Patience

A mirror for Jonah who swallowed

The breast

Of the whale and slept on its generous amber lap.

*** continued overleaf...

Drowning

I am the abyss Between Your blood-stained palms, and I am The fallen Like a drunken boy singing beside The flames

Here are your feeble steeds Exchanging Thunder for lightning, no land above it Nor Sky beneath their hooves To take refuge.

***

With the mallets of thunder We will shatter the mirrors of lightning with the blood Of the passersby And we will break the legs of your steeds at The maelstrom of despair Whose lights are traps for deception And a lament for Amber That does not illuminate With the door of bewilderment, locked With the keys of the longed-for scream whenever The phoenix spreads Its damp wings in the flames of Nero’s fires That mourn along the paths.

Photograph by Mark Ulyseas.

©Mark Ulyseas

Aziz Azrhai

Aziz Azrhai (1965) is a Moroccan poet and visual artist. He published eight poetry collections. He, also, held several art exhibitions inside Morocco and outside. In addition, he is a member of the House of Poetry in Morocco and a former official in its executive office.

On Two Banks

The secret we buried

In the last century

Stumbled upon its brilliance

The horses of the archaeologists

They came, contrary to the usual kindness

Armed with instincts

Led by scents

To where doubt wafts.

They were like blind men without goals

Their boats colliding with the remnants of foreignness.

And just as we left our beds

In fright

They turned back

As if lightning

Led their cores

To where the deposits cool.

And in another conversation

We descended together from the tribe of woodcutters

Celebrating solitude for the highwaymen

And casting our nets in lands without fish...

continued overleaf...

Each of us has his secrets And reasons.

We forgot our footsteps in another century When we crossed the bridges of disappointment Toward the dictionaries of maps And dreamed of pruning joy With scissors that do not cool. We are now on the bank of doubt And they, like us Are on the other bank.

Orphans

Perhaps they finally understood That life is a maze with doors and locks.

That wars are the gambits of gamblers On the treasure of deceit.

That enemies are not entirely bad.

The truce is a trap that sleeps In the pouch of friendships That bullets are the spoils Of those expelled from the tables of want.

That the dead are harvests drying In the fields of books.

That condolences are a monotonous song That enchants the sorcerers.

Perhaps they finally understood that The orphans going to school On a difficult day Do not laugh at anyone.

Azmi Abdel Wahab

Azmi Abdel Wahab is an Egyptian poet and journalist. He published eight collections of poetry, and his poems were issued in most Egyptian and Arab periodicals and newspapers. Moreover, his poetry is translated into more than one language, including English, French, and Persian. He, also, participated in many poetry conferences in the Arab world and won several awards from Egyptian cultural institutions.

Nostalgia, oh Zahia... nostalgia

I have grown enough

To understand nostalgia... oh “Zahia”...

And you have become an old woman

With no one knocking at your door

I wish I had kept your picture

Of you sitting on the “couch”

With your short black hair

Peeking shyly

And beneath your house dress

Two apricots lie sleeping

They were round

As if untouched by any human hand

You have changed so much

I have changed so much

I have faded to the point that you won’t recognize me

For here they light candles at night

Because foolish men

Tore the clothes of a woman

How many men

Have torn your clothes, oh poor soul

Then they left your shabby room

After you granted them joy and manhood

Oh,

Fifteen years of absence

Have surely worn down your face

And no one visits you anymore

Not even your daughters whom you taught

How to bring happiness to passersby

They only come to see you in festivals

And you bear no anger towards them

Nor towards me!

Because you know

That I have grown enough

To understand nostalgia, Zahia.

In a Small House

In this small house

We opened the doors for singing

We left a tree peeking through the windows

We wiped the floor well

And rearranged the clothes in the wardrobe

We washed the shade plant with water

And removed the spider webs

From the dark corners

We set the sun at the table

It was happy

We told it about death

In a small house

In distant lands

And it cried

The air was fresh

And the sheets were clean

And a scant moon illuminating the faces

We slept deeply

As if we had never known sleep at all

And in the morning we woke up

With blood on our palms

And the smell of decay in our bodies

Where did all these corpses come from

To occupy the rooms crowded with life

And leave us in the void?

And no home for us?!

Photograph by Mark Ulyseas.

