Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Abdellatif El Ouarari

Waters laughing in my mother\'s face

The orchard, which I saw for the first time and began to cry instantaneously,
Because I needed the patience of clouds to decipher it,
Is my mother's face.
The light that shone in that distant lifetime,
And from which flowed a river of honey that I didn’t drink of,
Because the openings between my soft fingertips betrayed me,
Is my mother's face.
The fog which was the face of God
And dispersed in all directions
All over language,
Is my mother's face.
I don’t toy with language in the circus of the dead
while an open text claims
Do not at all tempt me,
It suffices to look at the dark halos under my eyes
To simply know the price I paid
To learn magic and alchemy,
And the magnitude of windmills that I fought by proxy
For my mother’s face
To shine on my nights,
And bloom with flowers that strip me naked
When rain is
Unusually late.
Poetry that I write with desperate selfishness,
Can’t cope with the crazy demands of that dog of mine,
My mother's face wouldn’t appreciate a trickster like it
which makes the commonplaceness of the color blue attractive to people,
But would rather appreciate a child as desperate as the ink of Abu Ala
And an overwhelming song swaying aboveboard
with palm leaves:
My mother is a descendent of the tribe of rivers
Served as water at the last supper,
Meanwhile the genealogy of her overcast face
Reaches back and forward to the great flood
At the end of times.

المياه التي تضحك من وجه أمّي

المياه التي تضحك من وجه أمّي

البستان الذي طالعته أول مرة وبكيت بتلقائية،
لأنّي سأحتاج صبر الغيم لفكّ شفراته،
هو وجه أمّي.
الضوء الذي أشرق في ذلك الزمن السحيق،
وتدفّق منه نهر العسل ولم أشرب منه،
لأني فروج أناملي الرخوة خانتني،
هو وجه أمّي.
الضباب الذي كان وجه الله
ثم تفرّق أيادي سبأ
في أنحاء اللغة،
هو وجه أمّي.
أنا لا ألعب باللغة في سيرك الجثث،
ولا تغريني على الإطلاق
دعاوى النص المفتوح.
يكفي أن تلمح الهالات السوداء تحت عينيّ
لتدرك - ببساطة - حجم الأتاوات التي دفعتها
لعلوم السحر والسيمياء،
وشكل طواحين الهواء التي حاربتها بالوكالة،
من أجل أن يشرق في ليلي
وجه أمّي،
ويتفتح بالأزهار التي أعرى فيها
إذا تأخر المطر
أكثر من اللازم.
هذا الشعر الذي أكتبه بأنانية ميؤوس منها،
لا قٍبَل له بمطالب كلبي المعتوهة،
فوجه أمّي لا يريد محتالًا مثله
يزين في عيون الناس تفاهة الزرقة،
بل طفلًا يائسًا مثل حبر أبي العلاء
وغناءً جارفًا يترنح بسعفات النخل
على رؤوس الأشهاد:
أمي من قبيلة الأنهار
التي سقت مائدة العشاء الأخير،
ونسب وجهها الغائم
يصل بالتواتر إلى الطوفان
في آخر الزمان.
Close

Waters laughing in my mother\'s face

The orchard, which I saw for the first time and began to cry instantaneously,
Because I needed the patience of clouds to decipher it,
Is my mother's face.
The light that shone in that distant lifetime,
And from which flowed a river of honey that I didn’t drink of,
Because the openings between my soft fingertips betrayed me,
Is my mother's face.
The fog which was the face of God
And dispersed in all directions
All over language,
Is my mother's face.
I don’t toy with language in the circus of the dead
while an open text claims
Do not at all tempt me,
It suffices to look at the dark halos under my eyes
To simply know the price I paid
To learn magic and alchemy,
And the magnitude of windmills that I fought by proxy
For my mother’s face
To shine on my nights,
And bloom with flowers that strip me naked
When rain is
Unusually late.
Poetry that I write with desperate selfishness,
Can’t cope with the crazy demands of that dog of mine,
My mother's face wouldn’t appreciate a trickster like it
which makes the commonplaceness of the color blue attractive to people,
But would rather appreciate a child as desperate as the ink of Abu Ala
And an overwhelming song swaying aboveboard
with palm leaves:
My mother is a descendent of the tribe of rivers
Served as water at the last supper,
Meanwhile the genealogy of her overcast face
Reaches back and forward to the great flood
At the end of times.

Waters laughing in my mother\'s face

The orchard, which I saw for the first time and began to cry instantaneously,
Because I needed the patience of clouds to decipher it,
Is my mother's face.
The light that shone in that distant lifetime,
And from which flowed a river of honey that I didn’t drink of,
Because the openings between my soft fingertips betrayed me,
Is my mother's face.
The fog which was the face of God
And dispersed in all directions
All over language,
Is my mother's face.
I don’t toy with language in the circus of the dead
while an open text claims
Do not at all tempt me,
It suffices to look at the dark halos under my eyes
To simply know the price I paid
To learn magic and alchemy,
And the magnitude of windmills that I fought by proxy
For my mother’s face
To shine on my nights,
And bloom with flowers that strip me naked
When rain is
Unusually late.
Poetry that I write with desperate selfishness,
Can’t cope with the crazy demands of that dog of mine,
My mother's face wouldn’t appreciate a trickster like it
which makes the commonplaceness of the color blue attractive to people,
But would rather appreciate a child as desperate as the ink of Abu Ala
And an overwhelming song swaying aboveboard
with palm leaves:
My mother is a descendent of the tribe of rivers
Served as water at the last supper,
Meanwhile the genealogy of her overcast face
Reaches back and forward to the great flood
At the end of times.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Ludo Pieters Gastschrijver Fonds
Lira fonds
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère