The Golden Comar Prize 2013

The Golden Comar Prize was created in 1997 by the insurance company Assurances Comar (Tunisie) to support literary creation, and encourage Tunisian writers, especially novelists.

The 17^th edition of the Golden Comar Prize was held on Saturday 20 April 2013 at the Municipal Theatre of Tunis.

The Arabic version of the prize was not awarded as the Jury thought that there is no good work to be awarded a Golden Comar this year.

The French version of the prize was awarded to Mokhtar Sahnoun for his novel (Le panache des brisants) The Plume of the Cresting Rocks [A tentative translation]

The other prizes went as follows:

*Arabic language prizes:

-The Jury Special Prize was awarded jointly to Abdelkader Letifi  for his novel (Arrihla al hintatiya) The Pilgrimage of Hentati and Hafidha Gara Biban for her novel (Al âra) Nakedness.

-Discovery Prize was awarded to Abdelhamid Arraï for his novel (Fin’tidhar as’saâ’sifr) Waiting for the Zero Hour.

*French language prizes:

-The Jury Special Prize was awarded to Sami Kourda for his novel (Le souffle de la bête immonde) The Foul Beast’s Breath.

-Discovery Prize was awarded to Mohamed Harmel for his novel (Sculpteur de masques) The Mask Carver.

21 novels in Arabic and 11 novels in French were shortlisted to compete for the afore-mentioned prizes.

Photo borrowed off http://lapresse.tn/21042013/65998/un-verdict-et-des-arguments.html

§ Congratulations to all the winners! §

Thanks to The Ofi Press Words of Kamel Riahi, Radhia Chehaibi, Saghir Oulad Ahmed & the Revolution Travel to Mexico

Thanks to The Ofi Press Words of Kamel Riahi, Radhia Chehaibi, Saghir Oulad Ahmed & the Revolution Travel to Mexico where The Ofi Press Literary Magazine is edited.

 

The Ofi Press Issue 28. Photo borrowed off http://theofipress.webs.com/

 

Editor Jack Little republished some of my translated works in The Ofi Press Literary Magazine (Issue 28, April 2013).

Many thanks to him.

By the way, The Ofi Press Literary Magazine accepts works in translation.

In this issue Jack Little republished the following works:

*A book review by Mohamed Masmouli about the Tunisian Revolution.

*An article by Kamel Riahi.

 *A poem by Radhia Chehaibi.

*A poem by Saghir Oulad Ahmed.

Ali Znaidi Featured in Poised in Flight Anthology

Poised in Flight Book Cover. Photo borrowed off http://www.kindofahurricanepress.com/

 

Ali Znaidi’s poem “What I Learned from the Flying Wings” was published in Poised in Flight anthology (page 147) on March 28, 2013 by Kind of a Hurricane Press.

 

Many thanks to editors A.J. Huffman and April Salzano.

 

It is available as a free PDF download here.

 

It is also available in Paperback from Amazon.com ($7.50 plus S&H). Order here.

This is the poem :

 

What I Learned from the Flying Wings

 

different-coloured feathers, ||castrated words||,

eyes scrolling up & down, plucked feathers

become transplanted onto your mind, & mess

the dancefloor of your dreams, dream is a

synonym of flight, flight is a transgression

against a status quo, & the words stagnate in

the nest, all of a sudden, the nestlings begin

chirruping, & the nest shakes, words start flying

in a shake, & begin to taste like a rainbow,

Wings, a plethora of dreams, & the pure blood

of freedom [seminal] always percolates the

flying wings, bestowing fecundity on the

castrated words,                       & the revolution

won’t succeed unless the flying wings copulate

w/ the rainbow.

 

Written 11/02/2013

 

Interview with Houcine El Wad Conducted by Kamel Riahi and Translated by Ali Znaidi.

Interview with Houcine El Wad Conducted by Kamel Riahi and Translated by Ali Znaidi.

Houcine El Wad: The novel mutinied against me.

 

Houcine El Wad: The Publication of my novels was forcibly grabbed from me. (Aljazeera)

Interviewed by Kamel Riahi.

Tunisian and Arab universities knew Houcine El Wad as a researcher and academic in the main Arab prose and poetic experiences and an author of many books in those fields until his novel The City’s Scents came out in 2010 which won the Tunisian literary Prize of the Golden Comar and then his novel His Excellency Mr. the Minister (2011) which was shortlisted in The Arabic Booker.

Narration dominated the author of  Al Moutanabbi and the Aesthetic Experience of Arabs to  forcibly cast him out from his favourite field – that is of literary criticism and academic researches and studies – to the world of the novel and to compel him to publish his two novels as he says.

The Tunisian novelist and academic perceives that narrative creation necessitates a great deal of precision and auto-discipline, whereas many creative writings suffer from nonsense and gratuitous prattle.

Aljazeera.net met Houcine El Wad and spoke with him about his fictional and academic experience and his selection among the Arabic Booker shortlist.

After The Golden Comar for the Tunisian novel Arabic crowning came with reaching the shortlist of The Arabic Booker with His Excellency Mr. the Minister but you seemed, as usual, not too much interested contrary to the rest of Arab novelists and you were not primarily interested in publishing both novels. Is this true? And is indifference the path towards crowning?

I have been outside Tunisia when I knew that The City’s Scents won The Golden Comar. I had no idea that it was primarily nominated. As for The Booker, the editor told me that he would nominate His Excellency Mr. the Minister. Of course, this does not mean indifference or unconcern, but academic writing is different from creative writing.

For instance, in the first kind I was concerned about including an addition to any book I publish. Addition is the criterion. And any research in which I did not reach an addition I do not publish it. As for creative writing, I compare the done with the expected and I oftentimes feel that the text does not reach the expected level.

As far as the publication of the two novels was concerned, the first one was forcibly grabbed from me. I was enjoying reading it on my computer and looking at it for longer time. There is no secret telling you that I was somehow sorry when it was published because that novel really mutinied against me and whenever I began altering some paragraphs or expressions before publishing it I was unable to do so.

As for the second novel, I published it as a gratitude to the revolution because the latter personally did me a favour. And I tell you that I did not look at the first nor the second novel after publishing them.

Why did you always postpone publishing your creation? Were you afraid about the image of the academic; the man of science and the disciplined being from the image of the unbridled creator? Or were you afraid about the regime’s assault against which your novel His Excellency Mr. the Minister was a satire?

It was true that we (the editor and the director of the series) thought a lot of the reactions of the authority towards the first novel. That’s why it was showed to some trustful readers to take their opinions in this regard, but it leaked until it became circulated through photocopying.

Nevertheless, creative writing itself also necessitates a great deal of precision and intellectual engineering, especially as regards to the economics of the artistic text. Don’t you see that nine tenths of our creative writings has a great deal of nonsense and gratuitous prattle?

On another hand, there is no doubt that you know that many great academics wrote creative writings. Some of them admitted the difficulty of artistic writing. Novel is a free genre and freedom does not mean to be on the loose. On the contrary, it is auto-discipline at its utmost.

According to what his academic researches connote Houcine El Wad seems more preoccupied with poetry. But you put a dumper on the horizon of the expectation of the Arab creative scene with writing novels. When did your interest in narration start? And were your readings to Abul Ala Al-Ma’arri a starting point?

My preoccupation with old Arabic poetry particularly came after writing about old prose. But I did not stop teaching old and modern prose. And my preoccupation with poetry started when I discovered – which surprised me – that the predecessors had a unique marvellous critical experience with it. I tried to unearth all that in all the studies I published. This experience does not still get its share of discovery and paths towards it are not paved. And there are many difficulties and pain in looking at it without colourful lenses.

Narration dominated me. Perhaps this was due to being vexed by the mediocrity of the bulk I have read or perhaps due to the ferocity of anger for the culture to which I belong. I sometimes find myself writing due to a lavish love for a reality that is lavish with harming as it is replete with mediocrity, vulgarity, impudence, and ugliness.

The narrator in The City’s Scents declared that the text has a continuation. Is His Excellency Mr. the Minister a sequel to that work or is it the rest of the “scents” in other drawers?

The rest of the scents does exist. I do not know what made me postpone its publication.  There is something that I do not know preventing me. Denouncing, divulging, and condemning all what harms, damages, and jeopardises existence at all levels used to fall under the rubric of resistance to stir dormant emotions.

Now things have changed. For us, particularly, denouncing becomes a mobilization in order not those abhorred eras come again. Difference is clear between the two situations. What remains is reaching artistic clarity. As for His Excellency, it has no relation with The City’s Scents. I wrote it laughing out from much stupidity.

Your style in the second novel is totally different from the first. In His Excellency language is pragmatic and not loaded with rhetoric, whereas in The Scents it sounds, and so does the style,   strong, ancient, eloquent, and poetic. Which style is closer to you? And does the literary text impose its style and language or does the novelist want to carve a style for himself/herself?

I had my share in creating language in The City’s Scents. It is a language that surprised me and still surprises me with its strength and charm. However, language in His Excellency has another story. It is informative and tricky. If happened that other books of mine – that I still see them as unworthy to appear – came out you would see that their language is different. Language also uses the writer. It is a strange being that transcends us.

We find the “melancholy” that we read in your first novel in another style in the second. This is understood in reading the Tunisian reality before the revolution. How do you read the reality and the future of Tunisia today as a creator? And what are your fears about and your perceptions of what is happening and what will happen?

Our reality is tearful in reality and metaphorically. I permit myself and all those who are preoccupied with it and who are suffering from it to criticise it with the cruelty it deserves. But it hurts me a lot that others criticise it as a means to deride and belittle us and also perhaps as a glee at our misfortune so we cannot find anything to respond back. I was happy that some Arab peoples had the courage to take hold of their destiny. But joy did not consummate.

