Translation of one of my Arabic poems
Mosaic of Hunger
By Abdellatif Rhesri
Shade is blind in Africa
And the eyes of fear are wide open
And the day is long,
Like the lofty heads of Keliminjaro,
And the train of torment is drawn
By a whip of flame and dispersed mists
The tribes' cinders are mere heaps of ashes
Over a number of gathered pots.
And all the tribe's shepherds are gone
Through the darkness,
On frail legs
In the town they walked ;
In the yards and on the blocked roads
Begging for a loaf of bread,
For the kids lying asleep on the back of the saddle
And the town is a set of tunnels, hills of straw
And excavated floors
The mill's doors are pervaded by mobs
Those goaded by the clapping noise of the mill wheel.
The mayor , whose jugular veins are swollen,
Is shooing away the conflicting mobs
And on his belly, there perches the parrot
And is eating from his outstretched palm
The women of the tribe on the thresholds are
Mere statues, starved and lowly,
Standing still,
Not moved by their anticipated downfall,
Nor by the sound of crack.
Carrying jars of pain
Above the heads craning forward
Looking at the corpses scattered
In half of the farm corners
And at the infected lamb,
At the hawk perching on the hermitage
Clearing filth from their plate,
From the cup tucked away beside it.
Laughing,
Yet, in the eyes is a sky
In which the clouds of dew are unattainable
Asking the forenoon ray :
What did the baby suck from
The breast of the foster mother ?
Was it milk he sucked ,
Or lotus-trees, or remnants of autumn,
Or terrifying images ?
And fear is everywhere, wandering and not knowing
Its final abode
And Bakaka is sprinkling vinegar
Over the rectangle and its four sides.
For it's right there where motherhood
Whispers to its buried skeleton
And the one who followed it,
And asks the light of the setting sun about it,
And asks those who bade it farewell
About the years of distress,
Would they go by, or would death
Come out of the storm's womb ?
The sooner a star is born in her village,
The sooner it tastes its own death.
Morocco
June 2009
Poetry by Abdellatif Rhesri
Read 286 times
Written on 2009-06-24 at 19:44
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Mosaic of Hunger
Mosaic of Hunger
By Abdellatif Rhesri
Shade is blind in Africa
And the eyes of fear are wide open
And the day is long,
Like the lofty heads of Keliminjaro,
And the train of torment is drawn
By a whip of flame and dispersed mists
The tribes' cinders are mere heaps of ashes
Over a number of gathered pots.
And all the tribe's shepherds are gone
Through the darkness,
On frail legs
In the town they walked ;
In the yards and on the blocked roads
Begging for a loaf of bread,
For the kids lying asleep on the back of the saddle
And the town is a set of tunnels, hills of straw
And excavated floors
The mill's doors are pervaded by mobs
Those goaded by the clapping noise of the mill wheel.
The mayor , whose jugular veins are swollen,
Is shooing away the conflicting mobs
And on his belly, there perches the parrot
And is eating from his outstretched palm
The women of the tribe on the thresholds are
Mere statues, starved and lowly,
Standing still,
Not moved by their anticipated downfall,
Nor by the sound of crack.
Carrying jars of pain
Above the heads craning forward
Looking at the corpses scattered
In half of the farm corners
And at the infected lamb,
At the hawk perching on the hermitage
Clearing filth from their plate,
From the cup tucked away beside it.
Laughing,
Yet, in the eyes is a sky
In which the clouds of dew are unattainable
Asking the forenoon ray :
What did the baby suck from
The breast of the foster mother ?
Was it milk he sucked ,
Or lotus-trees, or remnants of autumn,
Or terrifying images ?
And fear is everywhere, wandering and not knowing
Its final abode
And Bakaka is sprinkling vinegar
Over the rectangle and its four sides.
For it's right there where motherhood
Whispers to its buried skeleton
And the one who followed it,
And asks the light of the setting sun about it,
And asks those who bade it farewell
About the years of distress,
Would they go by, or would death
Come out of the storm's womb ?
The sooner a star is born in her village,
The sooner it tastes its own death.
Morocco
June 2009
Poetry by Abdellatif Rhesri
Read 286 times
Written on 2009-06-24 at 19:44
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
