2016-05-19 Read FINAL WEB



2016-05-19 Read FINAL WEB
[ A J O U R N A L O F I N T E R - T R A N S L AT I O N : 2 0 1 5 ]
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1913 books are distributed by
Small Press Distribution
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Printed on acid-free, recycled paper
in the United States of America
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Published by Tamaas and 1913 Press
www.tamaas.org journal1913.org
Copyright © 2016 by Tamaas
All rights reserved
The translations collected here were begun during a weeklong translation seminar
held at Reid Hall in Montparnasse in Paris during June of 2015, sponsored by
the international arts association Tamaas. The poets worked in pairs, so that each
participant was both an author and a translator, underscoring the essential act of
writing that unites the two. During the five days of the seminar, the writers translated
each other’s work on the spot and then completed the translations in the following
months. In this volume, as in the previous volumes, the translated texts are presented
first, followed by the authors’ original versions.
Tamaas and the editors of this book would like to thank the following publishers for
the rights of publication: Almutawassit for the collection of poems, Scale of Injury
(2016), by Golan Haji, and the Ministry of Culture, Damascus for the publication of
“Before Me” and “Another House,” which are part of the publication, He Called out
Within the Darkness (2004). Thanks to Éditions de l’attente for the rights to reproduce
a selection of poems in LOIN, by Marie Borel Bloom.
W.W. Norton, New York and London for the publication of the following poems
by Marilyn Hacker, “Ghazal: Outside the door,” “Ghazal: In the Wind;” “Ghazal: A
woman,” and “Fugue on a line of Amr bin M’ad Yakrib” which are from A Stranger’s
Mirror (2015), and Holland Park Press, London, for the rights to reproduce “From
DiaspoRenga” from the collection, DiaspoRenga.
Lily Robert-Foley kindly acknowledges the contribution of Joel Jennings who
collaborated with her on the first versions of the Palming Machine.
Thanks to Khaled Najar of Tawbad Editions for rights to reproduce selections from
the collections, October 27,2003, At Two in the Afternoon, and Return from London by
Etel Adan.
Thanks to Poetry Northwest for the rights to reproduce “Card Trick Sonnet;”
to Omniverse for the rights to reproduce “Target Discount Backpack Sonnet;” to
Oversound for the rights to reproduce “U9 to Zoo Station Sonnet;” to the Seattle
Review for the rights to reproduce “Majid Al Futtaim Holding a Sonnett,” and “Swim
Lesson Sonnet;” to BOMBlog for the rights to reproduce “Limit Sonnet,” and to A
Public Space for the rights to reproduce “Sever Sonnet,” all by Andrew Zawacki.
And finally, special thanks to Omar Berrada, Blaire Dessent, Aicha el Beloui, Sarah
Riggs, Jérémy Robert, Cole Swensen, for their editorial assistance and guidance, and
to the staff at Reid Hall for their welcome.
[ Tr a n s l a t e d b y S a m W i l d e r ]
Out of thirst and hunger you search with your eyes in the sky,
with your nails in a hill of sand,
with your ear for a barking to lead you to houses,
with your tongue in the stones that only shine from afar.
Had you learned how to pray to one of these gods
you would have bent down on these knees. Maybe not walking
but crawling in alleys whose narrowness leads to more narrowness.
At every turn people have returned and here you are, having come out alone
from the dark alley never wide enough for two. Before you
is the mirage that the unbeliever thinks water, with a legacy
on your shoulders that you thought you had let fall – by crying on the ruins.
Is this deliverance?
Is deliverance to be in a desert like this while beneath your feet
is a jewel you did not know you were looking for?
You are in front of the door. I am behind it.
With the press of your finger on the bell comes disorder,
blood that staggered along the spinal cord jumps to the ear,
my feet take two steps back
and every organ dashes out on its own in the wrong direction.
Press the bell again short of breath, my patience running out, I slow myself.
I stick my tongue out at the time I waited for you.
Maybe these are seconds of radiance beyond everything after.
Opening the door for a waiting man you waited for,
as if everything is as it should be in this world, lazily,
my hands will reach for the door knob.
You cross the doorway.
Pharoah’s troops did not chase you.
It is not justice that these sinless horses drown
and the women of Egypt lose their gold forever.
You escape death into the wilderness
no victory in front of you or behind.
God’s plans fail once again.
I swear that dew fell down from the ceiling
lightly and salty on my lips.
Maybe this is why I didn’t say hello.
I look contendedly at the faulty lighting in my house. This paleness
makes me hide beneath my self
and you are in front of me on the couch, lost as a guest.
You don’t know what to do with yourself,
I reach with one hand to greet you
as the other keeps my glasses in place.
A conservative aristocrat lady doing charity work
for the orphans. Hello there.
Like Moses through the sea into desert you enter my house.
The waters split on either side;
Book of Desire
The Trusty Guide to Boys and Girls Past the Age of Forty
With his hand
by my hair
a man pulls me who has seen me drowning after I walked on water
a ship of gold divided into halves
a forest between them
a sun like the sun
ashen velvet in waves but no ash
an open museum of everything vanished from this world
and at the bottom
the small fish entered my lungs.
After forty the man counts the hairs caught in his brush in the morning, while the
woman plucks out her gray hairs before she goes to bed. While the woman stands in
front of the mirror trying to detect changes in the color of her nipples, the man looks
more carefully at the nipples he sees in public. While the woman’s nightmares revolve
around the dryness of her womb, the man becomes terrified of the constipation in his
By my hair
by his hand
a man pulled me ‘til I turned with the winds
time flows
mountains stagger between fire and light.
This happened before I returned to the shore
with my dress torn
and a good experience with the texture of sand.
Since I am here
no fear of the sea touches me.
The locked book of desire
is open
to a mark on some page.
So said the expert, then added that it is not only according to the foregoing symptoms
that we can distinguish between the two animals. Rather his study has confirmed that
beyond the age of forty the man takes pride in the number of women he brought to
orgasm, while the woman regrets having faked the scene so many times. It is within
your capacity to know that the woman does not reveal much about these things,
because she is a deep well. In contrast the man radiates with joy like a public street.
But do not think this unfair, feminists - everyone who listens to the man knows he is
Some people think that truths come nearer after the age of forty, but it pains me that
I must confound these people. As you know truths concern only children and the
insane. It is true that some men become prophets, but do not forget that most of their
followers are women. It is true that some women may become wise, but this happens
when they get used to fleeing from truths. As for that poetess who claimed she entered
the butterfly phase after the age of forty, I plead with you not to understand her in the
sense of ‘you must not pray…’ For she added in the next line that she flies with the
speed of lightning in a straight line, toward the light, the light that prophets and wise
women call, metaphorically, ‘death.’
From the window
You can tell a person who’s been destroyed
from where you drink coffee watching passersby.
You can tell someone whose back has been fixed
or whose neck has been rehinged to his shoulders.
You can probably guess what the artery looks like
that they grafted from his wrist to his heart,
or maybe sight a glimmer from the pins imported for his knee.
You’ll see the sincerity in his step,
maybe slow.
He usually walks in a straight line
and doesn’t turn his eyes to you. He’s completely locked.
It’s easier with someone who’s been scattered.
The one who’s been scattered usually turns around
like he’s looking for a part still missing.
He probably looks sweet when he’s turning
because he’s glued together with paste.
Or he might be bitter, if he’s gone a bit too far
pouring mortar into the gaps
between his organs.
I don’t think that behind the window you can tell the ones
who have been ripped apart.
Nothing really tells them apart.
Maybe each just resembles himself
like seals ripped from envelopes
that end in an amateur’s collection of stamps.
[ O r i g i n a l Te x t s ]
‫من العطش والجوع فتّ َ‬
‫شت بعيونك يف السماء‪ ،‬بأظافرك‬
‫يف تالل من الرمل‪ ،‬بأذُنك عن نباح يد ّل عىل ديار‬
‫وبلسانك يف الصخور التي ال تلمع إال من بعيد‬
‫كنت تع ّل َ‬
‫لو َ‬
‫مت كيف تصيل لواح ٍد من هذه اآللهة‬
‫الركبتي‪ .‬ربما لم يكن مشيا‪ ،‬كان‬
‫لجثوت عىل هاتي‬
‫حبْوا ً يف ممرات يُسلمك ضيّقها إىل األكثر ضيقاً‪ .‬يف‬
‫منعطف رجع ٌ‬
‫ناس وها أنت قد خرجت وحيدا ً من‬
‫املمر املعتم الذي لم يكن أبدا يتسع الثني‪ .‬أمامك‬
‫ظننت أنك‬
‫رسابٌ يظنه الكافر ماء وعىل كتفيْك‬
‫أسقطته ـ من البكاء عىل األطالل‪ .‬هل هذه هي النجاة؟‬
‫هل النجاة أن تكون يف صحراء كهذه وتحت قدميك‬
‫جوهرة لم تكن تعرف أنك تبحث عنها؟‬
‫أنت أمام الباب أنا خلفه‬
‫تحدث فو‬
‫ب طة إصبع َك عىل الجرس‬
‫إىل األذن تن ّ دما ٌء كانت تتهاد قرب سلسلة الظهر‬
‫خطوتي للخلف‬
‫ت اجع قدماي‬
‫كل ع ٍو يهرول وحده يف اتجا ٍه خطأ‪.‬‬
‫المرشد األمين للبنات والبنين‬
‫بعد سن األربعين‬
‫اض ْ‬
‫الجرس مر ًة أخر‬
‫مقطوعة األنفاس ينف ُد ص ي وأتباطأ‬
‫كأنني أُخر لساني للوقت الذي انتظرتك فيه‬
‫ربما تلك هي الثواني األكثر بهاء مما بعدها‪،‬‬
‫فت ُ الباب لرجل تنتظره ينتظر يف الخار ‪،‬‬
‫كأن كل ء عىل ما يرا يف هذا العالم‪،‬‬
‫ستمتد يداي إىل املقب ‪.‬‬
‫بعد األربعي يع ّد الرجل الشعرات املع ّلقة باملش يف‬
‫الصباح وتن ع املرأة الشعرات البي اء قبل الذهاب‬
‫للنو ‪ ،‬أما املر ة تخت املرأة أيّ ت ّ يف لون الحلمة‬
‫وتت ايد مراقبة الرجل للحلمات يف األماكن العامة‪،‬‬
‫وبينما تدور كوابي املرأة حول جفاف الرحم‪ ،‬يرتع ُ‬
‫الرجل من أي احتقان يف م خرته‪.‬‬
‫قال الخب أي ا ً إنّه لي باألعرا السابقة فق نف ّر‬
‫الحيواني‪ ،‬فقد أثبتت دراسته أنه بعد األربعي يفخر‬
‫الرجل بعدد النساء الالتي وصلن ل ورجا بواسطته‬
‫بينما تند املرأة ألنها مثّلت ذلك املشهد كث اً‪ ،‬ولي‬
‫بعيدا ً عن فطنتكم أن املرأة ال تتكلم يف هذه األ ياء‬
‫ألنها ب نفسها‪ ،‬بينما يتأل الرجل بالحبور‬
‫عمومي‪ ،‬وال تظنوا أيتها النسويات أن ذلك لي عدالً‪،‬‬