©Mark Ulyseas

Azmi Abdel Wahab

Habiba Mohamadi

Habiba Mohamadi is a well-known Algerian poet, writer, and academic who writes modern poetry and opens her text to experimentation between the flash poem, the painting, the fragment, and the epigram. She has many poetry collections and has a long history of writing for the Egyptian, Algerian, and Arab press. She has several collections of poetry and intellectual works. The most famous of them are: “The Kingdom and Exile,” “Fractures of the Face,” “The Overflow of Exile,” “Time in the Open,” “Anklets,” and other works, and some of her works have been translated into foreign languages such as English, French, and Spanish. And her latest intellectual publications: A book about the relationship between poetry and philosophy in philosophical thought, with “Nietzsche” as an example, entitled The Lust for Wisdom, the Madness of Poetry, issued by the Egyptian General Book Authority. She was honored in Algeria, and in several Arab and foreign countries, including, but not limited to, an honor from the Supreme Council of the Arabic Language in Algeria for her excellence in writing in the Arabic language and her efforts to preserve it. Her last honor was from the General Syndicate of the Egyptian Writers Union in 2023, and she was awarded the Union Shield as the first Arab writer to receive the Egyptian Writers Union Shield.

Selections

(1)

I live travel once

The alienation of times lives with me twice

Once when I descend into my essence

And once when the self divides into halves!

(2)

O estrangement of the soul, to whom do I go?

My hands are tired from digging in the water

And the water is tired from my palm and my imprint

O estrangement of the soul, to whom do I go?

And all that I have is not mine

Some for the cleansing of the soul with sin

And some for my explosion at the moment of revelation!

(3)

I wash the soul

I present it to the depths of the people

When they wet their veins with the water of estrangement

I became a poem presented to

The Nile of the land!

(4)

Say, if the sea of my words runs out

The lineage of my wonder will not run out!

(5)

Why, whenever a stranger asks about a home

They direct him to me? continued overleaf...

(6)

Between the dead and papers I crave patience A game at the New Year

A kiss from my father so I may grow And something from you so I do not die!

(7)

I am not firewood But memories consume me!

(8)

The dead die and the home empties of me!

(9)

The house where our shadows embrace I saw it yesterday lifting its head For the spiders to weave their longings!

(10)

Birds peck at this head

As if the world is my nest!

(11)

We are all two-faced But the soul is not a third!

(12)

Every day I try to wake up early So that the dream does not become longer than me!

(13)

My toy that I “long for” in childhood was a grave Is it a sin to die twice?!

Photograph by Mark Ulyseas.

©Mark Ulyseas

Hassan Najmi

Hassan Najmi (1960, Ibn Ahmed, Settat province) is a Moroccan poet, author, and journalist. He was The President of the Union of Writers of Morocco between 1998 and 2005 and the former head of the House of Poetry in Morocco. He is also the President of the Moroccan Center for the International PEN Club and the Secretary General of the Argana Prize for Poetry. Furthermore, he founded the House of Poetry in Morocco with a group of Moroccan poets (December 1995) and was elected vice-president and spokesperson for the House. He received many Arab and international awards, and his works have been translated into more than ten languages. He has also translated into Arabic the poetic works of several of the world’s leading poets.

The Idea of the River

Name this river after me

For I am drowned and my hand is pure like a poet’s hand

The river’s water in my palm

A bed of greenery dreaming, here on my balcony.

On the balcony

I look at the river passing there

My feet touch the water.

On the balcony I look towards the river—

And Sarkon* asks me, is this the river of your forefathers?

I say: perhaps—

And I do not know if my ancestors had a river!

(The desert was their profession and life)

I know you, river, you were a drop—

Then you burst into tears.

Here near the river

I water my eyes every morning and renew my gaze

Come let us love, my house is not far from the water

Next to the grass and the trees and the bleating

Our hearts are fierce in secret

We thirst for the distant spring

To this stream towards us

Come let us sing the world with kisses.

continued overleaf...

Here are your waters gently caressing the banks

Getting closer to the edges to lean on the color of the soil.

I gaze today as well—

The river is there between two greens

Between two cities

Between two lives

Like time that ages Ferments

Delights like wine

Has its narrative about the history of kings And soldiers And the dead

It has unforgettable tales with the rain, the flood, and the grass And it does not forget –But it does not speak. I look today as well—

I do not know how to exit from myself I know it is going there (I must be pointing with my finger)To drown.