Arab peoples today are at a crossroads. Their chronic civilisational crisis becomes a matter of being. I hope that those peoples will succeed in building a world in which people are able to live a decent life that is rich with diversity in a durable world.

The dispute over the aunt between the two ministers in your novel—a dispute over the mother, seems now the origin of disputes between Tunisians, between the revolutionaries and the politicians over Tunisia. Abdullah al-Qasemi sees no good in the Arab revolutionary because he/she revolts against his/her father to bring one worser than him. How do you see the reality of the so-called “Arab Spring” today?

Though attractive, psychoanalytic reading does not convince me. And I see what was done of Arabic studies in it nonsensical and silly. As for Arab revolutions, what are they? How many revolutions have we got in our history? We can judge when we will have a stock of revolutions.

The most dangerous people for the revolutions are those who consider themselves intellectuals because there are distances between the perceptions they have and reality. Reality, far and away, had outstripped them. That’s why you see them having recourse to the dead of every type and category to direct them how to live. They are dream killers.

You were one of the founders of the avant-garde literary movement in Tunisia in the seventies. And now you appear as one of the most important creators in the Tunisian scene and between these two periods you were preoccupied with research. Today after your retirement will you devote your time to creation? And when will you release the new novel? Or will this abrupt success lead you to take your time more?

The story of the avant-garde movement in Tunisia is long and rich. In brief, it began in the seventies obstreperous, quarrelsome, recusant, mutinous, and pregnant with loads of hopes. But it was not long when it became a nail clipper or a mere luxurious façade of a shop full of all kinds of valueless haberdasheries when it was opposed by the ones – among them some of its advocates – who opposed it.

We had a rendez-vous with history (here the comparison must be taken with a pinch of salt), but we missed it. So it turned its face from us and went away. My fear is that we miss once again this second rendez-vous – the one we are witnessing today. Then, we will not find even time to regret it or shed tears.

As a reader, I like writers to respect me and not make light of me or waste my time because time is very precious. As a writer, I try to respect the readers because the book – and this saying is by Attawhidi or Jahiz – is what “when you look at it, it elongates your pleasure.” And the pinpointed pleasure is various.

As for retirement, I wish that everybody will not find himself/herself repeating with Al-Ma’arri his saying, “my action was lost in intentions like mountains in the dark.”

Originally appeared in aljazeera.net on 25/01/2013 by Kamel Riahi.

You can read the original text in Arabic here.

Translated from Arabic by Ali Znaidi.

100 Very Short Stories by Mohamed Bouhouch: A Review Written by the Online Moroccan Magazine kisa.alfawanis.com and Translated by Ali Znaidi.

The Front Cover of 100 Very Short Stories

100 Very Short Stories by Mohamed Bouhouch.

A new book titled 100 Very Short Stories by writer Mohamed Bouhouch was recently published by Imprimerie Nouha Editions in Sfax (Tunisia) under the publications of the Tozeur section of The Tunisian Writers’ Union. The book came in 115 pages of small size including 100 very short stories. This short story collection was introduced by Moroccan writer Mustafa Laghtiri. Among what he said was:

“As far as style was concerned, the writer relied on a ripe narratorial language in his stories. Thus, he did not fall in the trap of the pompous poetic language that is overloaded by metaphor which distracts the attention of the short story writer and the reader from the rest of the storytelling’s elements as was and still is the case of many who were lured by the lights of the very short story, so they burnt their wings and much glow of the storytelling was burnt with them..

Here the short story writer uses narrative sentences that are very fond of capturing the mercurial fictional moment which disappears after a short interval of time if we cannot handle it properly.

Here Tunisian writer Mohamed Bouhouch is preoccupied with multifarious subjects delving into the hearts of the human issues which worry the minds of creators everywhere. But favour was given to issues lived by the short story writer and with which he had an immediate experience because he captures what the eye sees and what the mind and emotion believe.

In this collection Bouhouch used sarcasm because it is among the most important distinctive character of ripe writing which gives it a deep human dimension; away from the tragic language of sadness which harms creation more than doing good to it…”

It is worth mentioning that this is the first publication of Tunisian writer Mohamed Bouhouch in the field of the very short story and it is the ninth to the credit of the writer who published five poetry collections in Arabic, one book of poetry in French, another book in French which is a sociological research about the phenomenon of single mothers in Tunisia, and one poetry collection translated into English titled (Tahta Dhilal Al-Abadiyya) Under the Shadows of Eternity.

This book came as a new addition to the Tunisian narrative corpus in the field of the very short story as it is a new genre in Tunisia and publications of this genre are counted on the fingers of the hand.

Originally appeared in the online Moroccan magazine kisa.alfawanis.com.

You can read the original text in Arabic here.

Translated from Arabic by Ali Znaidi.

“Urgent Telegrams to an Emergent Love”: A Sequence of Short Poems by Radhia Chehaibi (Translated by Ali Znaidi)

Picture of Radhia Chehaibi borrowed off http://www.freearabi.com

“Urgent Telegrams to an Emergent Love”: A Sequence of Short Poems by Radhia Chehaibi (Translated by Ali Znaidi)

This is the original poem in Arabic. It is taken from the online magazine freearabi.com. “Urgent Telegrams to an Emergent Love” is, in fact, a sequence of short poems. You can also read it here.

برقيات عاجلة لحب طارئ ~ للشاعرة المتألقة راضية الشهايبي
المصدر: مجلة العربي الحر الإلكترونية

برقيات عاجلة لحب طارئ

بوح

باسمك مجرى دمي
جارفا يهتف لك بمداخلي
باسمك مرساه حين تتقد
على مشارف اناملك…يدي

***
تكامل

بعينيك الاحزان جميعا
وفي عيني الدموع التي تلزم

***
احتياج

اتدري كم يلزمني
لاحتمال غربتي
عن شهقتك القصوى
عين اشتهاء
ويد ارتجاف
وشفاه من لهيب

***
التزام

لعينيك قرارات
تنثرها بكياني فالتزم
وارسل روحي تبايعك
واشيد من قبلي عرشا
تعتليه…على شفتي

***
سُكر

هو الذي افرط
في شرب ايحاءات عينيها
لن يفلت من سكر التاويل

***
اعتذار

ليس لك ما به عن غياب
ما قبل اللقاء تكفر
سوى ذرف اشواق
على جسد اعياه الترقب

***
منتهى

أغارعليك من نفسي
فعدني…
إلاَّ معي تخونني

***
تفرد

كأني ما كنت انثى
كأن يديك ما احتفت بغيري
كأن انيني ما انتشى يوما
بغير تفجر نبعك في أديمي

***
تنبيه

ينتشر صخب كبريائه
يتفجر في صمت على جسدي
يستفز نبضي
يبشرني بالنبض البديل الخافق المتواري
خلف سكون رغبتي

Here you are the translation for this sequence!

Urgent Telegrams to an Emergent Love

Revelation

In your name my blood stream

vehemently shouts my innermost to you.

In your name its anchorage when my hand

burns at the outskirts of your fingertips.

***

Complementarity

In your eyes all sorrows.

In my eyes the required tears.

***

Need

Do you know how much do I need

to endure my alienation from your

utmost sobs:

A desiring eye,

a trembling hand,

& blazing lips.

***

Engagement

Your eyes have decisions.

You sprinkle them on my being. So I engage,

& I send my soul acknowledging you as a sovereign.

And I build a throne out of my heart.

You ascend it… on my lips.

***

Drunkenness

He who drank in the suggestiveness

of her eyes to excess,

will not escape from the intoxication of interpretation.

***

Apology

You have nothing by which to expiate

the absence from the pre-date

except shedding yearnings

on a body worn out by waiting.

***

A Furthest Point

I’m jealous about you from myself.

So promise not to betray me

only with me!

***

Uniqueness

As if I hadn’t been a female.

As if your hands had never celebrated anyone but me.

As if my whine had never been intoxicated

except with the explosion of your wellspring in my dusty skin.

***

Warning

The fury of his arrogance spreads

and it silently explodes in my body.

It provokes my pulses.

It brings to me the good news of the alternative palpitating

pulse that is hidden behind the inertia of my desire.

Radhia Chehaibi’s Bio:

Radhia Chehaibi is a Tunisian poet. She was born on May 29, 1970. Her poetry is characterised by strong imagery and language. She is also known for writing shorter poems or flash poetry. She authored poetry collections, including What Leaked from My Silence, Travel Recitations, and The Digital Path of the Soul. She was also anthologised in some Arabic and translated anthologies.

Two Poems by Ines Al Abbasi (Translated by Ali Znaidi)

Picture of Ines Al Abbasi borrowed off http://aleftoday.info/

Two Poems by Ines Al Abbasi (Translated by Ali Znaidi)

These are the original poems in Arabic. They are taken from the online magazine aleftoday.info. “Taking Shape” appeared on December 14, 2008 and “A Bastard” appeared on December 3, 2008. You can also read them here and here.

قصيدتان لإيناس العباسي ~ المصدر: مجلة ألف الإلكترونية

تشكل

الزمن : دوائر تتداخل
لتشكّل
دائرة واحدة
نقطة ارتكازها
خيانتك
بشعاع الأكاذيب الممتدّ
قطرا من الأخطاء
….هناك في علم الرياضيات
مايسمّى بالـ”جِوار”
منطقة بين – بين
لا نحن فيها …و لا خارجها
أحيانا نلتقي فيها
أو على حدود الدائرة
الذاكرة
بالتالي
ننتمي لكلّ الاحتمالات

في اللقاء:
تدور الدائرة بشدّة
لتعود
مجرّد نقطة
في الفراغ

***

لقيط

لقيط
الطفل الذي…
يعبر الليل وحيدا
الذي نهارا
يتأرجح بين
ذراعيّ شجرة
و يغفو بين أهداب
أمّه الشمس
يلتقط
صوت البحر
المختنق في
حنايا صَدفة
سرقها من طفل آخر
-مثله-
الطفل الذي…
يلعب مع الساحرات
في الرواق الطويل
لبيته الكبير
بيت الآخرين أيضا
أين اللغة عرجاء
تفتقد إلى كلمات كثيرة
الطفل الذي
قبل أن ينام في
حلم طفل آخر
يتساءل
كلّ ليلة
ما معنى كلمة :
لقيط؟

Here you are the translation for both poems!

Taking Shape

Time: Circles intertwine

to form

one circle:

its fulcrum is

your betrayal.

The rays of lies stretch

like a diameter of blunders.

In mathematics

there is something called ‘adjacency’—

a no man’s land zone:

We are not inside it, nor outside of it.

We sometimes meet in it

or at the edge of the circle/the memory.

Thus, we belong to all possibilities.

When meeting

the circle vehemently revolves

to return into

a mere dot

in the void

***

A Bastard

A bastard;

the child who…

crosses the night alone,

who at the daytime

oscillates between

a tree’s arms

& naps between the eyelashes

of his mother/the sun,

gleaning

the voice of the sea

that is stifled betwixt

the ribs of a seashell

that he stole from another child

– like him –

The child who…

plays with the witches

in the long corridor

of his big house

the house of others, too

where language is lame

& lacks many words

The child who

before sleeping in

another child’s dream

wonders

every night

about the meaning of the word ‘bastard.’

Ines Al Abbasi’s Bio:

Ines Al Abbasi is a Tunisian poet and fiction writer. She was born in 1981. She is a journalist by profession. She authored poetry collections, including Secrets of the Wind (2004) and Archive of Blind (2007) and a narrative travel book titled Scheherazade’s Korean Tales based on her residency experiences in Seoul.

A Batch of Poems by Fatma Ben Mahmoud (Translated by Ali Znaidi)

Picture of Fatma Ben Mahmoud borrowed off http://www.facebook.com/fbenmahmoud

A Batch of Poems by Fatma Ben Mahmoud (Translated by Ali Znaidi)

These are the original poems in Arabic. They are taken from her poetry collection Another Desire Doesn’t Interest Me. You can also read them here.

قصائد قصيرة لفاطمة بن محمود من مجموعتها رغبة أخرى لا تعنيني

الشاعر

وحيدا .. بلا نشيد
كل المدن نبذته
كل الأرصفة هجرته
فلاذ بيت في .. قصيد

حرقة الأسئلة

سؤال الجمر*
لماذا كلّما تشعل
سيجارة
أكون أنا .. الرّماد ؟

جسدي القتيل
أستلّ منه قلبي
و أشعله .. فتيل.

ديمتريو

الى صديقي الفنان هشام الكتاري

في غرفته .. الوحيدة
داعب العازف أوتار
قلبه
فتنهدت .. حبيبته
البعيدة.

قبلة

كلّما
ترتعش اللحظة بيننا
يتبرّد الورد
و يشتعل،
شفتاك نار
و ريقك .. عسل

Bonne année

سنة جديدة
و تنهمر على العام الجديد
الوعود،
و أنا يهزّني الفرح الجميل
و أتمنّى : لو شهيّة الأماني.. تعود.

انتظار

منذ أن هجرها الله
و أنكرها النبيّ
تجلس على جمر الوقت
تلك البنيّة
تنتظر الحلم
و تستعطف الذي :
لا … يرحم

إكتشاف

كانت كعادتها
تحبّ المساء
و تستلذ ّ الحرام
عندما اكتشفت الحكمة
خرست عن .. الكلام.

حال الطفلة

الى دنيا ميخائيل

كانت الطفلة
تعدّ الأحلام بأصابعها
و تبكي ..
لأن عدد الأصابع لكلّ الأحلام
لا .. تكفي.

وردته الفصيحة

الى الهادي الدبّابي

أيها البستاني
امنحني وردة واحدة
أهبك معنى لكلّ الورود.

لقاء

صدفة
مرّ الذي
تحبّ الرّوح أن تراه،
اهتزّ عصفور الصدّر
ارتحل البصر نحوه
و سافرت نحوي .. عيناه.

إشتعال

و اذ تلتقي النّار بالناّر
و ترتعد كل أوصال..
الجسد،
يرتوي القرنفل
يتبرّد ورد الأنوثة
المتقدّ،
و يذوب الرّخام
لهذا المساء طعم الصبا
و للشفاه وظيفة أخرى
غير الكلام.

مشهد عادي

في طريق المدرسة
طفل … أراه بلا محفظة،
يجوب أروقة القاعة …
نسي الكرّاس
يدنو من كلّ طاولة
أتلف الكتاب
يلامس كلّ كرسيّ
و ضيّع المقلمة،
طفل…
يمسح في المقهى ..
الأحذية.