‫كأنه ارع‬
‫فمستمعو الرجل يعرفون أنه يكذب‪.‬‬
‫وتع ُ العتبة‪.‬‬
‫أنت ال تعرف ماذا تصنع بنفسك وأنا سأم ّد يدا ً للسال‬
‫واألخر تتأكد أن النظارة يف مكانها‪،‬‬
‫أريستوقراطية محافظة‪ ،‬سيدة صالون تُمارس نشاطها‬
‫الخ يّ لصال اليتام ‪ .‬أهالً‪.‬‬
‫وكمو يع البحر إىل الصحراء تدخ ُل بيتي‬
‫تنش ّ املياه عىل‬
‫لم يلح بك جنود فرعون‪،‬‬
‫ولي عدال ً أن ت ر كل هذه الخيول بال ذن‬
‫وال أن تفقد نساء م ذهبَهُ ن إىل األبد‪.‬‬
‫هاربٌ من املوت إىل التيه‪،‬‬
‫ال ن ْ أمامك وال خلفك‬
‫لتفشل خط الرب مر ًة أخر ‪.‬‬
‫وأقسم أن الند كان يسق من سقف الصالة‪ ،‬خفيفا ً‬
‫فتي‪ ،‬ولهذا ربما لم أقل أهالً ‪.‬‬
‫ومالحا ً عىل‬
‫برضا أنظر إىل سوء ا ضاءة يف بيتي‪ .‬هذا الشحوب‬
‫سيجعلني أختب تحت ذاتي‬
‫بينما أنت أمامي عىل الكنبة‪ ،‬ضا ع ك ٍ‬
‫بع الناس يظنون أن الحقا تصب قريبة بعد‬
‫األربعي‪ ،‬ولكن ي سفني أن أحبطهم فالحقا كما‬
‫تعرفون ال يهتم بها إال األطفال واملعتوهون‪ .‬صحي‬
‫أن بع الرجال قد يصبحون أنبياء‪ ،‬ولكن ال تنسوا أن‬
‫معظم أتباعهم يكون من النساء‪ .‬وصحي أن بع‬
‫النساء قد يصبحن حكيمات‪ ،‬ولكن ذلك يحدث عندما‬
‫يتواطأن أكثر عىل الهروب من الحقا ‪ .‬أما تلك‬
‫الشاعرة التي ادّعت أنها دخلت طوْر الفرا ة بعد‬
‫األربعي‪ ،‬فأرجوكم ال تفهموها عىل طريقة ال تقربوا الصالة ‪،‬‬
‫فقد أضافت يف السطر الذي يليه أنها تط‬
‫ب عة ال يف خ مستقيم‪ ،‬تجاه ذلك ال وء‪،‬‬
‫ال وء الذي يسميه األنبياء والحكيمات عىل سبيل‬
‫املجا بـ املوت ‪.‬‬
‫كتاب الرغبة‬
‫من النافذة‬
‫من عْ ري‬
‫دّني رج ٌل كان قد ر ني أ ر بعد أن ُ‬
‫كنت أم‬
‫عىل املاء‬
‫سفينة من الذه مقسومة إىل‬
‫بينهما ٌ‬
‫و م ٌ كالشم‬
‫قطيفة رمادية وال رماد‬
‫متحف مفتوحٌ لكل ما اختف من هذا العالم‬
‫يف القاع‬
‫دخلت األسماك الص ة إىل ر ّ‬
‫ومن عْ ري‬
‫دّني رج ٌل حت ُد ْر ُت مع الرياح‬
‫يسي ُل‬
‫ان وضوء‬
‫وت ن ّ ُ جبا ٌل بي ن ٍ‬
‫حدث هذا قبل أن أعود إىل الشاط‬
‫بثوب مُم ّ‬
‫وخ ٍة جيّدة بملم الرمال‬
‫من املمكن أن تميّ الشخ الذي تح ّ‬
‫طم من قبل‬
‫الشخ الذي بعد أن تح ّ‬
‫طم نجحوا يف تثبيت ظهره أو‬
‫رب عنقه بالكتفي‪،‬‬
‫من وقفتك هذه‪ ،‬ت ب القهوة وتتابع العابرين‪،‬‬
‫قد تخمّ ن كل ال يان الذي نقلوه من معصمه إىل‬
‫قلبه‪ ،‬أو تلم ملعان املسام التي استوردوها من أجل ال ّركبة‪.‬‬
‫س بوضوح إخالصه لخطوته‪،‬‬
‫بطي ٌء ربما‬
‫ويم عادة يف خ ٍ مستقيم‬
‫لن يلتفت نحوك ف عينيه إنه م ل ٌ ب حكا ‪.‬‬
‫وبما أنني هنا‬
‫خوف من البحر‬
‫فلي يش لني‬
‫ألن كتابَ الر بة امل ل‬
‫صفحة ما‪.‬‬
‫بعالمة عىل‬
‫األمر سيكون أسهل مع خ ٍ تبعثر من قبل‬
‫الشخ الذي تبعثر من قبل عاد ًة ما ّ‬
‫يتلفت حوله‪ ،‬كأنه‬
‫يبحث عن ج ٍء ما ال ضا عا ً منه‬
‫وقد يبدو يف التفاتته حلوا ً جدا ً ألنهم ألصقوه بالصم‬
‫أو ُم ّرا ً بع ال ء ألنه يبال يف إضافة ال راء ليس ّد‬
‫فجو ًة بي ع ويْن‪.‬‬
‫ال أظن أنك من جا النافذة‪ ،‬يمكن أن تُدرك ه الء‬
‫الذين تم ّقوا من قبل‬
‫ال ء يميّ هم يف الحقيقة‬
‫أقصد‪ ،‬ربما ك ٌل منهم ال يشبه إال نفسه‬
‫مثل ملصقات مختومة تم ن عها من أ لفة املظاريف‬
‫وانتهت عند هواة جمع الطوابع‪.‬‬
[ Tr a n s l a t e d b y I m a n M e r s a l ]
‫تنخر ُ الرياحُ يف الكال ‪.‬‬
‫يف أثواب خاوية يريان‬
‫سك َ‬
‫ي السماء املرفوعة‬
‫بقر ًة بي ا َء جسدها خار السيطرة‬
‫ع َ‬
‫ي الولد الجليديّة عىل دفء الصفحة‬
‫والحج َر األبك َم الذي بال اسم وهو ي اجع‪.‬‬
‫تُ ُ‬
‫حدث السما ُء يرا ً حيث كانت تجل ُ‬
‫صوت أسودُ‪ ،‬كب ٌ لل اية عىل أُذنيْه‬
‫يجرف ي ا ً نيّ ا ً حول النواة‪.‬‬
‫يجلسان يف صمت ال يُبتلع‬
‫حول طاولة يف مطعم بيت ا‪،‬‬
‫يخد ان ال بار مثل عرا املاريونيت‬
‫تُح ّل األضواء فوقنا ونحن ننه‬
‫بدأت أنفصل‬
‫ال أقول أن ّ‬
‫التنف َ العنيف يكبّلنا‬
‫يكبّلنا نحو ال وايا اآلمنة‬
‫ُخلصي لذواتنا يف تحوّلها األوّل‬
‫الصخر ا ُملتح ّ‬
‫طم و ظاياه‬
‫أبوا ٌ مكتومة تج ّر السماء‬
‫دوران إ ارة‬
‫عطش عىل القمر‬
‫مطر الخطوات الخفيفة‬
‫ذهاب يف اتجاه باب‪.‬‬
‫حدث بالفعل؟‬
‫أن ما يحدُث قد‬
‫عالقة ريبة‬
‫ليست ً‬
‫مفتوحتي عىل الطري ال يع‬
‫ولي رعدا ً‬
‫صوت أوركس ا‬
‫أ يا ٌء تتق ّد‬
‫لكن ملاذا هذه الفكرة دا ماً؟‬
‫مصنوعة من صد ا جابات‬
‫محاكاة عن ظهر قل‬
‫ربا ٌء ما لنا‬
‫والطبيعة ُ‬
‫تقف بيننا‬
‫يمر كرنفا ٌل عىل تخو ا ُملخيّم‬
‫وقد ذه الرجا ُل بحثا ً عن الحيوانات‬
‫التي تُ نّي بالفعل‪.‬‬
‫ارجع حاال ً‬
‫قرابة الظالل‬
‫وهي تع ُ فو ظهورهم‬
‫اليو ‪ ،‬بي املقابر‪.‬‬
‫ف إذا ّ‬
‫سأتوق ُ‬
‫توق َ‬
‫بارد ًة تسق القطرة‬
‫هل هذا أنا أ أنه صوتي‬
‫كما يقول م ن عاطل‬
‫أنا أوجد‬
‫خلف ُ هرتي‪.‬‬
‫إنني ألتقمّ هذا الكا ن‬
‫وهو يتجوّل يف اتّساع الصحراء‬
‫بعيني وأبوابي املفتوحة‬
‫أهت ّ عىل ر وة حصان‬
‫فو خرا تبدو متعارضة‬
‫تُصنع األقفا ُل يف العتمة‬
‫وبينما يحتد الظال‬
‫البقعة امل دّد ُة يف األموا ‪.‬‬
‫تتح ّرر‬
‫لي لديّ إال ذاكرتي وبها حبْ ٌل‬
‫من ا ضاءة مُع ّل ٌ عىل ياب الصمت يف القاهرة‬
‫هذا الومي الرماديّ يف رفة من ال بار وكدمات الح‬
‫يتس ّلل من ّ‬
‫ملفات الذاكرة متحوّال ً إىل ال تقا ّ‪.‬‬
‫هل سأدرك يوما ً كيف‬
‫تُعلن ك ّل هذه الطعْ نات‬
‫عن است جارنا‪ ،‬بينما‬
‫تواص ُل الطا ر ُة الصمت‬
‫وي مجر املح ّرك‪،‬‬
‫وأنا أضع ساقا ً فو أخر ‪.‬‬
‫تتط ّلع من النافذة والنافذ ُة تُخب ها‬
‫تنطل ُ‬
‫العربات بينما هي تخطو‬
‫من ظالل إىل ظالل عىل الرصيف‪.‬‬
‫تنظر بعيدا ً ويدها القاسية تسق ‪ُ،‬‬
‫تسك ُ ي ا ً بينما يم ّر قطا ٌر‪ ،‬نحن‬
‫وإ ارات الخرو من هنا ‪ ،‬عىل الطري ال يع‪،‬‬
‫ننتظر معاً‪.‬‬
‫تندل ُع املوسيق من عربة سيدان بي اء يف الجهة األخر ‪.‬‬
‫أميال يذه ُ ناحية الباب‬
‫عىل بُعد‬
‫يف خطابك فرة فاتنة‬
‫هذا ي كد بُعدك‬
‫لقد وص َل قبلك‪.‬‬
‫كوب أبي‬
‫يف الصيف‪ ،‬ينسك ُ األحم ُر يف ٍ‬
‫وتهتف املتحف‪.‬‬
‫تع حشو ٌد الجسو َر‬
‫بارد ًة تسق القطرة‪.‬‬
‫ال أحد يتذ ّكر تلك اللحظة‪.‬‬
‫لقد تح ّر ْ‬
‫كت ب عات متفاوتة‬
‫رجوعا ً إىل القل‬
‫عندما يموّ التكييف املياة‪.‬‬
‫لو ُ‬
‫كنت املرأ َة املسن ّ َة‬
‫ا ُملستبعد َة من حركتي‪،‬‬
‫لو تد ّلنا العظا ُ يف جسدك‬
‫عىل أر املراعي‪،‬‬
‫فنجد صاح َ ٍ‬
‫يدرس ما ّ‬
‫تبق ويك‬
‫وضعنا الدا ريّ من ر بة أحدنا يف اآلخر‬
‫حركة ت ي ُ الستا ر‪ ،‬حيث‪ ،‬نصب‬
‫مرة أخر كا نا ً أسود‬
‫نستلقي يف الحقل الجاف وصاح البيت‬
‫يحس مخط ا ً أن تنهّ داتنا عدو ‪،‬‬
‫عندها نستطيع أن نسمع حصاننا الخفيف يبكي‪.‬‬
‫إنه الشاه ُد الوحي ُد يف بيا الطري ال يع‪،‬‬
‫دلو ممتىلء ب هور الفاوانيا‬
‫مثل ٍ‬
‫حصان يهت عىل ظهرها‪،‬‬
‫أو ْ‬
‫اللح ُم ا ُمل ّ‬
‫شفر يف يو ت يّنه‬
‫رسا ً‬
‫يرق ُ ولكن ّ‬
‫دون إ ارة ل طار الذي سيأتي‪.‬‬
[ O r i g i n a l Te x t s ]
The winds engage to speak.
In empty robes they see
the sky’s knife raised
one white cow its body out of contol
a boy’s frozen eye on the warm page
and the dumb stone without name as it recedes.
They are sitting with unswallowed silence
at a table in a pizza restaurant. They scratch
like marrionetes in the dust after the meal:
As lights fly over and we raise
I begin to let go
without saying that strong breath held
us to these unsafe round corners
faithful to our first changed selves
the stone broken and in its pieces
muted horns pulling the sky
signal rolling
thirst on the moon
light footsteps raining
drawing to a door.
The sky rasps over where she was
and a black voice too big for his ear
rakes something unripe from the stone.
Not an owl with eyes open to the highway
or thunder
an orchestral voice
some things go forward
But why this idea the whole time
that it is already happening?
a strange bond
It goes on.
made of remote answers aped
rote copying
still strangers
with nature between us
Carnival traffic at the edge of the campsite.
The men have gone to find the animals
they sing already.
come back now
These shadows seem related
that pass over their backs
across the tombs today.
I’ll stop if you stop
The drop falls cold.
She looks through the window and it hides her.
Myself or the voice of myself
as a singing cripple says
beyond my reputation
I am something -
The vans steer away and she steps
from shadow to shadow on the platform.
She looks away with sharp hand falling
casting something as trains pass. We
and signs by the highway to say exit now are waiting
as white sedans blast music in the other direction.
I am impersonating this figure
as it rides a desert span
but with my eyes open and doors
shaking on a foaming horse
over maps that seem to conflict
as locks are cut and it darkens
and as it darkens
the hesitant place in the waves breaks.
I have only my memory that contains a string
of lights hung in the absense of silence in Cairo
that flicker gray over a room of dust and bruises
and then leap through the ashware of memory to orange.
Miles away he goes toward the door.
Contents in glamorous code
that acknowledge your distance
but arrive before you.
Red pours into a white cup in summer.
Crowds cross bridges and chant the museum.
The drop falls cold.
No one remembers this.
It moves at different speeds back into the heart
when the air conditioner ripples the water.
Will I learn how the angles of all these dents
articulate our lease, while
the plane just stays silent
as the engine bellows,
as I cross my legs?
If I were the older woman
who is removed from my movement,
if bones inside your body
led us to the wrong pasture land,
and we found a home-owner
who looked at what was left and banished
our circular placement of each other’s
desire within motions to heave still
the shutters, then, when we were
one more black figure
lying in his drying field and he
mistook our sighs for contagion,
then we could hear our light mount cry,
the only witness in the highway’s whiteness,
like a bucket full of peonies
or a saddle bouncing on her back,
the flesh coded in its day of decoration
dancing but privately
without reference to the frame that will follow.
[ Tr a n s l a t e d b y L i l y R o b e r t F o l e y ]
Circonstances III
Contrainte / Restraint
1. Narrate (the circumstance) which starts off (impact) step by step, it’s a quivering
(forgotten, already) and we throw out some explanations, justifications our (offensive)
traffic signs, a territory, crossed, coming (in (to) sight (of )), stuck down good.
2. Is it first or just hype?
Drawing restraint
3. Go down, stay close to the ground, start again, go up, get to the corner, lean into it,
push off, hang, hang on, hold onto the wall, fall back down, climb back up, move, step
back, grab onto, continue
The procedure’s muscle mass
5. I think I prefer moving, even if it means saying boredom (flat, lay flat)
Thoughtless gesture
Like a virility (is it at this exact moment that it erupts?) never taking seat
However hollow
Bodies may be said to face (arms reaching out) eyes blind folded
4. There is what impedes
They are what hurries
Projected, recuperated
6. We’re all stupid. We should stick to that perhaps.
Lash yourself
We should bang a long while against stupidity.
Keep yourself from recognizing too closely (bound?)
One-of-a-kind, special, sole, single-fold
That it might begin from afar
To be all against
From there, begin dispatch
Everyone except discernment
And continue unknowing till first—ineluctable—sign of the contact
Shall we become then these production machines?
Nearly miss history unfolding its painted scenery
7. What are my possibilities? In the barracks, on a wagon, in an underground tunnel, in
a network, perched atop a summit, sitting upon a stool.
