Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Abdelilah Mouissi

She asks for ‘Café Dubois’ while I ask for a glass of ‘Tequila’. Svetlana Alexievich

It’s not that I cannot go to meet ideas, but I lack the proper suit for such a meeting . . .
Shirt unbottoned,
‘Blue jeans’,
Flat shoes,
The memory of a woman,
Single cigarettes
Small trickery plans.
........
.........
I go to poetry in the evening.
The rest of the time in the morning I spend it
Checking my temper,
Polishing dishes,
Tidying the mess in the house,
I forget about the girlfriend who just left,
And stand on the balcony in shorts.
Love is a red rose.
Love is a supergun.
........
........
I go to poetry in the evening.
We together invent a small cafe at the head of the street, in both our heads.
We sit opposite each other
I, looking at her pale face,
She, looking at the base ideas in my heart.
She asks for ‘Café Dubois’,
I ask for a glass of ’Tequila‘.
I think of jumping before a passing train.
........
........
I go to poetry in the evening.
We rent a room on the roof and date each other in weekends.
We look down to the street from above
And laugh loudly.
As I explain the ‘Gulag’ theory to her
She steals a leftist kiss from my mouth.
A single trip by bus to paradise could be enough.
........
........
Svetlana Alexievich.
My heart is Soviet.
Imagination is not sufficient anymore.
I have no more secrets to hide for anyone except myself.
Cold is War in your capitalistic eyes.
.......
.......
Svetlana Alexievich.
Poetry doesn’t tell lies.
Poetry deceives.
Poetry is the daughter of a bitch.
Her eyes are inquisitive
Her eyes are documentative
It is not to be recited in festivals
Nor to pose with makeup
In front of a handsome announcer on TV programs.
Poetry loafs in markets and backstreets
Measuring blindness in the eyes of passers-by
And cares nothing about the number of stars in the hotel
Where it is staying.
.......
.......
I love like one who watches Rambo 4.
I fight till the last round
And hope it’s not too late.

تطلب "Café Dubois" وأطلب كأس "تاكيلا". "سفيتلانا ألكسيفيتش".

تطلب "Café Dubois" وأطلب كأس "تاكيلا". "سفيتلانا ألكسيفيتش".


لا ينقصني الذهاب إلى الأفكار، تنقصني البذلة المناسبة كي ألقاها . . .
قميص بأزرار مفتوحة،
سروال "Blue jeans"،
حذاء أرضي،
ذكرى امرأة،
سجائر بالتقسيط،
وخطط صغيرة للاحتيال.
.........
.........
أذهب إلى القصيدة مساء.
بقية الوقت أقضيه صباحا
أتفقد أعصابي،
أجلي الصحون،
أرتب متلوفات البيت،
أنسى الحبيبة التي غادرت،
وأقف في البلكون بالشورت.
الحب وردة حمراء.
الحب مدفع جرار.
.........
.........
أذهب إلى القصيدة مساء.
نخترع معا مقهى صغيرا في رأس الشارع، وفي رأسينا معا أنا وهي.
نجلس متقابلين،.
أنظر إلى وجهها الأصفر
وتنظر إلى أفكاري السيئة في قلبي.
تطلب “Café Dubois”
وأطلب كأس "تاكيلا".
غالبا ما أفكر في أن اقفز أمام قطار عابر.
.........
.........
أذهب إلى القصيدة مساء.
نؤجر بيتا على السطح ونتواعد نهايات الأسبوع.
ننظر إلى الشارع من فوق،
ونقهقه.
أشرح لها نظرية "الغولاغ"
فتخطف من فمي بوسة يسارية.
توصيلة إلى الجنة بالباص قد تكفي.
........
........
"سفيتلانا ألكسيفيتش".
قلبي سوفياتي.
لم يعد الخيال يكفيني.
لم يعد هناك المزيد من الأسرار لأخفيها عن أي شخص باستثناء نفسي.
الحرب باردة في عينيك الرأسماليتين.
........
........
"سفيتلانا ألكسيفيتش".
القصيدة لا تكذب.
القصيدة تحتال.
القصيدة ابنة قحبة ضائعة
عيناها استقصائيتان.
عيناها توثيقيتان
لا تقرأ في المهرجانات
ولا تجلس بالمكياج
أمام المذيع الوسيم في البرامج التلفزية.
القصيدة تتسكع في الأسواق والاحياء الخلفية
تحصي العمى في عيون المارة
ولا تعبأ بعدد نجوم الفندق
حيث تقيم.
.........
.........
أحب كمن يشاهد فيلم "رامبو 4 ".
أقاتل إلى الأشواط الأخيرة،
وآمل أن الوقت لم يفت.
Close