From here—my eyes on the river Every day they swim in this line of lead Every day this sun is new.

Stay calm

Do not be fooled by the shadows of the sparrows

Rivers do not fly

Be wise

Wave your hand and move on

And quench your desire to stand like a willow tree

Rivers, only, run

Enjoy the journey

Listen to the whisper of the butterflies

To the heartbeat from the balcony

And in the metaphor

Do not trust your rustle

It will hide from you the bracelets of the girls

And the lovers’ laughter by the banks

And you will miss the moment of joy in the songs

Walk alone

Like a free line in a poem

Like a faint echo on the edge of a map in students’ notebooks

Pass by the bends of the reeds in my dream

And do not forget me.

* Sargon Boulus was an Iraqi poet, journalist and writer. Born in 1944, he died on 22 October 2007.

Kamal Abdel Hamid

Kamal Abdel Hamid (1965) is an Egyptian journalist, essayist and poet. He has published seven literary books: four poetry collections, a book of essays, a book of texts, and a poetry anthology in English.

There is no point to all this pain

In the beginning, I say: I love you, and I hate my soul hiding in the shadows like a guilty child, the very soul that has ensnared me in love, caught in a web of silk and thorns. My weeping soul, unashamed before a harsh emotion that brandishes a stick.

I love you, as I passionately follow the cosmic stage; I do not sympathize with the villains as you do after every Arab film. The villains who despise the hero and the heroine and scheme during the story.

What should I do now with all this evil surrounding us? I must learn to hate deeply, to embody the essence of the dramatic conflict; it would not be fitting for someone like me to speak of forgiveness while ensnared by betrayal.

I lack the ability to hate deeply

Those with secondary and primary roles

I pay attention when the camera moves (Pan Left)

Because the director usually recommends

Showing the heart’s side

So that the viewer knows how much time is left

Until I fall, a loser

In that moment, I will die

In a (Close up) shot

My face filling the screen

I look deep into the frame

And mumble a single word

And people will guess the last thing I say

And curse open endings

It’s futile not to know that you are the last thing I say

It’s futile to be far away when the director applauds the final scene

But I will love you after the film ends

I will love you free from the necessities of the script

There in death, far from the backstage

And the roles we master for nothing.

continued overleaf...

I love you

As I move through the vehicle of my body from one floor to another, from room to living room, to a studio with an American kitchen that I only use rarely.

I love you

Here in front of the cold door, behind the demons of the window, next to the refrigerator of disappointment and the corpses of despicable friends, in the selfishness of the streets that hide your voice like gifts that cannot be returned. Here in front of the suffocating keyboard covered in cheap ash, ash that I gather in my lungs with an infinite passion, on the seat that endures me reluctantly as it listens to a song, I repeat twenty times a day, in the despair that drags me by my shirt, and the sunken ships between my fingers.

I love you

The moment my friend stops complaining, in the seconds that separate one comment from another, in the distraction of the bar that arouses the curiosity of the sad, in the glance cast on the tables in search of something that does not point to you, in the fleeting and deep cinematic kiss, in the coquetry of the heroine when she goes off-script, so the director praises her mischievous nature, in remembering your deep tenderness, your childish anger in front of women who passed through poems without a delicious pain.

I love you

In the losing stories, and the similarities between you and the lovers of dead poets, in my fleeing steps to any direction, under the ceiling of coincidences, in the diaspora written on my forehead, when mixing coffee with water, in the first and last sip.

I love you

When my mother cries on the phone asking me to come back, and I can barely hold back my tears before God as I ask Him for steadfastness in love.

Photograph by Mark Ulyseas.

©Mark Ulyseas

Mohamed Baraka

Mohamed Baraka (1972) is An Egyptian novelist, storyteller and journalist. Critics classify him as one of the voices of renewal and modernity in modern Arabic literature. His works raise controversy on the literary and social levels, and his writings receive remarkable attention. His novels include “The Lady’s Pub,” “Ghosts of Brussels,” and “Ice Heart in the Other World.” His short story collections include “My Grandfather’s Mistress” and “Sadness is a Sleeping Child.”

Secret Profession

- Señor Alaa?

- Yes.

- I am an Italian tourist currently in Cairo, and tomorrow I will arrive in Sharm. I need your services for the remaining days I have in Egypt.

