Poems by Houda Ben Mouhamed Gati / Traslation by John Henry Smith

Poems by Houda Ben Mouhamed Gati
 
 
PLACES OUTSIDE THE TEXT
 
“We never live; we are always in the expectation of living”. Voltaire
 
I tried, like a soil that realizes its lack
I am the deeper than dry fissures
in a farmer ‘s palm
And clearer than the face of still water
Under the feet of a barren tree
To have among the tiny particles of my questions
openings of air
In the soil of my muddy questions
Where my face expression shows no answers’ split
the dryness of hopes… and decadence of visions,
Whenever my patience oppressed me to absorb a watery dream
I tried as a poetess
Who the intimacy of meeting lets her down
In the wake of the first message
received by her head swollen with metaphors
Athirst to a warm lap to protect her against the ferocity
of cold words in the cell of loss
filled with the giggles of the oppressed
in the chambers of rhymes
So as not to scrape my sequential wounds off
While stripping my pulse off my skin that pours
To beg the sympathy of prisoners, who are like me lurking like in their silence
to make my blood
my white blood
a poem of Eid (festival) to be a sacrifice for the black poetry
I tried
Yes, I tried not to slay my children
Who are lingering in the corridors of the paper
And standing at the entrances of cities
Which the simples, my like are forbidden to enter,
I tried as being engaged in self-conflict, anti-convictions challenge
and imaginary painting an orphaned smile for a happier “tomorrow”
I tried when my dreams turned out to be bold
between the nails of a woman
and the walls were high …. high
Higher than a shocking idea
And narrower than the run of an attempt in a pen tube
I can’t move, fettered with rusty chains
Whenever my fingers move towards you
I put my captivity in words
As reminded by the buzzing of the feet around
Freedom is slots
Slots outside the text
And not the oscillation of a pen ….. in writing.
 
 
 
Nostalgia
 
The distance washes what of madness will be hung out
in the dream canvas,
On the silk cloth of the random lust
The walls melt the oil of memories
And as soon as the skin of silence gets wet,
I wash my solitude out,
The pillow of ideas when shaken by me, leaves an insolvable spot on the bed of time,
Folded together I am
To drip what have been left out of our talks in the old meetings… to seem to be calm
The water in your lips no longer dare
To purify the quilt of waiting
How can I extract the color of fear and boredom from the distance oil,
On a stubborn body weltered in sadness
Where to throw my imagination and the color of washed desire may overflow in my hand,
Now, where do I bring you from!!??
Where do I get skin that bears the rubbing of questions
Whose dye has infiltrated doubt
I need a wind that blasts in the head at night
To wipe out the trailing of tears from sheets of answers hopeless of embrace
in the balcony of the long anxiety, I am stuck
So long as this, thoughts swinging in my head
On the rope of sleeplessness
So long as this, colors rubs each other on the stone of your absence, until I burn.
 
 
 
Traslation by John Henry Smith

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