Each space is repeated as the space where the desire for a space of desire is repeated
But the handbook
is very specific:
“Take care to always cater to the size and pressure accorded to the force of the desire”
8. A study of the procession
We can almost always say the cortege has got a little tickle: take the shape of bubbles: in
a word: heating up a bit: which means that low temperatures are perhaps to be preferred:
producing heats: but what is preserved?
9. A funny issue hangs between terrible and terrific.
When terrible, sometimes there may be something to keep in what is getting thrown away.
When terrific, it erases everything around it, it cancels the rest the better to reign over.
The terrible has trouble hiding failure, but an interesting accident remains. The terrific
unveils a surrounding vast nothi ng and w hat rem ains in the center hides something
perhaps more terrible.
10. We may choose to turn down (alias Dürer) the dead-end of melancholy. A melancholy
that takes the vaunted guise of guilty pleasures.
A sieging state of mourning for answers that don’t come
Like a laffy taffy riddle
Nothing remains but a never ending scent on fingertips
The first misgiving
A surface of intention
For “There is some hint as of delicate sweetmeats which smiles at us and flatters us in the very
bosom of melancholy.” (Montaigne. Trad. M.A. Screech)
11. Can this be summed up with these categories alone?
Action 0 Target 0 Intention 0 Description 0 Result
Lest the illusion of completion be entertained
“No but like, really, there’s nothing to know...”
13. This allegation following on passing from intention to act: What has yet to be imagined
and what has yet to be seen in a distant future, you see it in the moment as the most exquisite
and delectable self tortures.
Blind. Close to moved. Mainly fragmentary. Imagination never totalizing.
Loss guaranteed?
Acted out again and again.
Perhaps you’re not looking to hoard.
12. There it’s coming. There. A little bit more there. Tend near. Nearer and nearer. It lends.
There, in the hollow. I’m rounding the bend. That’s not the rent moment. Stops cold. No.
It’s there. Always a bit more there. Self without voice interlacing. Tangling, tendering.
Combining and I dodge. I got it. It’s almost mine. There. Here it is. Just here. Yes.
14. Literally clear out questions:
Why that?
Why go in?
How does it get out?
Why did you take that path?
And you continue to scrub in spite of the void and you continue to push your fingers into
15. You have to get an appointment.
And to move on, all you have to do is give yourself over to a collection of misgivings. Like
a beetle collection.
As for beetles, they make dung balls that they bury to be consumed at their leisure or for
laying eggs.
As for our misgivings, they’re ball, pebble, seed, marble, etc.
Must we speaking of divesting for better investing?
17. Producing objects—what we love about it, what makes us return to it, come back
to it, is that there is no single one to bang against. There is always another to discover, as
though wrapped up, far from the initial tackle
Some, going by there, amused, formulate fanatically
This allows me to produce this other, which in its turn leads to the production of another,
which then leads to the production of another that is other...
We prefer, perhaps, the discarded, the dispossessed.
16 . Must we bang against to produce? Must we drift?
It rarely follows direct on the heels of uncorrupted data
18. The (initial) shift burrows down and is forgotten. Let’s have some fun and count the
impacts, usually arrayed in a concentric form (or in a line). Last time, I tallied up 150.
Everything begins tilted
Definitely don’t look straight ahead at what’s in front.======
Sparks sweat / Sockets deliver / Angles project
Trust your back ////
//// From the back, elements are coming undone
And back again
It has to scrape and scrape and scrape
Without a scratch, the clues are ready to be tossed
it’s time to get rid of the signs
19. Amazing matter doesn’t need us to be made
And so it holds all types of surprises, good and bad. It’s for the best.
Those who don’t like surprises can get lost
But they won’t escape the quivering
the quivering of that little thing
of that little thing that happens
that happens from deep under the covers
20. And extend this motto:
Meaning to do is what intended what was said
Doing was the intended meaning of what was said
Meaning to say is what intended what was done
Saying the meaning is what intended what was done
Meaning the intention is what did what was said
The intended meaning is what said what was done
Saying is the intended meaning of what was done
Doing the meaning is what intended what was said
Intending the meaning is what said what was done
The intended meaning is what did what was said
[ O r i g i n a l Te x t s ]
Circonstances III
Contrainte / Restraint
Extrait de POSITIONS
1. Narrer (la circonstance) ce qui déclenche (impact) pied à pied, c’est un frétillement
(oubli, déjà) et on balance explications, justifications, nos panneaux d’affichage (offensive),
un territoire, croisé, venu (à (la) vue (de)), bien plaqué.
2. Est-elle première ou effet d’annonce ?
Drawing restraint
3. Descendre, tenir à ras, recommencer, monter, toucher l’angle, prendre appui, rebondir,
se suspendre, tourner, raccrocher la paroi, retomber, grimper, bouger, reculer, s’agripper,
Masse musculaire du protocole.
5. Je crois préférer le déplacement, quitte à dire son ennui (plat, à plat).
L’inconséquence du geste.
Comme une virilité (est-ce à ce moment précis que ça surgit ?)jamais assise.
Pourtant en creux.
On peut parler d’un corps à corps (les bras tendus dans le vide)les yeux bandés.
4. Il y a ce qui empêche.
Elles sont ce qui dépêche.
Projeté, récupéré.
6. Nous sommes tous des abrutis. Il faut s’y tenir peut-être.
Se cingler.
Il faudrait se cogner longtemps à l’abrutissement.
S’éviter dans la trop proche reconnaissance (ficelée ?).
Simple, particulier, unique, non dédoublable.
Que ça démarre par le loin,
Être tout contre.
De là, lancer sa dépêche.
Tout le monde sauf le discernement.
Et continuez à la méconnaître jusqu’au premier signe – inéluctable – du contact.
Deviendrions-nous alors de ces machines qui produisent ?
À regret presque le déroulement de l’histoire et ses décors peints.
7. Quels sont mes possibles ? En chambrée, dans un wagon, par un souterrain, en réseau,
perché à un sommet, assise sur un tabouret.
Chaque espace se répète comme étant l’espace qui serait ce désir répété d’un espace de
Mais le manuel précise bien :
9. Un drôle d’enjeu s’articule entre le pas terrible et le terrible.
Si ce n’est pas terrible, il y a parfois dans ce qui est à jeter quelque chose à conserver. Si
c’est terrible, ça efface tout ce qu’il y a autour, ça annule le reste pour mieux trôner.
Le pas terrible a du mal à cacher le raté, mais il en reste toujours un accident intéressant. Le
terrible dévoile tout ce rien immense de l’alentour et ce qui reste au centre cache quelque
chose de peut-être plus terrible.
« Veillez toujours à adapter la pression et la taille en fonction de la force de ce désir. »
8. ÉTUDE de l’escorte :
On peut presque toujours dire qu’il y a un chatouillis dans le cortège: sous la forme
même d’ébullition: en deux mots, c’est un peu un réchauffement: ce qui ferai dire qu’il
faut peut-être privilégier les basses températures: produire échauffe : mais que conserve-ton ?
Le premier scrupule.
10. On peut choisir d’emprunter (alias DÜRER)la voie sans issue de la mélancolie. Une
mélancolie qui prend la forme la plus élevée de gourmandise.
Cet assiégeant état de deuil pour les réponses qui n’arrivent pas.
Comme notre devinette chocolatée.
Il n’en reste que l’odeur qui s’éternise au bout des doigts.
Car « il y a quelque ombre de friandise et délicatesse qui nous rit et qui nous flatte au giron
même de la mélancolie. » (MONTAIGNE)
Une surface d’intention.
11. Cela se résume-t-il à ces seules étapes ?
Action 0 Cible 0 Intention 0 Description 0 Résultat
Pour ne surtout pas entretenir une illusion de complétude.
13. Et s’ensuit cette allégation sur le passage de l’intention à l’acte : Ce qui n’est pas encore
imaginé et ce qui n’est pas encore vu dans un futur distant, tu le vis dans l’instant comme la
plus exquise et la plus délicieuse des tortures pour toi-même.
À l’av eu g l e. Proche du pathétique. Le fragmentaire domine. L’imagination jamais
« Vraiment, non, il n’y a rien à en apprendre... »
La garantie d’une perte ?
Ce sont des actes pris et repris.
Peut-être ne cherches-tu pas à amasser.
12. C’est là à venir. Là. Encore un peu plus là. Au plus près. De plus en plus prêt. Ça
s’apprête. Là, en creux. Alors, je m’apprête. Ce n’est pas le moment que ça s’arrête. Tout
net. Non. C’est là, toujours un peu plus là. Cet entrelacs de soi sans voix. Ça s’emmêle et
ça se ramène. Ça se combine et je m’y faufile. Je l’ai saisi. C’est presque acquis. Là. Voici.
Juste ici. Oui.
14. Questions à carrément déblayer :
t Pourquoi ça ?
t Pourquoi y être entré ?
t Comment ça s’extrait ?
t Pourquoi es-tu passé par là ?
Et tu continues à frotter malgré le vide et tu continues à presser avec tes doigts contre rien.
15. Il faudrait prendre rendez-vous.
Et pour avancer, il suffit de s’adonner à la collection de scrupules. Comme on collectionne
des scarabées.
Les scarabées, eux, forment des boules d’excréments qu’ils enterrent pour les consommer
à loisir ou pour y pondre.
Nos scrupules, eux, sont boule, caillou, grain, bille, etc.
Faut-il parler de prendre pour mieux rendre ?
17. Produire des objets – ce qu’on y aime, ce qui nous fait y retourner, y revenir, c’est
qu’il n’y en pas qu’un seul contre lequel se cogner. Il y en a toujours un à découvrir, comme
emboîté, loin du taclé initial.
En allant par là, certains, amusés, formulent en forcené...
Il me permet de produire cet autre, qui à son tour amène à produire cette autre chose, qui
elle-même amènera aussi à produire un autre qui sera autre...
On préfèrera, peut-être, le jeté, dépossédé.
16 . La production a-t-elle pour condition se cogner contre ? Ou dériver?
Elle n’est que rarement cet enchaînement direct de données intactes.
Tout débute en biais.
Il ne faut surtout pas regarder en face, tout droit. ======
Les reflets transpirent. / Les orbites délivrent. / Les angles projettent.
Faire confiance à son dos. ////
//// De l’envers, les éléments se détachent.
En retour.
18. Le déplacement (à l’initial) s’enfouit et est oublié. On peut s’amuser à compter les
imp acts, ils sont dispo sés en form e concentrique le plus souvent (ou alignés). J’en ai
dénombré la dernière fois 150.
Il faut que ça gratte et gratte encore.
Sans démangeaison, les indices sont bons à jeter.
19. La matière à s’étonner se fait sans nous.
Voilà qu’elle contient toutes les surprises, bonnes ou mauvaises. Et c’est tant mieux.
Ceux qui n’aiment pas les surprises peuvent aller voir ailleurs.
Mais ils ne pourront échapper au frétillement
au frétillement de la petite chose
de la petite chose qui arrive
qui arrive du fond du lit.
20. Et tendre ce motto:
C’est l’intention de faire qui a voulu ce qui s’est dit.
C’est faire qui est l’intention voulue de ce qui s’est dit.
C’est l’intention de dire qui a voulu ce qui s’est fait.
C’est dire l’intention qui a voulu ce qui s’est fait.
C’est vouloir l’intention qui a fait ce qui s’est dit.
C’est l’intention voulue qui a dit ce qui s’est fait.
C’est dire qui est l’intention voulue de ce qui s’est fait.
C’est faire l’intention qui a voulu ce qui s’est dit.
C’est vouloir l’intention qui a dit ce qui s’est fait.
C’est l’intention voulue qui a fait ce qui s’est dit.
[ Tr a n s l a t e d b y V i r g i n i e P o i t r a s s o n ]
Machine à subtiliser
Cacher avec ses paumes c’est couvrir ses yeux fermés avec ses mains de manière à ce qu’il
n’y ait aucune pression sur les globes oculaires. Les paumes de vos mains sont posées
telles de simples coupes audessus de chaque œil (gauche sur gauche et droite sur droit), et
généralement les doigts sont en partie entrelacés sur le front. Aucune lumière, ou le moins
possible, ne doit pouvoir pénétrer l’œil. Une fois que vous vous êtes couvert ainsi les yeux,
ouvrez les yeux et regardez si vous pouvez rajuster vos mains de telle sorte qu’il y ait le
moins de lumière possible qui filtre. Fermez les yeux.
Cacher avec ses paumes c’est é tait couvrir ses s ur yeux fermés l inguistique a vec ses suite
chacun mains de manière à ce qu’il n’y ait e st accompli aucune pression sur les suite
chacun a globes oculaires. Les paumes de vos suite chacun a opéré mains sont posées telles
de simples coupes au-dessus de chaque œil (gauche sur gauche et droite sur droit ) , et
généralement les doigts sont en partie entrelacés sur le suite chacun a opéré une sorte de
front. Aucune lumière, ou le moins possible, ne doit pouvoir pénétrer l’œil. Une fois que
vous vous êtes couvert ainsi les yeux, ouvrez les suite chacun a opéré une sorte de traduction
du yeux linguistique ou et regardez si vous pouvez rajuster vos suite chacun a opéré une
sorte de traduction du texte mains de telle sorte qu’il y ait le moins de lumière possible
qui filtre. Fermez les suite chacun a opéré une sorte de traduction du texte précédant yeux
linguistique ou ce.
Mettre mes paumes sur toi c’est e st accompli deux couvrir tes s uite chacun a opéré une
sorte de traduction du texte précédant à chacun yeux fermés linguistique ou c’est avec tes
s uite chacun a opéré une sorte de traduction du texte précédant à chacun son m ains de
manière à ce qu’il n’y ait est accompli deux par deux aucune pression sur les suite chacun
a opéré une sorte de traduction du texte précédant àchacun son tour globes oculaires. Les
paumes de vos suite chacun a opéré une sorte de traduction du texte précédant à chacun
son tour ce mains sont posées telles de simples coupes au-dessus de chaque œil (gauche
sur gauche et droite sur droit), et généralement les doigts sont en partie entrelacés sur le
suite c hacun a opéré une sorte de traduction du texte précédant àchacun son tour ce jeu
front. Aucune lumière, ou le moins possible, tu ne dois laisser pénétrer dans l’œil. Une
fois, je mets mes paumes sur toi, te regarde et regarde autour de toi pour voir si tu peux
être rajusté, tes suite chacun a opéré une sorte de traduction du texte précédant à chacun
son tour ce jeu tombe mains de telle sorte que tu sois le moins exposé possible à la lumière.