- With pleasure.

- I’m not sure if you understood me well; I want you to be completely available for me.

- How many days is that?

- Five.

- Let me check my schedule, then I’ll get back to you.

- Ciao.

August brings everyone heat and peace. The season hasn’t started yet. The place is quiet at this time of year, but I responded to the client in a way that meets the requirements of professional “prestige.”

- I’m sorry, but I can’t wait any longer; I need to know your response now.

The Italian, a girl of the streets with fiery blood, gets it; a being not easily fooled. She returned to rush me after three hours, the maximum time when she pretends to believe she has bought your story full of bullet holes.

- Okay, I will be waiting for you.

She was in her twenties, not belonging to the usual pattern of clients who often play in the middle age range between thirty and fifty. A name that suits her with the purity of her skin and the glow of pearls in her green eyes. And what about that thick hair, as if she had stolen half the girls’ hair in Milan? Embracing waves of soft strands where brown dances with red to give that unique shade. She removed her clothes except for one piece underneath and whispered:

- Surprise me!

Every profession has its principles, and one of the principles of my profession is not to ask the client about her private life or to convey anything that could be interpreted as her visit involving a strange act or suggesting suspicious behavior. I must embody the modern version of the “Sphinx,” a being stripped of curiosity, devoid of the weight of astonishment, and unaffected by the clause of wonder. I dug deep into a narrow hot well without my goal being an oil explosion. Digging is a sacred pursuit in itself—something akin to what the “poet of resistance and beauty” once claimed: “the way home is more beautiful than home.” I savor lips that taste of pleasure, but the message reaching my mind indicates a confrontation with a plate of “old cheese” played by some worms.

What led a young beauty, a violinist in a global orchestra, to seek my services? No one has broken her heart, nor does her body language in bed show any signs of revenge against a man or even a woman. So why did she choose to seek a paid climax?

I lit a cigarette for her, enhanced with a type, as her appetite opened while she took the first puff:

- Sleeping with a professional was the last item on my list of the craziest things I dream of achieving before I die.

I asked cautiously:

- How many items are on that list?

- Twenty.

I wondered again, concealing my astonishment:

- You managed to complete the entire list at such a young age? You must be starting to create a new list?

She was struck by a sudden cough as she laughed, so I hurried to bring a bottle of mineral water from the “mini bar.” She drank, then returned to laughter as she said:

- I tackle the items on the list from the bottom to the top.

Mohammed Al-Kafrawy

Mohammed Al-Kafrawy is An Egyptian poet, born in 1978. He has been writing in cultural journalism and literary criticism since 1998. He has four collections of poetry: “A Pink Dream That Raises the Head” (2006), “Shortly After the Dead” (2018), “A Suspicious Place” (2020), and a fourth collection entitled “Scraping Nothingness with His Nails and Giggling,” which is under print at the Egyptian General Book Authority.

A rescue attempt

Tell me, by God,

How many dreams have been run over by the speeding roads?

How many foolish parrots have trampled your dignity for mere amusement?

How many forbidden desires have gnawed at your body in the middle of the night?

Remember with me...

How many stray clouds have betrayed you and rained down on the heads of others,

Leaving you alone, naked, dreaming of the scent of winter?

How many socks do you have in your tattered closet?

How many wilted roses have I plucked from the garden of your days?

How many shadows have clung to your arm as you walked toward your doomed fate?

Tell me and do not be afraid...

Have you ever breathed the air of yoga players?

Do you really know the meaning of pain?

Do you find comfort in the laughter of children and their playful games?

Be honest with me...

Do you know what awaits you tomorrow?

Do you care about time passing or the days remaining?

Are you truly awake?

Do you desire more agony?

Do you count the curses etched on your limbs?

All these years have slipped through your fingers, And you are confused... alone... miserable... oblivious. Be honest with me and tell me...

You are humiliated to the bone.

Why then do you want to save the world?

Mostafa Ebada

Mostafa Ebada (1965) is an Egyptian journalist, poet, essayist, and critic. He works as the Deputy Editor-in-Chief of Al-Ahram Al Arabi Magazine. He is also the cultural advisor to some of the most important Egyptian publishing houses, such as The Egyptian Lebanese House, Al-Mahrousa Center, and Dar Batana. Furthermore, he published more than 10 books in different creative genres, such as poetry collections and cultural and literary studies.