المومس

كل صباح ..
تعلن التوبة
ترتب وحدتها
و تحصي أمنيتها
اليتيمة
…
آخر كل ليلة
تعود الى عادتها .. القديمة

هــــي

يا لهذه المدينة كم
تضيق ..
تشتدّ أزقتها
فتختنق الخطى،
غير أن بابنا الخشبي
يفتح على قلبها..
الفسيح
تلك الأمّ .. الطيبة.

مشهد ليلي

مطر حزين
و الليل .. منفى،
هل يحتاج أن يضيء المكان
اذا كان في العزلة
الفتى .. الأعمى؟

رغبة

نام الليل
و استيقظ جسد …
كان قد تورّق
نجمة يانعة هي
لم يقطفها الهلال
و ضمّها الأرق،
تأوهت في غصنها .. شهوة
فقطفها الخيال
و استنارت النجمة توهجا
فتململت.

جنازة

أعلم
اذ يلفّ هذا الجسد
الكفن
ستنوحني أمّي
طويلا
تفتقدني غرفتي
و يشيّعني الذين
آلفتهم أمدا
حشدا كبيرا
من .. الشجن.

مشهد شتوي

ليل عميق
و ريح تبللّها المطر
و هذا الذي :
حوله ما يشبه المحفظة،
و له كتاب قديم
و بعض أمان تزرع
في .. الورقة
و بقربه تماما …
اناء ..
و دقّات رتيبة تخترق
سمعه،
تك ، تك ، تك ،
قال الطفل :
- انها الساعة
تضبط ما فات من الليل
و أجزائه المقبلة
و كان يقصد حبّات مطر من
السّقف
تدقّ الاناء الذي :
يكاد يلامس .. قدمه.

ظمأ

قرّب شفتيه
من فيها
ارتعش لسانه
من حلو الرّضاب
و ترقرق ريقها
في الرّوح
حتى .. ارتوى
ثمّ .. أغلق الحنفية
و مضى.

نشوة

مدّ رغبته لها
بسطت شهوتها نحوه
رفعت ورقة التوت
……………………
…………………..
أصابه الدّوار
كادت…. تموت.

Picture of the Front Cover of Another Desire Doesn’t Interest Me borrowed off http://www.fatmabenmahmoud.com/poem.html

Here you are the English translation for this batch!

The Poet

Alone… Without a chant

All the cities rejected him

All the pavements forsook him

So he sheltered in a line… in a poem

The Ardor of Questions

*The Embers’ Question

Why do I become… ash

whenever a cigarette is lit?

I unsheathe my heart

from my killed body

and I burn it.. as a wick.

Demetrio

for my friend, artist Hichem Ktari

In his single room

the instrument player fondled the strings

of his heart.

Thus his far-flung lover

sighed.

A Kiss

Whenever the moment

shivers between us

roses get cold,

then on fire

Your lips are fire,

your spittle.. honey.

Bonne année

A new year,

Then promises are showering

the new year,

& I’m taken by the beautiful joy,

and I wish if the appetite of wishes.. returned.

Waiting

Since Allah deserted her

and since the prophet denied her

that little girl

sits on the embers of Time,

waiting for the dream

and beseeching that

one who is not… merciful

A Discovery

She used to love the evening

and find the forbidden pleasurable.

When she discovered wit

she shut up her mouth.

The Girl at this very Moment

for Donia Mikhail

The girl was

counting dreams on her fingers

and crying..

because there are not enough fingers

for all the dreams..

His Eloquent Rose

for Hedi Debbabi

O, gardener!

Give me just one rose!

I’ll give you a meaning for all roses.

An Encounter

Without a plan

the one whom the soul loves to see

passed by.

The bird of the chest quivered.

The sight tripped into him.

And his eyes travelled…towards me.

A Blaze

And when fire meets fire

and all the body’s joints tingle,

the carnations get watered,

the blazing roses of femininity get cold,

and the marble melts.

This evening tastes like juvenility,

& lips have another function,

apart from speaking.

An Ordinary Scene

On the school pathway.

A child… I saw him without

a schoolbag, roaming the classroom’s corridors…

He forgot the copybook.

He draws close to every desk.

He tore the book apart.

And he lost his pen-case.

A child…

polishing shoes in the café.

The Prostitute

Every morning..

she declares repentance

she tidies up her loneliness

and enumerates her orphan

wish

…

At the end of every night

she reverts to her old habit

She

O, how narrow this city is becoming!

Its alleys are getting tougher.

Thus the footsteps are suffocated.

But our wooden door

opens onto

her expansive heart—

that kind mother.

A Nocturnal Scene

A sad rain

And the night.. is an exile.

Does the place need to emit light

when the blind boy was in this seclusion?

A Desire

The night slept

and a body that has turned into foliage

woke up…

She was a vivid star,

not plucked by the crescent,

but hugged by insomnia.

A desire moaned in her bough

Thus, imagination plucked her.

And the star became more glowing.

Thus, she fidgeted.