She asks for ‘Café Dubois’ while I ask for a glass of ‘Tequila’. Svetlana Alexievich

It’s not that I cannot go to meet ideas, but I lack the proper suit for such a meeting . . .
Shirt unbottoned,
‘Blue jeans’,
Flat shoes,
The memory of a woman,
Single cigarettes
Small trickery plans.
........
.........
I go to poetry in the evening.
The rest of the time in the morning I spend it
Checking my temper,
Polishing dishes,
Tidying the mess in the house,
I forget about the girlfriend who just left,
And stand on the balcony in shorts.
Love is a red rose.
Love is a supergun.
........
........
I go to poetry in the evening.
We together invent a small cafe at the head of the street, in both our heads.
We sit opposite each other
I, looking at her pale face,
She, looking at the base ideas in my heart.
She asks for ‘Café Dubois’,
I ask for a glass of ’Tequila‘.
I think of jumping before a passing train.
........
........
I go to poetry in the evening.
We rent a room on the roof and date each other in weekends.
We look down to the street from above
And laugh loudly.
As I explain the ‘Gulag’ theory to her
She steals a leftist kiss from my mouth.
A single trip by bus to paradise could be enough.
........
........
Svetlana Alexievich.
My heart is Soviet.
Imagination is not sufficient anymore.
I have no more secrets to hide for anyone except myself.
Cold is War in your capitalistic eyes.
.......
.......
Svetlana Alexievich.
Poetry doesn’t tell lies.
Poetry deceives.
Poetry is the daughter of a bitch.
Her eyes are inquisitive
Her eyes are documentative
It is not to be recited in festivals
Nor to pose with makeup
In front of a handsome announcer on TV programs.
Poetry loafs in markets and backstreets
Measuring blindness in the eyes of passers-by
And cares nothing about the number of stars in the hotel
Where it is staying.
.......
.......
I love like one who watches Rambo 4.
I fight till the last round
And hope it’s not too late.

She asks for ‘Café Dubois’ while I ask for a glass of ‘Tequila’. Svetlana Alexievich

It’s not that I cannot go to meet ideas, but I lack the proper suit for such a meeting . . .
Shirt unbottoned,
‘Blue jeans’,
Flat shoes,
The memory of a woman,
Single cigarettes
Small trickery plans.
........
.........
I go to poetry in the evening.
The rest of the time in the morning I spend it
Checking my temper,
Polishing dishes,
Tidying the mess in the house,
I forget about the girlfriend who just left,
And stand on the balcony in shorts.
Love is a red rose.
Love is a supergun.
........
........
I go to poetry in the evening.
We together invent a small cafe at the head of the street, in both our heads.
We sit opposite each other
I, looking at her pale face,
She, looking at the base ideas in my heart.
She asks for ‘Café Dubois’,
I ask for a glass of ’Tequila‘.
I think of jumping before a passing train.
........
........
I go to poetry in the evening.
We rent a room on the roof and date each other in weekends.
We look down to the street from above
And laugh loudly.
As I explain the ‘Gulag’ theory to her
She steals a leftist kiss from my mouth.
A single trip by bus to paradise could be enough.
........
........
Svetlana Alexievich.
My heart is Soviet.
Imagination is not sufficient anymore.
I have no more secrets to hide for anyone except myself.
Cold is War in your capitalistic eyes.
.......
.......
Svetlana Alexievich.
Poetry doesn’t tell lies.
Poetry deceives.
Poetry is the daughter of a bitch.
Her eyes are inquisitive
Her eyes are documentative
It is not to be recited in festivals
Nor to pose with makeup
In front of a handsome announcer on TV programs.
Poetry loafs in markets and backstreets
Measuring blindness in the eyes of passers-by
And cares nothing about the number of stars in the hotel
Where it is staying.
.......
.......
I love like one who watches Rambo 4.
I fight till the last round
And hope it’s not too late.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Hendrik Muller fonds
Lira fonds
J.E. Jurriaanse
Literature Translation Institute of Korea
Partners
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