Who am I talking to today?

Is this me?

I wake up with wounds on my body

And blue bruises

And marks of sharp teeth

Remains of frightened dreams and nightmares

Although before I slept

I settled my account with sadness

And paid it its full dues

And we agreed to part I willingly gave it

My verse, love, and friendship

And everything that makes it a master over hearts

And even though it seemed satisfied with the exchange

I also left it

Sitting in the front rows

To leisurely contemplate Its clean shoes

And take center position in the picture

But it left me with its soldiers

So I wake up from sleep

And find wounds and blue bruises on my body

And remnants of sharp teeth

And nightmares.

continued overleaf...

Yesterday

Socrates’ wife visited me

In truth, She asked to stay with me

And since I am kind

I left her the freedom to be silent or to speak With the door open In case she grew bored

Unlike my friends

I dislike “Julia Roberts”

And her perpetually beautiful smile

There’s something false about it

But Socrates’ wife is real And I genuinely love blood and scent I love when I leave the house

To think of not returning to it

But I come back I adore the women of the markets

And the cafés

Especially those with a light mustache

These are things that never die

And like any ancient Egyptian I am addicted to immortality

So, my friend Socrates Don’t be tedious

And let the bottle of poison

Be drunk by those fortunate ones Who love Julia Roberts.

This is me

My mother only warned me about two things

Cars and women

She bid me farewell at the train station, tearful:

I fear you’ll be run over by a car

Or a woman

My mother died

And I survived millions of cars

And airplanes

I crossed seas

I met Buddhists and sorcerers

Prophets and daughters of the night

And I returned to my mother

Run over

But she did not get angry or reproach me

She did not look into my eyes

Didn’t I tell you?

I fell from three floors

And my wrist was broken

The fire consumed my arm

My heart stopped twice

I triumphed in the battle of life

Until I reached here

I returned to my mother

In a state of being run over.

I do not love silent nature

It suffocates my heart

I saw behind the trees

Murderers and snakes

And in the thickets, a frightened moon

Sneaks between the leaves

I love another kind of nature; A naked woman, for example—

The chloasma of pregnancy around her nipples

The cries of a child

Preventing his parents’ solitude

I am the man who has never seen a tree

Or a rose except in books

And when he sees the sea, his tears flow

And whenever he sees a flower, he thinks it is a breast

And whenever he sees a breast

It crosses his heart:

I fear that a car will run you over Or A woman.

I wake up angry

I wish I could slaughter someone

Or disfigure a woman’s face

I kick the doors and the gravel of the streets

Without mercy

I spit in the face of everything That passes before me

Something inside me

Wishes death for everyone

Or for me to become a bullet

The chaos of the world resides in my heart

I slept yesterday without a heart

And without a hand to gather

What has scattered from me

And if I hear music

Your wasted scent invades me

And I did not turn it into permanent fields

As if I had suddenly matured

As if I had shed my scales

And my old thorns

And my teeth ready for killing

I was scared when I imagined your possible nakedness

When the water receded from trees and music

When the sky receded

Which had sheltered me for so long

And became narrower than a distress

And wider than the opening of a pocket

Where I like to leave my nose

Rest assured

“For that is just the nature of a love-struck person”

Sameh Mahgoub

Sameh Mahgoub is an Egyptian poet who graduated from the Faculty of Dar Al Uloom. He participated in many major poetic and cultural events inside and outside Egypt, including those in Tunisia, Morocco, the UAE, Saudi Arabia, Iraq, Algeria, and Jordan. In addition, He participated in the jury committees of state awards, as well as obtaining several awards and honors, including: the shield of the Prince of Poets Ahmed Shawky, the Al-Babtain Award for his poem “On the Rhythm of His Laughter, He Walks”, the Atheer Award for Arabic Poetry for his poem “I Write to Defeat My Death”. He issued several poetry collections, including: “Nothing Equals the Sadness of the River”, “Digging with One Hand”, “The Metaphor of Water”, and “The Wind Explains Its Travels”, and some of his poems have been translated into French, English, Russian, and Spanish.