Je t’imagine.
Couvrir c’est est accompli deux par deux, par deux cacher avec ses paumes tes suite chacun
a opéré une sorte de traduction du texte précédant à chacun son tour ce jeu tombe yeux
fermés linguistique ou c’est si avec tes mains de telle sorte qu’il y a est accompli deux par
deux, par deux mains.
Cette machine est accomplie deux par deux, par deux mains, cousant un jeu, chacun avec
un rebondissement. D’abord l’un puis l’autre, puis d’abord l’autre, puis l’un, et ainsi de
suite. Chacun a opéré une sorte de traduction du texte précédant à chacun son tour. Ce
jeu tombe dans une rubrique plus large que nous appelons « machines » une stratégie
de traduction, ou de lectureécriture qui interprète un texte donné et puis construit une
série de contraintes pour opérer la reconstruction d’un nouveau texte. Le lecteur doit être
capable de suivre, avec ou sans attention, les modifications contenues d’un paragraphe à
l’autre. Chaque paragraphe est le même, mais son apparence diffère. Chaque reproduction
du texte en tant qu’invisibleimmuablestructureimpossible est accompagnée par – quoi
d’autre ? – des lettres entre nous. Après tout, le sujet se cache aussi là.
absente maîtriser pression sur tes d’une globes oculaires. Les paumes de tes d’une manière
plus mains que tu poses tel de simples coupes audessus de chaque œil (gauche sur gauche
et droite sur droit), et généralement les doigts que tu entrelaces en partie sur le d ’une
manière plus générale front. Peu de lumière, ou le moins possible, tu ne dois laisser
pénétrer dans l’œil. Une fois que tes d ’une manière plus générale j’ai yeux l inguistique
sont couverts, cachés par tes paumes tu regardes autour pour voir si tu peux retrouver tes
d ’une manière plus générale j’ai choisi mains, rajustées de telle sorte qu’il y ait le moins
de lumière possible qui filtre. Tes d ’une manière plus générale j’ai choisi dans ce yeux
linguistique avec se ferment.
Voir c’est est continuer tes d’une manière plus générale j’ai choisi pour ce cas yeux fermés
linguistique avec tes avec tes d’une manière plus générale j’ai choisi pour ce cas dans mains
de telle sorte que tu vois la pression maîtriser la pression absente de tes d’une manière plus
générale j’ai choisi pour ce cas dans globes oculaires. Les paumes de tes d’une manière
plus générale j’ai choisi pour ce cas dans la continuité mains que tu continues simplement
au-dessus de chaque œil (gauche sur gauche et droite sur droit), et généralement les doigts
que tu vois en partie sur ton d’une manière plus générale j’ai choisi pour ce cas dans
la c ontinuité une sorte de front. Ne rien continuer, ou le moins possible. Tu dois voir
continuer ton œil. Une fois que tes d’une manière plus générale j’ai choisi pour ce cas dans
la continuité une sorte de prolifération de yeux linguistique avec tes mains sont couverts,
cachés par tes paumes tu vois continuer, si tu peux voir tes d’une manière plus générale
j’ai choisi dans ce cas pour continuer une sorte de prolifération de mains, rajustées de telle
sorte que continue pour toi le plus de lumière possible. Tes d’une manière plus générale
j’ai choisi dans ce cas pour continuer une sorte de prolifération de fils plutôt qu’une yeux
linguistique avec tes mains de voient.
[ O r i g i n a l Te x t s ]
Palming Machine
To palm is to cover your closed eyes with your hands in such a way that there is no pressure
on your eyeballs. The palms of your hands are slightly cupped over each eye (left over left
and right over right), and usually the fingers are partly interlaced on your forehead. There
should be no light, or as little as possible, allowed to enter the eye. Once you are palming,
open your eyes and look around to see if you can adjust your hands in such a way as to
exclude as much light as possible. Close your eyes.
To palm is was to cover your on closed eyes linguistics with your on each hands in such a
way that there is was accomplished no pressure on your on each has eyeballs. The palms of
your on each has effected hands are slightly cupped over each eye (left over left and right
over right), and usually the fingers are partly interlaced on your on each has effected a sort
of forehead. There should be no light, or as little as possible, allowed to enter the eye. Once
you are palming, open your on each has effected a sort of translation of eyes linguistics or
and look around to see if you can adjust your on each has effected a sort of translation of
the text hands in such a way as to exclude as much light as possible. Close your on each
has effected a sort of translation of the text preceding eyes linguistics or it.
To put my palms on you is w as accomplished two to cover your o n each has effected a
sort of translation of the text preceding a given closed eyes linguistics or it is with your on
each has effected a sort of translation of the text preceding a given catch hands in such a
way that there is was accomplished two by two not pressure on your on each has effected
a sort of translation of the text preceding a given catch and eyeballs. The palms of your on
each has effected a sort of translation of the text preceding a given catch and throw hands
slightly cup you over each eye (left over left and right over right), and usually the fingers
partly interlace you on your on each has effected a sort of translation of the text preceding
a given catch and throw this forehead. No light, or as little as possible, should allow you
to enter the eye. Once I put my palms on you, look at you and look around you to see if
you can be adjusted, your on each has effected a sort of translation of the text preceding a
given catch and throw this game hands in such a way as to exclude you from as much light
as possible. I imagine you.
To cover is was accomplished two by two, by two to palm your on each has effected a sort
of translation of the text preceding a given catch and throw this game falls closed eyes
linguistics or it is so with your hands in such a way that there is was accomplished two by
two, by two hands.
This machine was accomplished two by two, by two hands, stitching a game, each with
a turn. First one then the other, then first the other, then the one, and so on. Each has
effected a sort of translation preceding a given catch and throw. This game falls into a
larger rubric of what we call “machines”—a strategy of translating, or readingwriting that
interprets a given text and then builds a set of constraints to effect a reconstruction of a
new text. The reader should be able to follow, with attention or not, the shifts stemming
from each paragraph to the next. Each paragraph is the same, but its appearance differs.
Each reproduction of the text qua invisibleunalterableimpossiblestructure is accompanied
by —what else?— letters between us. After all, the subject hides there too.
absent o vercome p ressure on your o n e yeballs. The palms of your o n a more hands you
cup slightly over each eye (left over left and right over right), and usually the fingers you
interlace partly on your o n a more general note forehead. Light nothing, or as little as
possible, you should allow to enter the eye. Once your on a more general note I have eyes
l inguistics are covered, palmed you look around to see if you can trace your o n a more
general note I have chosen hands, adjusted in such a way as to exclude for you as much
light as possible. Your on a more general note I have chosen in this eyes linguistics with
To see is w as to continue your o n a more general note I have chosen in this case closed
eyes linguistics with your with your on a more general note I have chosen in this case by
hands in such a way that you see absent o vercome pressure pressure on your o n a more
general note I have chosen in this case by way of eyeballs. The palms of your on a more
general note I have chosen in this case by way of continuation hands you continue slightly
over each eye (left over left and right over right), and usually the fingers you partly see on
your o n a more general note I have chosen in this case by way of continuation a kind of
forehead. Continue nothing, or as little as possible. You should see to continue the eye.
Once your o n a more general note I have chosen in this case by way of continuation a
kind of proliferation of e yes l inguistics with your hands a re covered, palmed you see to
continue, if you can see your o n a more general note I have chosen in this case by way
of continuation a kind of proliferation of strands hands, adjusted in such a way as to
continue for you as much light as possible. Your o n a more general note I have chosen
in this case by way of continuation a kind of proliferation of strands rather than eyes
linguistics with your hands in see.
Parenthetical Dance—for four hands. Partners face one another. Right hand extended,
thumb facing up. Right hand palm faces left towards partner’s right hand also facing left.
Left hand extended, thumb facing up. Left hand palm faces right towards partner’s left
hand also facing right. Align and stack hands. Move right hand to the left quickly and
violently simultaneously with partner. Move left hand to the right quickly and violently
simultaneously with partner.
Right to left. Left to right. Right to left. Left to right. Right to left. Left to right. Right to
left. Left to right. Right to left. Left to right. Right to left. Left to right. Right to left. Left
to right. Right to left. Left to right. Right to left. Left to right. Right to left. Left to right.
Right to left. Left to right. Right to left. Left to right. Right to left.
Move top hands to the bottom and bottom hands to the top.
Right to left. Left to right. Right to left. Left to right. Right to left. Left to right. Right to
left. Left to right. Right to left. Left to right. Right to left. Left to right. Right to left. Left
to right. Right to left. Left to right. Right to left. Left to right. Right to left. Left to right.
Right to left. Left to right. Right to left. Left to right. Right to left.
[ Tr a n s l a t e d b y G o l a n H a j i ]
‫مارلين اكر‬
‫غ ليات‬
‫ورا الباب‬
‫إىل فرخونده وبينا‬
‫أصوات ت نّي أ عارا ً وراء الباب‪.‬‬
‫قد يُسمَ ُع ضح ٌك‪ ،‬موسيق ‪،‬‬
‫الفتا ُة الص ة تستظه ُر كل ٍ‬
‫كلمة وراء الباب‪.‬‬
‫نو ٌر يف ب السلم‪ ،‬يُر ع العي السحرية‬
‫أذاك ا ٌر تُ ْقت إليه أ خشيته وراء الباب؟‬
‫الدبلوما بولوجه مكت َ القا د‬
‫ين القبطي‪ ،‬الشيوعي‪ ،‬الكردي وراء الباب‪.‬‬
‫ساعات طواال ً يف ضوء املصباح يتم ّر ُن عىل ساللم املوسيق ‪،‬‬
‫عصفور وراء الباب‪.‬‬
‫يف طبا ٍ‬
‫املج ُد للقا د‪ ،‬الوال ُء حت املوت‬
‫لعنة أخر تُهْ مَ ُ وراء الباب‪.‬‬
‫الثانية تح ُ حقا بها‪.‬‬
‫الحبيبة األوىل‬
‫ثالثتهن القلقة وراء الباب؟‬
‫النف ُ مر ٌة‪ ،‬كامد ُة ال ي ‪،‬‬
‫لكن الحظوا كيف ت ي ُم األلوان وراء الباب‪.‬‬
‫اسلة ثياب الثوريّي التي ال اس َم لها‬
‫تتساء ُل ماذا يجري لحل ٍم تأجّ َل؟ وراء الباب‪.‬‬
‫ف الري‬
‫نُواحُ الناي املنفي معلقا ً هناك يف الري‬
‫ي ج ُم ل ًة يمكننا اقتسامُها يف الري ‪.‬‬
‫كلمات الشاعر‪ ،‬كساها الخ ّ‬
‫طاطون ذهبا ً‬
‫وال وردَ‪ ،‬تنساب لينة‪ُ ،‬سودا وجُ ردا يف الري ‪.‬‬
‫الفقها ُء والسيّاحُ والحجّ ا‬
‫يحتشدون قدّا امل ار‪ ،‬ثم يخطون خارجي ويحدّقون يف الري ‪.‬‬
‫فسحة وراء األلواح الخشبية الفاصلة‪.‬‬
‫ركعت وقالت صالتَها يف الري ‪.‬‬
‫خرجت سا ر ًة إىل الحقل‪،‬‬
‫وحيد ًة‪ ،‬ح ّل ْت خما َرها تحت جرة ليمون‪،‬‬
‫انحدرت عىل درب املاع بشعرها امل فور يف الري ‪.‬‬
‫أفهمت ْ‬
‫أن سيكون هناك سال ٌ مع العَ دْل؟‬
‫صوت أعْ لمك أن التاري مُنصف يف الري ؟‬
‫ثعل ٌ حُ َ‬
‫ذف من قصيد ٍة أخر‬
‫رب َ بالقرب من مدخل َو ْكره يف الري ‪.‬‬
‫ما كل هذا الهَ ذر االست‬
‫معج ٌم واسع ي ُْسمَ ُع بالخطأ‪ ،‬أين؟ يف الري ‪.‬‬
‫حكاية أخر ‪،‬‬
‫تحو ُك الحكواتي ُّة‬
‫مسافر ارتدا ُه يف الري ‪.‬‬
‫ثوبا ً بوسع‬
‫ع ْ النهر‪ ،‬يف البستان عىل الت ّل‪ ،‬امرأة‬
‫تراب أحمر أحيانا ً قد تُشب ُع امرأة‪.‬‬
‫حفنة من ٍ‬
‫ناطقة تبق ‪ ،‬وإن صمتَ ْت‬
‫تبق ‪ ،‬وإن ال مر ًية‪ ،‬امرأة‪.‬‬
‫أحببت ل ة‪.‬‬
‫أحببت رجالً‪،‬‬
‫أحببت‪ ،‬واستخل ْ ما ت‪ ،‬امرأة‪.‬‬
‫قانون يحظ ُر الكال ‪،‬‬
‫ما تك ّل َم أح ٌد ضد‬
‫ريثما تلميذٌ‪ ،‬ريثما راه ٌ ‪ ،‬ريثما امرأة‪...‬‬
‫مَ ْن خط َر له أنهم قد ي ددون يف قتل طفل؟‬
‫مَ ْن خط َر له أنهم قد ي دّدون يف قتل امرأة؟‬
‫ريتّا تتن ّك ُ بندقيتَها أما املر ة‪.‬‬
‫طريقة واحدة ليُث َ ي موح ٌد امرأة‪.‬‬
‫ثمة أكث ُر من‬
‫الحكواتية التي تكت ُ الكلمات وتشطبُها‬
‫بشعر ا وبال ثديي ال ت ا ُل امرأة‪.‬‬
‫ا د من كتاب ياسب رين ا الم تر‬
‫يمة ال اب‬
‫اللي ُل والخي ُل والبيدا ُء تعرفني‪...‬‬
‫وهذا الشار ُع ال يّ ُ‬
