Shurouk Hammod (Syria)

Shurouk Hammod (Syria)
Shurouk Hammod born in 1982, a Syrian poetess, editor and literary translator, BA of arts graduate and a master degree graduate of text translation, Damascus University.
She has three published poetry collections in Arabic language and two published poetry collection in English titled: The night papers and Blind time, which is translated and published in Serbian and Macedonian languages.
Her poetry has been translated into 13 languages. And she has translated 14 books so far , in addition to poems by more than 35 poets from around the world.
The poem I did not want to write
I am damaged, my dear!
I was not kidding when I said to you:
My heart is a matchbox that was wetted by tears.
My eyes are an hourglass
Time runs out in
whenever shadows of love pass in front of them.
I am damaged in an unfamiliar way,
So don’t try to be my Night’s Knight
Who comes on the Moon Horse;
I am tired of looking at the sky
as a sunflower.
And I buried my compass
so that the directions would not stammer in my head like a time bomb
Then I recover from my ice
That keeps me alive
Like a corpse.
Fake life of a real person
I joined parties I knew nothing about
I attended the Communists Meetings
Just because my friends asked me to spend longer time with them,
I celebrated Nowruz with the Kurds
and danced around the fire
like an Indian
Also just because I liked them.
I attended discussion seminars about books I have not read
because I like to sneak out silently to smoke a cigarette.
Fate gifted me many nightmares that I used to tell to everyone
under the pretext of interpretation
And the truth is, I don’t care about interpretation as I care for the pleasure I feel
When all people turn to be the closest to my empty heart.
I flirt my sorrows
I flirt my nightmares
Pat their shoulders
Invite them to all my poetry-reading sessions
and let them sit in the first row as the closest friends.
Of course they did not hear of ingratitude,
So they share the same eagerness
crown me as their first priority,
Telling me stories I thought I had forgotten,
Dancing with my past on the stairs of tomorrow,
And as they feel the pulse of frost in my body,
They sing to me
Their stubborn songs
In order not to sleep.

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