Noon Sadness in August

From a bus

Crowded with the dead

Children of the dead

I write to you

About my plump neighbor

Who sighed

And the clouds wept blood

About my solitary shoe

Which often

Stuck out its tongue

At passersby

On my behalf

About a flower

Neglected by the sidewalk

And drank from the honey of her breasts

Until it became intoxicated

I write to you

About the noon sadness

In August

About the eternal journey of the sea

About meaning

When it tightens like a noose

Around the necks of the poor

I write to you

Perhaps the sky

Will soften to my plight

Perhaps we...

Will meet by chance Then return And meet by chance Until we teach chance To betray its own law In longing Perhaps time Will turn its back To see us... Strip away day by day From light, joy, and courage I write to you While the old bus Ravages the earth And without a glance The drunken driver Drops us One by one Into the tales I write to you While the truth Is lost On the glass Of the stained window.

Photograph by Mark Ulyseas.

Samira Al Bouzidi

Eternal in someone’s tale

I do not break, nor do I succumb, nor do I shatter But I am anxious all the time I wasted my years jumping between the banks And in the making of legends And blind fantasies I climbed the highest mountain And dove into the sea of a story that Only children, madmen, and blue butterflies flying between you and me can read. I hide a rose in my hair And I hide my hair in colored fabric I hide in the end from myself

The whole tale is an escape in escape. I feel hungry, so I open a book I digest music at the speed of light I fast from speech for a time Sufficient for love or killing.

Samira Al Bouzidi is a Libyan poet. She has published eight poetry collections, and one of her collections has been translated into Italian.

All stories have an end

Because they were created for this fate

But I condense the matter

And write it from its end

What comes next is just an illusion in the trap of deceptive words

My words are like birds

Colorful and chirping

But their wings are weak

And their cage is large and spacious

And their imagination resembles a dog barking at shadows.

Nothing matters

The countries are falling and people

Tear each other apart

And the dreams, frightened, fly away

And I pour the tea and drink

And I close off, returning without direction.

Once, words used to kill me

Every word is a project of madness

Every meaning is like an unknown book

That only the sorrowful and the heartbroken touch!

But I have freed myself from the illusion

From dragging the letters behind me

Like hungry orphans!

I learned this glorious cruelty

I broke the pens and lifted the board above the mountain of fire

Your time is over, oh poetry

My heart has dried up

And your river that once drowned me

Its banks have fallen into oblivion.

Photograph by Mark Ulyseas.

Sherif Saleh

Sherif Saleh (1972) is an Egyptian short storyteller, novelist and journalist. He published nearly ten literary books and awarded several national and international prizes.

Physical Escape

As I was drinking my morning coffee on the balcony, I realized that I had not put on my body. I couldn’t see my hand holding the coffee cup, nor the shadow stretching beside me! Where did I forget it? Perhaps it is still lazily sleeping in bed as usual, or perhaps I left it hanging on the nail behind the bathroom door after my shower! Or... or perhaps the light layer of steam during my shower obscured my vision, allowing it to escape from me. It slipped away from under the towel and vanished. I got up to search for it in the places where I usually leave it: in the bedroom... in the kitchen and bathroom... on the couch where I typically lie in front of the television. When I returned to the balcony, I spotted it from behind the curved bars, walking in the street with its usual slight bend. “There it is! That’s my body!”

I rushed down the stairs, eager to catch up with it before it escaped and disappeared forever.

I don’t know how it sensed my presence behind it and vanished. I stood looking around the corner of the street, searching for it with my eyes amidst the crowd of passersby! From afar, I saw it take off its shoes and run barefoot in the light rain, then it veered off into a muddy side street where all the shops were closed. In this narrow street, it was just me and my body, and I could hear its ringing laughter even after it disappeared from my sight.

A girl suddenly opened her balcony on the ground floor of a blue-painted house, with a rose garden in front of it, and I asked her, “Did you see my body?”

She shook her head and denied with her finger that she had seen it, then closed the balcony in my face angrily. Her confused smile before she closed the balcony hinted to me that she was in cahoots with it and that my body might be hiding from me now behind this jasmine tree... What would stop it from climbing the girl’s balcony and hiding under her bed?!

My body had always been fond of playing hide and seek in places I least expect, leaving me to chase it wherever it goes. Many times, it has gotten me into countless problems. Once, he spent the night at a café on Faisal Street drinking tea with milk.. and once he was trapped in the bathroom of our neighbor’s apartment when her husband suddenly arrived... I don’t know what terrifies him and makes him flee from me like this?! Why doesn’t he give me a complete chance to wear him? Afterwards, we could both go wherever we want!