‫من كتاب القواعد املبقع بالشاي‬
‫الذي تخ ّ‬
‫طفه هو أوال ً عندما هربوا‪.‬‬
‫خفيف قبل الفجر‬
‫حيث يهمي مط ٌر‬
‫والطفلة يف ال رفة املجاورة‬
‫تسع ُل يف نومها‪،‬‬
‫النافذ ُة يف نوفم مفتوحةٌ‬
‫قليالً‪ ،‬قل ُم البيك ‪،‬‬
‫والري ُ التي تتس ّل ُل‬
‫ملحاحة قارسة‪.‬‬
‫بأصاب َع‬
‫الكالبُ يف ارع امليناء‬
‫تتعار ُك عىل رأس سمكة‪،‬‬
‫فاكهة تالفة بمستطاعه أن يشم‬
‫قشو َر ال تقال امل وكة‬
‫التي رماها الح ّر ُ‬
‫اس إىل األطفال املنفيّي‪.‬‬
‫كان يف السادسة ع ة نذاك‪،‬‬
‫مدرساً‪ ،‬ال كلبا ً وال طفالً‪.‬‬
‫تع ّل َم اآلخرون القراء َة‬
‫صباح الورد ‪،‬‬
‫تتمن ّ‬
‫صباح النور ‪ ،‬يُجيبها‪.‬‬
‫جت أوىل حبّات الكر ‪،‬‬
‫وحبّات الفري الص ة الحلوة‪.‬‬
‫عادت إىل البيت األسبو َع الفا ت‪.‬‬
‫بدت السما ُء َ‬
‫أوس َع وأسط َع‬
‫عىل الر م مما تفتقده‪.‬‬
‫ذاك الق السا ُ قي ٌ ‪،‬‬
‫مط ُر الفجر صدي ُ طفولة‪.‬‬
‫ل بيت لعمرو بن معد ي رب‬
‫ذه َ الذين أحبهم‬
‫وبقيت مثل السيف وحدي‪.‬‬
‫لكنها نص ٌل ذو حدّين يجع ُل منك‬
‫سالحا ً ويقلبُك عىل مُصابك‪.‬‬
‫ذهبوا‪ ،‬أجل‪ ،‬أو يذهبون‪ ،‬يف عَ مهم عىل‬
‫الذهاب عنا ٌد ي ُ‬
‫ُتلف النف ‪.‬‬
‫صامتة وس خدَمها‪ ،‬بلقي ُ‬
‫أدراجَ ها إىل مملكتها وحمدت الرب وحدها‪.‬‬
‫لحن س ن بح ور‬
‫أي ٍ‬
‫إذا ع ْفت عىل ذات الوتر القديم لتأمل النف وح َد ؟‬
‫وإذا سأ َل ا ُملح ‪ ،‬ماذا تشتهي منّي؟‬
‫ال منّي‪ ،‬سيجي ُ بىل ‪.‬‬
‫فدونما س ٍ‬
‫كتبت لن أضيّعك مرة أخر‬
‫مَ ن‬
‫بعنوان جديد‬
‫انتق َل ْت‪ ،‬ما بعث َ ْت‬
‫قدحَ النبيذ الذي لم يُقد ْ لل ري ‪،‬‬
‫القدحَ الثاني من نبيذ الليل الذي سكبتُ ُه وحدي‪.‬‬
‫ويف تلك الذكر ثمة جب ٌل‪،‬‬
‫فوقه كان با ٌ أصه ُ ينق‬
‫ويحو ُ وح َد ‪.‬‬
‫ترجمة جوالن حاجي‬
‫مَ ن أمس َك سيفا ً وقا َل إنه مثلُه‪،‬‬
‫ما كان يف وَحشته إال سيفاً‪.‬‬
‫بي الشي واملالك الفوالذيّ ‪،‬‬
‫طبي ٌ مُقي ٌم ُمتْع ٌ حت العياء يتدبّ ُر جناحَ املر‬
‫جذ ُر الكلمة هناك‪ ،‬وأنت تتم ّلي إيقا َع‬
‫ال صون وبحورا ً ال يسعُ ك إال تخمينُها‪.‬‬
‫جمة عن ل ٍة بطي ة الب و‬
‫أ ب ُه باملحاوَرة‪ ،‬وأنا أقل ضجراً‪ ،‬وحدي‪.‬‬
‫وح َد ‪.‬‬
[ O r i g i n a l Te x t s ]
GHAZAL : Outside the door
For Farkhonda and Bina
Laughter, music, voices singing verses can be heard outside the door.
The little girl is memorizing every word outside the door.
Light in the stairwell, seen through the judas-hole :
is that the visitor you longed for or you feared outside the door ?
Long hours in lamplight practicing his scales,
in counterpoint to solfège of a bird outside the door.
The diplomat entering the leader’s office
forgets the Copt, the communist, the Kurd outside the door.
Praise for the leader, loyalty till death !
Another imprecation is whispered outside the door.
The first love left, the second packs her bags.
Are those the nervous footsteps of the third outside the door ?
Self is a mirror, poster-color bright,
but notice how the colors become blurred outside the door.
The revolutionaries’ nameless laundress
wonders “What happens to a dream deferred ?” outside the door.
GHAZAL : In the wind
GHAZAL : A woman
For Somaia
The exiled ney’s lament that’s hanging there in the wind
translates a language we can share in the wind.
Across the river, in the orchard on the hill, a woman
said, sometimes a handful of red earth can fulfill a woman.
Clothed by calligraphers in gold and lapis,
the poet’s words flow supple, black and bare in the wind.
She remains a speaker, although silent;
remains, although invisible, a woman.
The scholars and the tourists and the pilgrims
Crowd past the shrine, then step outside and stare in the wind.
I loved a man, I loved a city, I loved a language.
I loved, make of it what you will, a woman.
There was no room behind the slats of the partition.
She walked out to a field, knelt down and said her prayer in the wind.
No one spoke up against the law forbidding speech,
until a schoolboy, until a monk, until a woman...
Alone, unwound her headscarf under a lime tree,
ran down the goatpath with her tangled hair in the wind.
Who might have thought they’d hesitate to kill a child,
who might have thought they’d hesitate to kill a woman ?
You understood there would be peace with justice ?
What voice informed you history was fair in the wind ?
Rita shoulders her rifle in front of the looking-glass.
There’s more than one way a uniform can thrill a woman.
A fox deleted from another poem
Crouched down beside the entrance to his lair in the wind.
The hakawâti with gray hair and no breasts
writing words and crossing them out is still a woman.
What’s all this orientalist palaver ?
A vast vocabulary misheard where ? In the wind.
The hakawati weaves another story,
a garment that a traveler can wear in the wind.
From DiaspoRenga
The horse and the night
and the wide desert know me.
and this narrow street
from the teastained grammar book
he’d grabbed up first when they fled.
where fine rain falls before dawn
and the child in the next room
coughing in her sleep,
window in November cracked
open, the Bic pen,
“Morning of roses,”
she wishes the greengrocer.
“Morning of light,” he
and the wind that slips in with
insistent chilly fingers.
answers. Early cherries ripen,
and the small sweet strawberries.
Last week she came home.
The sky seems wider, brighter
despite what’s missing.
Dogs on the port street
fighting over a fishhead,
spoiled fruit – he can smell
That stray cat is a brother,
the dawn rain a childhood friend.
the discarded orange peels
guards threw to exiled children.
He was sixteen then,
no dog, no child, a teacher.
Others learned to read
‫ي فر‬
‫وب ي‬
‫عمر بن معد يكرب‬
Those whom I love have gone
And I remain, like a sword, alone.
Translating from a slow-emerging language
Resembles dialogue, and I’m less bored, alone.
Gone, yes, or going, determination hardens
Into a self-destructive stubbornness.
Though it’s a doubled blade to be a weapon
And turn yourself onto your own distress.
What melody will resonate its presence
If you play the same old self-reflective chord alone?
Silent among her servants, Balqis riding
Back toward her queendom praised the Lord alone.
Someone who wrote, “Never to lose you again”
Moved, sent no message with a new address
If the beloved asked, what would you wish of me ?
That without my asking, you would answer “ Yes “ .
And in that memory there is a mountain,
Above it, a reddish hawk that swooped and soared alone.
The glass of wine not offered to the stranger,
The nightly second glass of wine I poured alone.
Who held a sword and said that he resembled
A sword, in his solitude was nothing less.
Between the old man and the steely angel,
A sleep-drunk intern holding down the ward alone.
The word-root’s there, you look into the branches’
cadence and contexts you can only guess.
[ Tr a n s l a t e d b y M a r i l y n H a c k e r ]
To Aras Bengo
The dogs on Kéfé Hill startled distracted people like us. When no one broke the
silence and vacancy of summer noons, their barking can be heard behind the hill, all
the way to the cypress trees around the well at Ta’liki, where the child asked his mother
if she could put out the sun’s fire with the hem of her dress. A group of schoolboys
arrive, dazed from walking on the steppe. Laughing in the shade, they throw their
books on the ground, then they go swimming in the pond, tearing off the scarves
they’d tied around their heads, like you.
Your cousin ran over a white dog’s leg with his tractor. Neither the dog’s licking the
wound, nor your putting hay, coffee grounds or barley flour on it healed it. Your dog
gnawed on his wound and chewed it; the guilt in your eyes glittered in his gaze, till
his cry became a whimper, and then ceased. One morning, you saw your dog with his
gnawed-off foot dangling from his bloody muzzle. He stood there like Zarathustra’s
three-legged ass who lives at the bottom of the Caspian Sea, and whose dung drifts
ashore like amber that ends up as rosary beads in the markets of Mardin.
You didn’t see your relatives. Before your still face, their tear-washed moustaches turned
white as the hair at their temples. Like you now, your sorrow is merciful and beautiful.
There is no misery in that sorrow, and no regret. Let the mailmen of happiness go
somewhere else with their letters, to other houses whose inhabitants know where the
mailboxes are.
To my youngest sister
to Akkad Nizam ad-Din
Sister, I am you. Your shoes are little arks for frightened animals, they are me looking
at you. No dog barked when the two small strangers came to the blind orchard, where
their grandfather’s curse flapped overhead like the clatter of his shrine’s door. You play
the role of the prey, you are dying in a place I know like the palm of my hand, and
I cry, tormented, in a locked room. The ceiling fan questions your neck, your long
inscrutable silence, my own silence that unlooses the din of your heart, fear because
everything is frightening now, the intruders are behind you. Stretched out like an
invalid under the covers, you lose yourself in the clouds, with the tears I begged you to
hold back. Now my body is the sole site of my suffering, the kiss that waited so long
to arrive on your cheek found it cold as a stone in the rain.
They speak to you of roofs, but what about the depths?
The light of your eyes will be enough for you to leave by the tunnel drawn on the wall.
Enter it without looking back. That metallic noise in the dusk is only the rust on the
locks and the door hinges.
You will cut into the cypress fruit to smell it, and you’ll hum a tune as beautiful as
you are.
Your heart is your rowboat, and your dream will bring you back from beneath the
On the other side, there is a song I never listened to with you. And the schoolbooks
you blasted apart with a rifle at the gun club, because you venerate nothing.
To Raed Naqshabandi
To Mohammed Samy al-Kayyal
What you were given to bear was heavier than you’d have thought.
I didn’t know you yet that long-ago winter, your coat drenched from the drizzle and
your beard silky as the breath of the grass. In the cinema lobby, I said to my friend
“That fellow there looks like Chesterton!” Like silent strangers, we watched “The
Seventh Seal,” and Death in Bergman’s film was a clown who made you laugh. During
your illness, you thought of al-Niffari, of historians, of children’s drawings: what the
child said who had drawn an animal with his fingers so his drawing-paper was blank
“The dinosaurs aren’t extinct, but now they’re transparent.”
From house to house, from continent to continent, from the café al-Kamal to the
Saruja square, behind all the books, there was the tenderness of your shadow and
friends’ hands nostalgic for the warmth of yours.
Deir azZour, that green knife-slash in the sand, that gathered up the bus of the dead,
your near and dear whom I didn’t know, my wounded friends. We kept crossing the
river in both directions, and we saw other buses, the cafés on the two riverbanks, the
foreigners’ cemetery behind the bus station and the swimmers’ candles in the deep
water. We heard songs as we crossed that were not merely the night’s longing. I asked
you: Will your little Alhambra cigarettes help you out more than God? Will you beat
him at chess tomorrow, and set him a forfeit, saying “Read what I wrote backwards in
this old notebook!” ?” He would need a mirror deeper than blood to read your sorrow
there, and your silence.
Another House
To Ruwa Riché
The house
A frightened face
In the window of another house.
What’s the matter with you?
Have pity on me, don’t ask me any questions!
What are you doing these days?
I write letters to the disappeared, and I hide. The light in the streets is painful, and the
curtains are ugly.
Where do you sleep?
My eyes are embalmed in front of the screen, and my heart flutters like the little
orphans holding scales on the sidewalks.
What are you doing now?
I transform the heat that I silenced into words. I think of my friends’ pain, and of
mothers’ hands. I am learning how to live.
Did the fist open up to welcome you?
Not at all! It turned into a slap. Now my neck is a thick sprained cable.
What did you say?
I am not sensitive. I’m sick. My tongue is a saw and my words a torn net. Every voice
bears a bit of the death of its owner.
How would you like to sleep?
Deeply, like someone who has slain fear with one cry, once and for all.
What do you dream about?
I don’t remember my dreams, but I create them.
Are you alone?
Like you, like all of us.
Are you afraid?
Afraid for life, that drips into the abyss, or that grants us what we’re afraid to lose.
What is hardest in every chaos?
Confronting those who are like us.
Have you traveled?