A Funeral

I know when the coffin

shrouds this body

my mother will mourn me

very long,

and my room will miss me

and the ones whom I kept company

for long—

a large crowd of grief—

will escort me to my final resting place.

A Wintry Scene

A deep night

and a wind being wetted by rain.

And this one –

around whom something similar to a schoolbag –

had an old book,

and some wishes being grown… in the paper.

And precisely beside him…

an utensil..

and monotonous beats pricking his ears:

tick, tick, tick,

The child said,

It’s the clock

adjusting what was left

of the night

and its upcoming parts.

& he has meant

rain grains

from the ceiling

banging the utensil

that was about to touch.. his foot.

Thirst

He drew his lips closer

to her mouth.

His tongue trembled

out of the spittle sweetness,

and her spit glided along

the soul

till he got watered.

Then he turned off the tap

and went away.

Ecstasy

He extended his desire towards her.

She spread her desire towards him.

She raised the mulberry leaf

……………………………..

……………………………..

He was attacked by vertigo.

She was about to die.

 

Fatma Ben Mahmoud’s Bio:

Fatma Ben Mahmoud is a Tunisian poet and fiction writer. She worked as a philosophy teacher at Tunisian secondary schools. Then, she joined journalism because she loves writing. She writes prose poetry, flash fiction, and essays. She is mostly known for her micro poems and flash poetry. Her language is characterised by high levels of semantic density and richness and, at the same time, by simplicity. She has published three poetry collections: Another Desire Doesn’t Interest Me, What the Poem Hasn’t Said, and The Rose Which I Don’t Name. As for prose, she has published a collaborative short story collection with Moroccan writer Abdallah Al Mouttaqi titled Dreams Extending their Fingers. She has also published a fictional autobiography titled A Woman at the Time of the Revolution.

 

 

 

“The Poem of Christ” A Poem by Hafedh Mahfoudh (Translated by Ali Znaidi)

Picture of Hafedh Mahfoudh borrowed off http://www.alefyaa.com

This is the original poem in Arabic. It appeared in doroob.com on October 21, 2012.

قصيـدة المسيـح ~ حافظ محفوظ

-1-
خذ شكلك المرئيّ واهبط
فوق غيمتك القصيرة،
كيف حال الأرض؟
لا تسأل، ترقّب ثورة الأشجار
وانتظر السّلام محلّقا…
ربّيت أطفالا لأجلك،
هم جنودك بعد جيل،
هم حواريّوك فاحذرهم جميعا
واتّخذني شاهدا
لك في الطّريق روائح الفردوس
سيّدة تراقب نومك الفضّيّ
سيّدة تعدّ طعامك…
الجوعى أمام الباب فانهرهم جميعا
واتّخذني حارسا
لك آيتان تكلّم الموتى وتستفتي الحجر
حاذر إذن!
أرجوحة في الرّيح هذا الملك
فاقطع حبلها،
واصنع من الغصن البليل الفلك
وافتح بابها،
وقل اصعدوا، باركت توبتكم
وكن ربّانها
سيكون دمع الأرض يمّك
آمن خشب السّفين
وآمن مجدافها.
لك إثم خوفك من ضياع البدو في لغة الفراسة
فاتّخذني ترجمانك وانطلق…
-2-
لا بأس،
هذي الخمر إن شاؤوا دمي!
لكنّها غسلت صراخي بالنّخيل وهدهدتني
ربّما هزّت إليها بالسّحاب وبلّلت صوتي
لها لبن اللّغات وأرضعت سمعي
لها حضن الملاك وكفكفت دمعي
لها ظلّ الحصاة،
فلا تكن ولدا لغير الأرض يا كبد السّمـاء
وخذ دمي.
خذ ما تساقط من جناح ملاكها
ما ظلّ منثورا على النّهدين من رمل الجنان وريحها
خذ رفّة الجفن الأخيرة
أنّة الخصر الهباء
خذ ما يشاء اللّون
خذ ما انحلّ من عقد المساء
-3-
أحسّ انبجاس حروف على شفتيّ
أحسّ هبوب السّلالة من شرقها
أرى جسر ضوء يطول
وعاصفة في الأعالي
أرى بجعات يشكّلن بالغيم إسمي
أرى شجرا
لكأنّي أراه يميل
أرى في البعيد بحارا وصحراء عالية
لكأنّي أراها تميل
أرى الطّير والوحش والكائنات
كأنّي أراها تميل
أراني أميل على صدرها وأنام

“The Poem of Christ” A Poem by Hafedh Mahfoudh (Translated by Ali Znaidi)

-1-

Take your visible shape and land

in your low cloud!

How’s earth?

Don’t ask! Expect the revolution of the trees,

and wait for peace, fluttering…

I reared children for you,

They are your soldiers, after a generation.

They are your apostles. Beware of them all!

And take me as a witness.

Scents of paradise for you in the pathway.

A lady surveilling your silvery sleep.

A lady preparing your food…

The hungry are in front of the door. So scold them all!