Once, I barely managed to put on the right leg before he rushed away, escaping before I could finish with the left... He took off, chasing a girl through the alleys between the neighborhoods until he dashed into her father’s butcher shop, where the father lunged for the cleaver and chased him with his ugly dog. On another occasion, after I had only put on half of my head, my body leaped out of the window and vanished for a whole week, loitering on the beach of Alexandria.

Why does he flee from me like this? Is he looking for someone else to wear? He feels that we do not belong to each other! Neither of us was made for the other! It’s as if some mistake has bound us to a shared fate... a fateful coincidence that brought us together without any harmony, and neither of us has the right to object to the other!

I left an abandoned alley in the pouring rain, hearing its panting echo in my ears, as if it were running nearby.

On the beach, in that crowded café filled with the faces of strangers, I saw him glancing at me secretly from behind the edge of the newspaper while smoking shisha, even though he knows I can’t stand the smell of smoke.

I stood there, swallowing hard. My certainty grew that I would never regain my body if I was chasing him. Why don’t I return to my apartment and leave him the freedom to decide, either to come back to me at his leisure or to escape from me forever... to find rest and ease?!

I took off my clothes in the small bathroom and surrendered under the warm shower after running and tiring and panting in the rain. And while my eyes were closed from the soap foam, I felt him sneaking in. He came to me, exhausted. He returned like this on his own and embraced me. It was a fleeting moment of gratitude for his presence, lasting no more than a few seconds. As soon as I sat down to have my coffee on the balcony, I saw him running down the street, but this time he was attached to the string of a red balloon that carried him into the sky.

Wadi’ Sa’adah

Wadi’ Sa’adah is a Lebanese poet )1948(born in the village of Shabtin in northern Lebanon. He has published over eight diwans. Some of his works have been translated into German, English, French, Spanish, and Italian, and he is regarded as one of the most prominent poets of free verse in the Arab world.

The Dead Are Asleep

They were naked

And had children

Who tickled their hair in the evening

And slept

They were naked and simple

Sweating all day while smiling

On their return, they stood before the shop windows

Measuring with their eyes clothes for their children

And walked

They took two steps forward and touched

The tree trunks before the dawn breeze

And under their gazes, branches bear fruit

In the snow of January

And their sickles longed for the fields

And the air between the villages was always ready for their call

When suddenly their wheat turned into ribs

And the breeze became grass growing on their bodies

They were naked

And the sun every evening

Would return its light silk cover

To their souls.

Companions

You have enough memories

To have companions with you on this stone

Sit down

And entertain them with stories

For they, like you, have grown old

And are bored

Tell them the tale of distances

That no matter how far they walk

Remain in their place

Tell them about the jinn that devour the children of the heart

About the heart that no matter how pregnant

It remains barren

Speak to them about the grass that has eyes

And about the blind dust

About the winds that wanted to say something

But did not

And about the small white butterfly that knocked on your door that winter

To enter and warm itself

You have companions on this stone

Do not let them get bored

Tell them about the sheep without a shepherd

And about the shepherd without sheep

About the shepherd who was lost and the sheep that know the way

Tell them the story of the wolf

And the story of the lark

And the story of the ghoul

And if these have no stories, then invent them

Invent stories

Invent wolves, jinn, sheep, shepherds, and butterflies

Your companions, like you, have grown old

And sit on a small stone

Invent distances for them.

Photograph by Mark Ulyseas.

Live Encounters Poetry & Writing Vol 6 November-December 2024

Support Live Encounters.

Contributors

Dr Salwa Gouda The Birth of the Reader

Depth

Lady of Travel

A man without a head

The door of joy

Exercises on Solitude

Residing in Echo

Separation

After Ten Years

Some birds do not fly

Lady of the Stars

Nero of the Fires

On Two Banks

Orphans

Nostalgia, oh Zahia... nostalgia

In a Small House

Selections

The Idea of the River

There is no point to all this pain

Secret Profession

A rescue attempt

Who am I talking to today?

Noon Sadness in August

Eternal in someone’s tale

All stories have an end

Physical Escape

The Dead Are Asleep

Companions