I was my house
I drink the water of my breath
And sit on my dreams
A stranger lit
A fire in the bedroom
And warmed himself
Then he carved names from the past
On the black walls
I still can’t read them.
Before Me
I carry a door I can’t see. When someone knocks, it wakes me, even if I lay down to
sleep out in the open. There is always a slight delay. Fear is no emotion, it’s reality. And
I’m in the same place wherever I am, because I’m incapable of forgetting.
Where are you headed?
When I started out, I found myself at the end of the road, and my steps took flight.
Under the terebinth tree with its orange fruit,
our silent virgin,
grows a single barley stalk whose grain cured their warts.
My sleeping ram shakes his spiral horns,
ringing the bell in his henna-tinted fleece
and the cricket on the wooden ladder quiets down.
In my father’s thin brown arms
under the abundant summer stars
in kohl-blue air, my mother touches
the round, raisin-colored mole
under her right ear.
She fingers a forgotten pin on the muslin veil
that holds her hair back, silver
and blue, like the faded tattoo
between her fine brows.
Then she lowers her sleepy eyelids
beneath the spilling of a shooting star
and dreams once more of my birth.
[ O r i g i n a l Te x t s ]
‫ل را‬
‫كالب تل كيفي أجفلت السهاة أمثالنا‪ .‬حي ال يقطع أح ٌد السكون والخالء يف ظه ات الصيف‬
‫يُسمع نباحها وراء التل‪ ،‬متناهيا ً إىل أ جار ال و حول الب يف تعلكي‪ ،‬حيث يسأل طفل أمه أن‬
‫تخمد الشم الحارقة بذيل فستانها‪ ،‬ويصل طلبة دوّختهم ال اري‪ ،‬ف مون كتبهم عىل ال اب‬
‫ضاحكي وس الظالل‪ ،‬ويسبحون يف ال كة وقد خلعوا املناديل التي عصبوا بها ر وسهم مثلك‪.‬‬
‫ساهياً‪ ،‬داس ابن عمك بالج ّرار سا َ كل أبي ‪ .‬ما فت اللعقات جرحاً‪ ،‬وال فاه ذر التبن‬
‫وحشوه بالبن ورماد أكياس الطحي‪ .‬كان كلبك يأكل جرحه‪ ،‬يم ه‪ ،‬وند عينيك ي قر يف‬
‫نظرته إىل أن صارت خته أنينا ً ثم صمتاً‪ .‬يف أحد الصباحات‪ ،‬رأيت كلبك وقدمه املقطوعة‬
‫تتدىل بي فكيه الداميي‪ ،‬واقفا ً مثل حمار راد ت ذي القوا م الثالث‪ ،‬يحيا يف قاع بحر ق وين‬
‫وإىل السواحل يصل روثه كهرمانا ً انتهت مسابحه يف أسوا ماردين‪ .‬ما رأيت أقرباءك‪ ،‬أما‬
‫وجهك خ ّ لت الدمو ُع واربهم فابي ّ ت كأصدا هم‪ .‬مثلك اآلن‪ ،‬رحي ٌم وجمي ٌل ح نك‪ .‬ال‬
‫يف هذا الح ن وال أسف‪ .‬فليذه سعاة السعادة برسا لهم إىل منا ل أخر يعرف قاطنوها‬
‫صنادي ال يد‪.‬‬
‫ل أخت ال‬
‫أنا‪ ،‬يا أختي‪ ،‬أنت‪ .‬كان حذا ك ُفلكا ً ص ا ً‬
‫لحيوانات مذعورة هي نظراتي‪ ،‬وال كل ينب ُ حي‬
‫يق بُ ال ريبان من بستان العميان حيث حامَ ْت ُ‬
‫حصتُك ّ‬
‫ورفرف امل ار‪ّ .‬‬
‫حص ُة‬
‫لعنة جدهما‬
‫ُوصدة باكيا ً‬
‫مكان أعرف ُه كراحة اليد وأ ق يف حجر ٍة م َ‬
‫مروحة السقف التي‬
‫الفريسة‪ ،‬تموتي يف‬
‫تنادي رقبتك‪ ،‬صمتك ال ام الطويل‪ ،‬صمتي الذي يُشع ُل ضوضا َء قلبك‪ ،‬الخوف ألن كل ء‬
‫مخيف‪ ،‬املتسللون وراءك‪ ،‬االستلقا ُء كاملري ة تحت ال طاء تتف ّرجي عىل ال يو ‪ ،‬دموعُ ك التي‬
‫القبلة التي ّ‬
‫تأخ ْ‬
‫رت كث ا ً يف الوصول إىل خدّك‪،‬‬
‫رجوتُك احبسيها‪ .‬جسدي اآلن مكا ُن أملي الوحيد‬
‫جر يف املطر‪.‬‬
‫وج َدتْ ُه باردا ً كحَ ٍ‬
‫ل أكا ن ام الدين‬
‫ويحدّثونك عن السقوف‪ ،‬فماذا عن القيعان؟ سيكفيك ضو ُء عينيك لت اد َر النف َ املرسو عىل‬
‫الجدار‪ ،‬ادخله دون أن تلتفت‪ ،‬فهذا الصلي ُل يف العتمات صدأ ُ األقفال ومفاصل البوّابات‪ .‬ستجرح‬
‫ثمر َة رسو لتشمّ ها وتدندن لحنا ً جميالً مثلك‪ .‬قلبُ َك ورقك‪ ،‬وحُ لمُك سيُخرجك من تحت األر ‪.‬‬
‫عىل الجهة األخر أ ٌ‬
‫نية لم أسمعها معك‪ ،‬وكت ٌ‬
‫مدرسية م ّقتها بالبندقية يف نادي الرماية ألنك‬
‫ال تعب ُد أحداً‪.‬‬
‫ل را د ن‬
‫الطعنة الخ اء يف الرمل‪ ،‬و ْ‬
‫حافلة املوت ‪ ،‬أقرباءك‬
‫الوديعة أثق ُل مما ظننت‪ .‬دير ال ور‪ ،‬هذه‬
‫حافالت أخر‬
‫الذين ال أعرفهم‪ ،‬أقربا ي الجرح ‪ .‬ذهابا ً وإياباً‪ ،‬ظللنا نجتا ُ النهر ونلم ُ يف‬
‫مقاهي ال فاف ومق َة ال رباء وراء املحطة و مو َع السابحي يف املياه العميقة‪ ،‬ونسم ُع‬
‫نيات ليست إال َ‬
‫أستسعف َك سجا ُر الحمرا القص ة أكثر من الله؟ أسته مه‬
‫لوعة الليل‪.‬‬
‫بعبورنا أ‬
‫يف الشطرن دا وتعاقبه اقرأ ما كتبت مقلوبا يف دف ٍ قديم؟ ستل م ُه مر ة أوس ُع من الد يقرأ‬
‫فيها ح ن َ َك وصمتك‪.‬‬
‫ل م مد سام ال يا‬
‫لم أكن أعرفك يف ذاك الشتاء البعيد‪ ،‬معطفك مبل ٌل بالرذاذ‪ ،‬ولحيتك ناعمة كأنفاس العش ‪ .‬يف‬
‫القاعة‪ ،‬أخ ُت صديقي هذا بي ُه تشس تن ‪ .‬ك ريبي صامتي اهدنا الختم السابع ‪ ،‬وكان‬
‫املوت يف فيلم بر مان مه ّرجا ً أضحكك‪َ .‬‬
‫كنت مري ا ً تفكر بالنفري وامل رخي ورسو األطفال‬
‫كيف قال الطفل الذي رسم ب صبعه حيوانا‪ ،‬وبقيت الورقة فار ة الديناصورات لم تنقر ‪.‬‬
‫إنها اآلن فافة ‪ .‬من ٍ‬
‫بيت إىل بيت‪ ،‬من قار ٍة إىل قارة‪ ،‬من مقه الكمال إىل ساحة ساروجة‪ ،‬وراء‬
‫الوداعة ظلك ودفء يدك حني املصافحات‪.‬‬
‫جميع الكت ‪ ،‬كانت‬
‫بيت خر‬
‫وج ٌه خا ف‬
‫يف نافذة ٍ‬
‫بيت خر‪.‬‬
‫كنت بيتي‬
‫أ بُ ما َء نف‬
‫وأجل ُ فو حُ لمي‪.‬‬
‫أ َ ري ٌ‬
‫نارا ً يف حجرة النو‬
‫ثم َ‬
‫حفر يف الجدران السوداء‬
‫أسما ًء ابرة‬
‫لم أتم ّك ْن‪ ،‬حت اآلن‪ ،‬من قراءتها‪.‬‬
‫ل ر‬
‫ري ة‬
‫ما بك؟‬
‫رأفة بي‪ ،‬ال تستف ي‪.‬‬
‫ماذا تفعل هذه األيا ؟‬
‫وأتخف ‪ .‬سطو ُع الشوارع م ل ٌم والستار ُة بشعة‪.‬‬
‫أكت ُ رسا َل للمفقودين‪،‬‬
‫أين تنا ؟‬
‫عيناي محنطتان أما الشا ة وقلبي يخف كيتام املوا ين عىل األرصفة‪.‬‬
‫ماذا تفع ُل اآلن؟‬
‫أسكت عنه‪ .‬أف ّك ُر يف ال أصدقا ي وأيدي األمهات‪ .‬أتع ّل ُم كيف أحيا‪.‬‬
‫أنق ُل إىل الكلمات حرار َة ما‬
‫هل انبسطت القب ُة ل حّ َ بك؟‬
‫انقلبت إىل صفعة‪ .‬عنقي اآلن حب ٌل ثخي ت مل ُه االلتفاتة‪.‬‬
‫ماذا َ‬
‫لست َ‬
‫صوت محم ٌل بج ٍء من موت‬
‫بكة تم ّقت‪ .‬كل‬
‫مرهفاً‪ .‬أنا مري ‪ .‬اللسا ُن منشار وكالمي‬
‫كيف تتمن أن تنا ؟‬
‫خة وحيدة‪ ،‬مر ًة وإىل األبد‪.‬‬
‫عميقاً‪ ،‬كمَ ن قت َل الخوف ب‬
‫بماذا تحلم؟‬
‫ال أتذ ّك ُر أحالمي‪ ،‬بل أخلقها‪.‬‬
‫هل أنت وحيد؟‬
‫مثلك‪ ،‬مثلنا‪.‬‬
‫هل أنت خا ف؟‬
‫خا ٌ‬
‫ف عىل الحياة‪ ،‬ترا يف الهاوية أو تهبنا ما نخ فقدانه‪.‬‬
‫ما العس ُ يف كل اختال ؟‬
‫مجابهة األ باه‪.‬‬
‫هل سافرت؟‬
‫استلقيت يف العراء‪ .‬يبق تأخ ٌر طفيف دا م ما عاد‬
‫أحم ُل بابا ً ال أراه‪ ،‬يوقظني ق ْرع ُه حت لو‬
‫الخوف إحساساً‪ .‬إنه الحقيقة‪ ،‬وأنا يف املكان نفسه‪ ،‬أينما ُ‬
‫كنت‪ ،‬ألنني عاج ٌ عن النسيان‪.‬‬
‫إىل أين تم ؟‬
‫بدأت انته الطري وح ّل َق ْت خطواتي‪.‬‬
‫تحت البُ ْ‬
‫طمة ال تقاليّة‪،‬‬
‫عذرا نا الساكتة‪،‬‬
‫تنتش حب ُّة ع ٍ محَ ْت ث لي َلهما‬
‫ويه كب النا ُم قرنيه الحل وني‬
‫ف ن جر بي صوفه املحَ ن‬
‫ويصمت جدج ٌد عىل الس ّلم‬
‫بي ذراعي أبي‪ ،‬السمراوين النحيلتي‪،‬‬
‫تحت نجو الصيف ال يرة‬
‫تتلمّ ُ أمي يف الهواء ال ُكحيل ّ‬
‫عند الوحمة املكورة بلون ال بي‬
‫أسف َل أذنها اليمن‬
‫تتلمّ ُ دبوسا ً نسيتْ ُه يف خمارها املوصيل ّ‬
‫دبوسا ً ف يا ً‬
‫وأ ر َ كقطرة الو م الفاتحة‬
‫بي حاجبيها الرقيقي‬
‫ثم تطب ُ جفنَها الناع‬
‫عىل ني كٍ ينسك‬
‫وتحل ُم بوالدتي م ّر ًة أخر ‪.‬‬
[ Tr a n s l a t e d b y A n d r e w Z a w a c k i ]
my selfie with RW
P & E selfie
we’ll stay without fail together inside an encounter
like thus in this announcement (a very
like thus in this announcement (a very
you are at several degrees
and if I add in records
man who smiles a lot (ditto the printed
woman smiles a lot view to (under the
of difference having a ball
to clarify her is to play
sun) makes this movement in pro
the one in the brochure
portion so sunny) outside of the air
to verge on this thought
position makes the world (total sport
examines it from the relic of nature (of
its waving flag
the examined form (which is the flash
her tucker the top of (colorful action
standing motion
you’re always jumping
the logo the top of (of the countryside
pretty turns plain (stripy blue to what
on a trampoline
I bring water to your
a line above
windmill of arms
blue is solid gilded yellow a mellow
dubbed over minute) the loll the melody
to you as the crow flies
we’ll stay with feeling together inside an encounter
selfie from A to Z
if trying it out is equal to
trying it on ok so let’s try
a scansion of
your scalar scape
what disc holder
referred to eons ago
the swing lens
the tilt-shift lens
you mount in broad day
clear day as
if we’d made out the contours
from up on a height
on the staircase until his colossal
he does well to pose for his por
tent saw this subtle movie of her
ground the locale had him hop the
on the left edge was unwavering
at a step to one side of the ceremony
the gentle deer the bold little girl
trait for trait he illustrated her
lifted literally from the fore
gate she’s easygoing by the void
the fantasia a blank the hunger for
clear as crystal your elegance is
I’m not sure I know
how the noise
prevails in a few leaves only there
there she too was nearly a fragile
the even and steady of waves
is equal to fish
in this way how to tell it from
in profile even he sees her shard
the moment it furnishes
ically looked at never saw her
viewed like this the full-body shot
churches and bats
the wings for
a multiplication by two
we’d say yes when we see
its lines in relief
N & A selfie
apex a little
rubber pebbles
which of the two is greater love il
they no more no less than they who are
in the process of flutter
luminated and he lingers however
as soon as she’s warm in his arms day
that’s how one causes
which lets her be set down quietly
the event of wow now what have we here
its fixer sovereignty
my selfie with VB
seemed tight edge the screen noggin posture causes
I said to myself quit smiling idiot with
a change of angle that’s what happens when we move
lips that ought to enunciate the sound effects viz
the common good’ll find its way yahoo go arm in arm with
the idea everything hails from nothing a word that cracks
domestic accord hordes the language fissures out and that way
even falls for distant permissions singing along with
fractures the categories of global listening radio static
boney m. my cup size my dunce’s cap smashed to smithereens to
offshore ah distinctive your conspicuous mix of work
the yards it’s why smbdy asked before do y’all fall out of the sky
site supervisor your hush-hush t.h. tax haven your s.m.e. ahoys
how to lead them into a skirmish in the accented mist you
pause what thinking take them back from established divisions
manifest noise or nearly to yourself to any old
and he came across kajillions of them melodies of food a
object help he’s got it oh heavens he pushes me to brink
wasting before chucking them from the highest peak a kiosk
of roof I pick up speed already as heedless from blur
a whirlwind the dust a gust see you nothing coming nada
to me the broadcast neutral wide-angle the hands relaxed atop
hold that pose his caddy biding time aside confided to me
the recycling bin yet for all that not a sole rifiuto dispenses
his toll-free # this dude’s direct line everyone can get ahold of him
via blow-out clearance sale the catalogue to all participants
[ O r i g i n a l Te x t s ]
ainsi dans cette annonce (un très
ainsi dans cette annonce (une très
homme souriant (idem le script
femme souriante vue de (sous la
soleil) fait ce mouvement de pro
portion ensoleillée) dehors de l’air
se fait le monde (sport complet
l’examine du reste de la nature (de
nous demeurons effectivement dans une chicane
vous êtes à des degrés
divers trop de la balle
celle de la brochure
un trait dessus
mouvement debout
et si j’ajoute records
la détaillant on joue