And take me as a guard!

You have two miracles:

you talk to the dead and you call rocks for a poll.

So, beware!

This kingdom is a trapeze in the wind.

So cut its rope!

And make ships out of the wet bough!

And open their doors,

and say, Go aboard I blessed your repentance.

And be its captain!

The earth tears will be your sea.

Make safe the ship’s timber,

& the oars!

You have the sin of your fear

of the Bedouins’ errancy in the language of the acumen.

So make me your translator and set out…

-2-

Never mind!

This wine is my blood if they want.

But it washed my cries with the palm trees and lulled me.

Perhaps it shook the clouds against it and wetted my voice.

It has the milk of languages and it breastfed my ears.

It has the lap of the angel and it wiped out my tears.

It has the shadow of the pebble.

O, liver of the sky! Be only the child of earth,

and take my blood!

Take the debris of her angel’s wing,

& the gardens’ sand and scents still scattered on the breasts!

Take the last delicacy of the lid,

& the aerosol waist’s moan!

Take what the colour likes!

Take remnants of the evening’s unstrung necklace!

-3-

I feel a gush of letters on my lips.

I feel the breed blowing from its east.

I see a bridge of light growing longer

and a tempest above.

I see pelicans molding my name with clouds.

I see trees

as if I see them swaying.

I see from faraway seas and a high desert

as if I see them swaying.

I see the bird, the beast, and the creatures

as if I see them swaying.

I see myself swaying to her bosom and I sleep.

Hafedh Mahfoudh’s Bio:

Hafedh Mahfoudh is a Tunisian poet and novelist. He was born in the Tunisian city of Ksour Essef in 1965. He is a teacher of Arabic language and literature. He was awarded many literary prizes such as The Tunisian Golden Comar in 1999 for his novel The Angels’ Guard. He authored many poetry collections like Anxiety (1989), The Ants’ Poems (1994), and The Potter (1999). Chief among his novels, we can cite The Confusion of Senses (1996), The Wisdom Cube (2003), and Hourria (2005).

 

“This is Me..”A Poem by Saghir Oulad Ahmed (Translated by Ali Znaidi)

Picture of Saghir Oulad Ahmed borrowed off http://www.doroob.com

This is the original poem in Arabic. It appeared in doroob.com on December 11, 2012.

هذا أنا.. ~ أولاد أحمد

هذا أنا..
فكّرتُ في شعبٍ يقول : نعمْ ولاَ
عدّلتُ ما فكّرتُ فيهِ لأنّني – ببساطةٍ – عدّلتُ ما فكّرتُ فيهِ
فكّرتُ في شعبٍ يقولُ : نعمْ لـِ : لاَ
فكّرتُ في عددِ الضحايا واليتامى والأراملِ
واللصوصْ
فكّرتُ في هربِ الحروفِ من النصوصْ.
فكّرتُ في شعبٍ يغادرُ أرضهُ
بنسائهِ ورجالهِ
وجِمالهِ وكلابهِ.
فكّرتُ في تلكَ اليتيمةِ – في الحكومةِ ـ
وحدها تستوردُ التصفيقْ
من حفلٍ لسوبرانو يُغنّي للغزالةِ
والعدالةِ والمسيحْ.
فكّرتُ في صمتٍ فصيحْ
مضتِ الحياةُ كما مضتْ
مضت الحياةُ تهافُتًا وَ.. سبهلا
سأقولُ للأعشى الكبير قصيدة في البار،
إن نفذَ الشرابُ، وصاح في ليلِ المدينةِ ديكُها وغُرابُها :
- يــــــــــا ناسُ
ليس هناكَ – بعدَ الآنَ – غَدْ.

“This is Me..”A Poem by Saghir Oulad Ahmed (Translated by Ali Znaidi)

This is me..

I thought of a people that says, Yes & No.

I adjusted what I had thought of because – simply – I

adjusted what I had thought of.

I thought of a people that says, Yes to No.

I thought of the number of victims, orphans, and widows,

& thieves.

I thought of letters fleeting from the texts.

I thought of a people/ women & men/ camels & dogs

leaving their land.

I thought of that orphan – in the government –

She was solely importing clapping

from a soprano’s concert that is singing to the gazelle,

justice, & the Christ.

I thought of an eloquent silence.

Life has gone as it has gone.

Life has gone in rushing, & in vain.

I will say a poem to Al-Asha al Kabir in the bar,

if wine runs out & the cock and the crow of the city

cry in its night:

“– O, folks!

There is no tomorrow – after now – over there.”

Mohamed Sgaier Awlad Ahmed’s Bio:

Mohamed Sgaier Awlad Ahmed (sometimes Saghir Oulad Ahmed) is a Tunisian poet. He was born in the Tunisian city of Sidi Bouzid in 1955. He was invited to several international poetry festivals and read his poetry in most Tunisian cities. Awlad Ahmed’s poetry is mostly known for its satire, humour, and caustic remarks. His poems are translated into several European languages.