à tirer sur cette idée
la forme examinée (qui est l’éclat
son caraco le haut de (action couleur
le logo le haut de (de la campagne
belle devient simple (bleu rayé à quel
sa banderole
toujours vous sautez
bleu est uni jaune doré un repos
sur le trampoline
moulin des bras
instant doublé) le ralenti la mélodie
j’apporte l’eau à votre
à vous à vol d’oiseau
nous demeurons affectivement dans une chicane
si un essai équivaut à
un essayage alors essayons
un balayage de
ton paysage scalaire
sur l’escalier jusqu’à son grand
le chevreuil doux la jeune hardie
il fait bien de poser pour son por
trait pour trait il l’a représentée
désignait naguère
tant l’a vu ce film très fin d’elle
enlevée littéralement le premier
l’objectif à décentrement
plan et le fond lui font sauter la
barrière elle est simple par le vide
que tu places en plein jour
clair jour comme
de la partie gauche a été résolue
la fantaisie en blanc l’appétit du
si nous percevions le relief
sur une hauteur
d’un pas à part de la cérémonie
clair complètement votre grâce est
je ne suis pas sûre de savoir
comment le bruit
là triomphe dans peu de feuilles
là elle aussi fut à côté un délicat
l’égal et mesuré des vagues
équivaut à poissons
ainsi comment la distinguer de
profil même ainsi il la voit section
en même temps qu’il fournit
nellement observée ne l’a jamais
vue ainsi l’origine du pied à terre
des galets de caoutchouc
lequel des deux est plus amour il
eux ni plus ni moins eux qui le sont
au cours du battement
luminés et lui reste quand même
dès qu’elle se fera dans ses bras jour
c’est ainsi qu’on provoque
qui permet de la poser tranquille
la situation d’oh la la voilà qui arriva
quel porte disque
l’objectif à balance
églises et chauve-souris
les ailes pour
une multiplication par deux
dirions oui quand verrions
le relief de ses lignes
zénith un peu son pouvoir fixateur
semblé juste bord l’écran posture crâne qui détermine
j’ai dit ça à moi même arrête de bêtement sourire avec
une modification d’angle ça se passe quand on bouge
les lèvres qui doivent articuler les bruitages comme fait
le bien commun il fera son chemin way va de pair avec
l’idée fondée du rien du tout advient de l’œuf qui craque
l’unité domestique des tas la langue se sépare et par là
décompose les catégories d’écoute globale grésillement
même s’éprend des accords distants reprenant l’air du
boney m et ma taille mon bonnet d’âne vole en éclats au
large ah particulière ta combinaison voyante de chef de
dépôt c’est juste qu’avant qqun a lancé venez vous seuls
travaux tes rtt rendements troubles ténus ton pme poème
comment vous faire campagne dans la buée accentuée tu
prends ton électricité je te la rends des coupures établies
présentes du bruit à peu près de soi de n’importe lequel
et il en a trouvé beaucoup des mélodies avec nourriture a
l’objet à l’aide il l’a oh ciel il me pousse jusqu’au bord
variée avant de les précipiter du haut sommet émotionnel
du toit je prends la vitesse déjà aussi successive du flou
un tourbillon la poussière du vent vois tu rien venir rien
à moi là que ce discours s’adresse les mains posées sur
garde bien la pose son caddie placé à côté lui m’a confié
la poubelle jaune pour autant aucun rifiuto ne compose
son n° vert ce type sa ligne tout le monde peut le joindre
en pleine liquidation le catalogue à tous les participants
[ Tr a n s l a t e d b y A n n e P o r t u g a l ]
Fille & bille – une lettre
A part
Une part
De terra firma & fragile
Comme le rouge d’un coquelicot
Sous lampe du seuil
Sous givre
N’importe par où il est le fil
Fille est une
Rive, arrive
Un verbe –
Je te savais toi
Être toi avant que
Tu savais
Chaque face de la feuille est une « mixte
Est-ce la réciprocité
Un ratage, est ce vignettage, ou noir maximum
Ou les grands espaces d’ombre du capital
Son flux continu & rien de nouveau sous
Le le
Surface, » exposée à l’air
Quand elle commence à osciller
: fréquences retour réseau :
Qu’est une fille
Est est
Faim & fièvre &
Ma fille tu augures
Un futur un
Plus outre, quelque morceau de
Musique cachée
Derrière ton dos :
Le monde
Hé acro
Bas de plafond barjot
La dadame – insomniaque Spoutnik,
Fil à fofolle –
Est-ce ça « verras »
Le plop d’un alu
De fille, tilt
mutée en
Mini grandeur nature, son
corps que l’eau plie
L’eau elle ne plie pas
Est une écharde d’Arraché-à-Soi. Elle est cachée derrière ton dos.
En un pays plat :
Phare & giro
-flée, toi, une floraison de glace à la frontière
zéro écho
Là est une fracture dans Le
Rift dans le miroitant midi, où un glacier
Encore y est recousu
Un orage à des kilomètres de Seyðisfjörður,
Ciel galvanisé d’une trainée de sancerre, les friches
Et bosquets battus par un vent :
Sous orage à Neversink, à Aix
& la boîte à musique
Exit la ballerine avec la cuillère
L’argent s’enchante
de l’argent
Même le climat est un ravissement
Du capital : -4° à Dubai, « une couche
De neige fraîche toute l’année, » on skie
There’s no
De glace, où un camion
A perdu un twist d’huile sur le
Chimi, chimérique
Lac : neigeinnée, la nuit –
Sévère & sursévère
Sereine – assez
De prendre ta lumière par ré
-flection : n’importe où
Tu iras sera comme la lune
A toi
Le père de Printemps
tardif d’Ozu disant « en
Quoi je n’ai nulle part »
On est chacun sur une voie
De sortie pas de
Invisibles, les voies de passage
Comme de la pluie dans les chambres
On dirait refaçonner une surface : la rame un torrentiel de verres soufflés, et ses
dérives rapides de pare-brise fracassé dans le boson de higgs, intraveineux soleil dans
un canyon rougi de rouille dépôts – vert, corail, néon, rose – la langue des rails qui
tire son v à soi & le champ scalaire un sous-bruit sous la pellicule Llumar anti-tags des
vitres, la ville en transe :
Antienne : tenir ou retenir
Aucune pierre trop petite
Aucune baie trop naine
Dansons, ma fille, comme
Deux escargots
Quand la chaleur est hallucinée et l’hématite
Ciel – effetflou,
Antienne : item, item
l’opacifié– parti
Négatif blindé & bleu iridescent - You there?
- Yeah, I’m right here
Et puis parler avant d’éteindre la lumière
Toi et ton futur
Déplié pas encore
Un en quoi je n’ai
Nulle part
[ O r i g i n a l Te x t s ]
Daughter & laughter—a letter
A part
Of terra firma & infirm
As a poppy reddens
In porch light
In frost
Whithersoever it’s wired
Daughter is an
Edge, edge
A verb—
I knew you
Were you before
You knew
Each side of the sheet is a “melt
Is this reciprocity
Failure, is it lens falloff, or maximum black
Or the dark open spaces of capital
Streaming & nothing new under
The the
Surface,” exposed to the air
As it shimmies forth
: backhaul frequencies :
What daughter
Is is
Hunger & fever &
Daughter you augur
A future a
Further, some piece of the
Music hidden
Behind your back :
The world
Hey acroBat shit crazy
Lady—insomniac Sputnik,
Wired weird—
Is this what “in for” is
The plash of a silver
Of daughter, tiltshifted to
Miniature grandeur, her
body bent by water
But the water doesn’t bend
Is a splinter of Forced-from-Itself. It is hidden behind your back.
In a flat land :
Wall & wall
- flower, you, a blossom of ice at the frontier
no echo
There’s a rift in The
Rift in the noonday glare, where a glacier
Is sewn together again
A storm a few miles off Seyðisfjörður,
Galvanized sky a cast of sancerre, the slag fields
Bosky & lashed by a wind :
Storming in Neversink, in Aix
& the music box
Ballerina has run away with the spoon
Of ice, where a truck
Has leaked a shimmy of oil against the
Chemic -, chimerical
Lake : snowknown, nightFall
Severe & severer
Money is fascinated
by itself
Even weather’s a rapture
Of capital : – 4° in Dubai, “covered
With real snow all year round,” for the ski
Il n’y a pas de
Of taking your light by re
-flection : wherever
You go will be as the moon
To you
The father in Ozu’s
Late Springsays “in
which I play no part”
We are all on our way
Out don’t
Invisible, the passageways
As if raining inside the rooms
As if to refashion a surface : the metro car is a blown glass rapids, its riffles a shattered
win dshield in the Higgs boson, varicose sun, trough a canyon flushed with iron
filings—green, coral, halogen, rose—, the tongue of its railing reeled to a V & the
scalar field a rumor under the Llumar anti-vandal window film, the city a trance :
Refrain: to withhold or hold back
No stone is too small
No berry too tiny
Refrain: again, again
Let’s dance, daughter, like
Two escargots
When the heat’s tripped out & the hematite
lighttight—’s gone
Bulletproof negative & iridial blue
—T’es où, toi ?
—Là, je suis là
Talking until the lights go off
You with your future
Unfolded as yet
One in which I play
No part
[ Tr a n s l a t e d b y M a r i e B o r e l ]
Gravesend a pris le nom de M. Silvaneous Grave
qui en 1123 y ouvrit un commerce,
au bout de la route
qui va de Londres à la mer.
Non. Londres ne va pas à la mer .
Donc Gravesend a pris le nom de M. Albert Graves
qui bâtit un hôtel à l’endroit où les bateaux quittent la Manche
pour remonter la Tamise.
Non. Il est mort.
Gravesend prit alors le nom du pasteur
Euphonius Grave, tombé d’une falaise, une nuit,
à cet endroit précis. D’aucuns racontent que les vagues
l’ont emporté, incandescant, au large.
Ils ont tort.
Un jour, on a rêvé qu’une tombe avait une fin
qu’une vie ne cessait de croître
jusqu’à ce que la tombe s’étende d’ici
à l’infini de son image
Non. Une tombe est un dommage.
Du XVIIIe au XIXe siècles
Gravesend fut le très grand port
D’où les émigrants
quittaient l’Angleterrre pour l’Australie,
l’Amérique du Sud ou du Nord, l’Afrique du Sud et l’Inde.
C’était une porte
à travers laquelle les gens tombaient à la mer.
Je ne suis jamais revenu.
Le nom Gravesend vient des mots
“grafsham” qui signifient “le lieu à la tombée du bois”
veut dire une nef, veut dire toi
dans le soleil en allé
et les arbres
les choses laissées derrière une tombe
purifie l’air.
Gravesend va et vient
comme une fenêtre dans le vent. Ainsi nommée
puisque tu n’es jamais revenu. Elle porte
le nom d’un homme disparu tout d’un coup
sur la grandplace, en plein soleil.
En 1086, Gravesend est répertoriée dans le Domesday Book sous le nom Gravesham,
c’est-à-dire la maison d’un préfet ou d’un lord, d’un reflet ou d’un sort, d’un joug
dirigé vers. Le bord d’une fenêtre ou une porte.
Gravesend est ainsi nommée car c’est ici qu’on transportait
les corps au plus fort de la peste
et qu’on les jetait à la mer. Ce n’était pas si éprouvant parce qu’alors
le bois prenait fin, la rive, les morts, et quelqu’un avait appris
l’art d’assembler des pouces pour en faire un verrou
et dès lors, on rêve de ce son, qui glisse, déclic, de ce qui ne ferme
jamais vraiment. On accuse la peste, le cœur, l’âge. Une tombe
est une porte posée à plat sur le sol comme une charnière articulerait un golfe
sans être un pont.
Le nom
Le nom Gravesend n’a rien à voir
avec une tombe ou une fin et il n’y a
verger enfui
mon cri filé
par des cygnes qui luttent de même
aucun navire de plaisance dans le port surpeuplé. Les voiles forment
un ciel en silicate, une voilerie qui ne cessera jamais. Tu auras épargné
et quelle
mais en vain. Montant à bord, tenant
une seule enveloppe qu’ils agitent, ou agitant leur mouchoir, ignorant
maison taillée dans un œuf
trappe lentement s’étirait dans chaque chambre
les morts traînent
Es-tu tombé pardessus bord
comme si une petite
si toujours prêts
derrière eux un cirque en feu
la signification historique de l’agitation d’une chose blanche, le visage pâle,
ils s’épuisent, ligne vacillante le long du pont,
retenus dans le temps par le seul pavois.
La tombe était vide. Ils l’ont cassée et n’y ont trouvé
qu’un journal.
La tombe revint. Il remuait son thé du doigt
un œil distrait sur les nouvelles .
Il n’y a pas de tombe à Gravesend, bien sûr,
c’est logique. Et emporta sur son passage –
La relation de l’eau aux morts
où nous nous lavions les mains
dans ses espaces liminaires – ponts, rivières,
rive sur rive le littoral déployant
l’ombre autour d’une personne
était un linceul déplié et cette toute petite chose volante.
[ O r i g i n a l Te x t s ]
Gravesend is named after Mr. Silvaneous Grave
who in 1123 opened a store here
at the end of the road
leading from London to the sea.
No, London does not go to the sea.
So Gravesend is named after Mr. Albert Graves
who established a hotel at the first point
that boats turned in from the channel to go up the Thames.
No, he is dead.
And Gravesend is named for a preacher,
Euphonious Grave by name, who fell off a cliff
one night at just this spot. There are those who say
the waves carried him off, ablaze.
They are wrong.
Once we dreamt that a grave had an end,
that a life didn’t just keep on growing and growing
until the grave stretched from here
to its clearance.
No, a grave is a grievance.
From the 17th through the 19th centuries
Gravesend was a principal harbor
from which emigrants left England
for Australia or North or South America
The name Gravesend comes from the words
“grafs-ham” meaning “the place at the end of the grove”
South Africa and India. It was a door
through which people fell into the sea.
I never returned.
is a nave, is you walking out
into the sun
and the trees
the things left behind a grave
Gravesend swings back and forth
clears the air.
like a window in the wind. It is named
for the fact that you never returned. It bears
the name of a man who disappeared in plain sight
in the town square on a sunny day.
Gravesend is recorded in the Domesday Book, 1086, called Gravesham
which meant the home of a reeve or a lord, of a sleeve or a word, of a team
headed toward. The sill of a window or a door.
Gravesend is so named because at the height of the plague
they brought the bodies out here
and threw them into the sea. It wasn’t as callous as it sounds, for by then
the grove was over and the sleeve, a town, and someone had learned
how to fashion a deadbolt from a series of thumbs
and so we dream of the sound, the slip, the click, the something that won’t
ever quite shut. They blame the plague, the heart, the age. A grave
is a door laid flat in the earth, worked into a hinge, which articulates a gulf
without being a bridge.
The Name
The name Gravesend has nothing to do
with a grave or an end and there are
My ended grove
by swans straining at the same
no pleasure craft out in the crowded harbor. The sails, skyshaped in silicate
and built a loft that will not stop. There is nothing
and which home carved from an egg as if a little
for which you’ve been saving. They are boarding carrying
a single envelope and waving, or waving a handkerchief and ignoring
my threaded shriek
trap door slowly spread through every room
the dead are hauling
drawn along
Did you fall off the edge
ever this ready
a circus behind them in flames
the historical significance of the waving of white things, pale in their faces, they are
wearing out in a wavering line along the deck and held in time only by the railing.
There was nothing in the grave. They cracked it open
and only the newspaper.
The grave came back. He stirred his tea with a finger
and glanced at the news.
There are no graves in Gravesend, which is of course
logical. And overflowed with it—
The relation of water to the dead
in which we washed our hands
in its liminal spaces—bridges, rivers,
shore upon shore and shoreline unfurling
the shadow around a person
was a shroud unwound and the tiny thing flying.
[ Tr a n s l a t e d b y C o l e S w e n s e n ]
LAT 47° 21’N long 62°12’ W
i walk always far from my suns
and am thereby far become
nothing to read in your hands
in which too much answer washes over
the farthest distance of the words of this language
the trees walk on sky
an island and its ultramarine lakes would be easy
the days placed precisely come back
in years the invisible distance of time
motion of duration if had been the green atlantic
the world’s reasons just sponges
parentheses of spring
constellations wherever the ocean
never dreamed of coming back
the seagulls of the rigging
a porthole a moon window
walking surprise or swimming thought
not enough of a word that would be you
you face the world
with the reticent courage of an age with no morning illusions
almost sure will surely become less certain
in the garden of short cuts and missed encounters
you bring small neighboring spaces together
you’d like to see them spark
between sand and syntax
the outcry of the seasons the secret ways of the squirrel
between the trees twelve watchmen question
the sea and its swell
the old painting is a trompe-l’oeil
an error of perspective
cybel earth galetea water juno air
gold mercury silver and salt and the sign
we must invent a planet—it’s urgent
you’re here patient
drawn to the open sea where you don’t swim anymore
think you & me forever
in the thought of islands I’m forever getting lost
but geography has nothing to do with you as exiled
you draw the bow breathe say nothing
& me here and now i write
the degree zero of knowledge makes it possible to
negotiate the narrows of categories
the donkey slept softly why such scruples
and complexities
he parenthesis like you parenthesis couldn’t master
his contradictory feelings
in the voice you hear behind you he comes back raising
so many memories in the frame of syntax you connect
with him simply for the pleasure of finding him again through conjugation
the world turns alone
geography is a space of translucent lands
that unfolds inside you
the real and its double the imaginary
just as concerned as distracted indifferent and worthless
looking everywhere for absence a bird wing in the wind
kingstown’s pistachio trees turn the palms blue
in the grenadines near blight’s breadfruit tree
at the end of an impossible crossing
here he ended his mission
tacking from port st. catherine to port louis in a single go
grazed crests above the forests underwater
rocks castleshaped or clouds
of castles like invented animals
there’s a little of you in the little girl
as if when you’re no longer here
you’ll continue to be right
through her
your big inebriated body threatening in its staggering
and semaphoric gestures
to collapse
i pray to the god of all drunkards to ward off the disasters
that you’ll inevitably cause
in an oceanic dream of winter
i tell you about the freighter the australian
about the ocelot of the floating islands and about panama
about the melancholy cry of the toucan at grand boucan
morne valentin negre departemental of the leeward islands
-by fidelity to a word the daily falls into the absolute
the paving glistening in the night near the black pools
between the rails of the abandoned tramway
within the limits of a port city
with an unpronounceable name
like an order you can’t avoid in this world
same words same name same letters
the same image the same flower leading in the same glance
to the same beach the same scar the same opening
precipice between phrases between words at times
between syllables between the letters themselves between them
between the between
so then where is this lover
is that the park whose paths are the same
the same shade the same river
blocking the way to the same chateau on the other shore
where estranged by weather
you prepare to cross over the same grass the same sand
all this pomp these seasons these children this background murmur
these beaches even this cry you think you cry
among the always restless strollers
no one turns to look at you and for good reason
everything unchanged normal ordinary stationary
you pick up a stone and uncover a girl
writing trifles
desires suspended in a wallpaper pattern
love leaves the wind lulls him to sleep
and the two voices are on an island
a giraffe quenches his thirst
the rua col molo audace turns to the left
zigzagging away (for forty years) breaking
the peddle squealing
oscaria in örebro
hardsmiling waiters sweetly phrasing
no vivacious allegro too much falling water
march then april therefore coimbra
-sideways rain streaks the window
at the very high speed of the train to toulouse
cypress on the edges october on the rhone
the shadow of a man climbing up the stairs
falls carried away prisoner of a frozen lake by the potato field
here in this country where the wind is white slate and ash
the laughter of trade winds
across the false pages of cloudy beaches
sailing burying the enigma of good stories in the grass
what lack of birds in the equinoxical forests
wolf heads under the umbrella the fountains say
but little
nonday nonhope nonspring not present
the little dipper guides me blindly
the wind taps across the autumn canopy
and black umbrella your wish inside the sea and silence
-we must denigrate the sky
discredited paradise
solitude of colors green pure grey canceling
the oranges the orchards of your nova zembla
that guard the fine greys of time
bringing both halves of the earth together in battle
in a glance you shatter the curving line of the water
turned back on duration warm and certain
erased both childhood and loves
the lime tree the falcon the honey
the drenched sparrow the compass
you become through the days that i travel
swim like a shard in a mirror
the emerald island no doubt to the point that I want to say do you see
giving no notice any rose whatever
on whatever rosetree
is it exile that makes the earth foreign
water air land fire patiently inverted
with no help from habit
-your alcohol clouded eyes you forgot the cherries
when you’re asked about your past
a small flame sadly lights up
persian watching the fire like a heavenly body
(jupiter heavenly fire vulcan fire on earth)
pure leader of the world and son of the great god ormazd
is it far is it thus without memory without wind
dim tropics
beneath the ship of the sun
he said that the sun was a ship ?
-a yagán metaphor defines monotony
as a lack of friends
and derives the word lazy from the name of a penguin
there are seven roses in the house
five slow taos for the five elements
metal wood water fire earth
rough thought close and changing room
you sometimes find the one you’re thinking about
nomadic in your houses
you thought you were ready for other maps
land of thoughts according to jacob von uexküll
in his tactile spaces
dialectical plausibilities
in Amsterdam in the chambers of rhetoric
two contradictory logics fight it out
sad verso
small atlantic island off the coast corto disappears
it’s noon at the meridian I call home
the universe caresses your shoulders sleep my treasure island
you sleep on the sidewalk where reason wanders in spring
in the middle of the place de sable at the end of the square
no more footprints
you no longer have a girl here you thought
except elsewhere not only the locked door and windows
but the deserted rooms
the dust a feeling of fading into the background
completely destitute with few resources
but you haven’t stopped breathing
the leaves of the tree rapidly leaping the syllables
the leeward islands one day
the man in the shadows deafens like anger
the sky greys so solve for x
in its trembling despair
sons don’t abandon their mothers
quid for girls who fall from the sky
your fingers have stopped torturing the zipper of your
jacket your heart has shrunk inside
forget about being right and you’ll understand everything
he lights a small cigar
the sixth of the day
five is not a lovely number
[ O r i g i n a l Te x t s ]
LAT 47° 21’N long 62°12’ W
je marche toujours loin de mes soleils
et suis passée par là devenir loin
rien à lire dans tes mains
où surgissent trop de réponses dans les distances
les plus éloignées des mots de cette langue
les arbres marchent sur le ciel
une île avec des lacs outremer ce serait simple
les jours placés reviennent dans les années
l’invisible distance du temps
mouvement de la durée s’il fut vert atlantique
rien que des éponges les raisons du monde
la parenthèse du printemps
les constellations partout où l’océan
n’a pas rêvé de revenir
les mouettes de l’équipage
un hublot une lunette
marche surprise ou pensée nage
pas assez d’un mot qui serait toi
tu opposes au monde
le courage réticent de l’âge sans illusion de matin
presque sûr deviendra sûrement moins certain
au jardin des raccourcis et des rendez-vous manqués
tu rapproches de petits espaces voisins
dont tu aimerais bien voir jaillir une étincelle
entre sable et syntaxe
le tollé des saisons les traboules de l’écureuil
le tableau d’époque est en trompe-l’oeil
une erreur de perspective
terre cybèle eau galatée air junon
or argent mercure et le sel et le signe
il est urgent d’inventer une planète
tu es là patiente
tendue vers le large où tu ne nageras plus
le monde tourne tout seul
la géographie est un espace de pays translucides
à déplier en soi
le réel et l’imaginaire son double
tout autant concerné distrait indifférent et négligeable
cherche partout l’absence une aile d’oiseau dans le vent
les pistachiers bleuissent les paumes à kingstown
aux grenadines près de l’arbre à pain de blight
au terme d’une navigation insensée il achève ici sa mission
en un seul bord au près port ste catherine port-louis
caps écorchés au-dessus des forêts sous-marines
des rochers en forme de château ou de nuage
des châteaux semblables à des animaux fantastiques
entre les figuiers douze gardiens posent la question
des ondulations du littoral
pense toi & moi pour toujours
dans la pensée des îles où toujours je me perds
mais la géographie n’a pas voulu de toi comme exilé
toi tu tires à l’arc respires ne dis rien
& moi ici et maintenant j’écris
le degré zéro du savoir permet de cheminer
dans le détroit des catégories
l’âne dormait doucement pourquoi tant de scrupules
de complications
lui parenthèse comme toi parenthèse ne fut pas maître
de certains sentiments contradictoires
dans la voix derrière qu’on entend revient celui qui te
mêle à tant de souvenirs tu t’associes à lui dans le cadre
de la syntaxe pour le plaisir de le retrouver par la grâce
de la conjugaison
il y a un peu de toi dans cette petite fille
un peu comme si dans cette enfant quand tu ne serais plus là
tu continuais d’avoir raison
ton grand corps imbibé d’alcool menacait par son
tangage incessant et ses grands gestes de sémaphore
d’écrasements malencontreux
je priais le dieu des pochetrons pour les apocalypses
que tu provoquais immanquablement
dans un rêve océanique sur l’hiver
je te parle du cargo l’australien
du tigre ocellé des îles flottantes et du panama
du cri mélancolique du toucan grand boucan
morne valentin nègre départemental aux îles sous le vent
par fidélité à un mot le quotidien a basculé dans l’absolu
les pavés luisent la nuit près des flaques noires
entre les rails de tramways abandonnés
dans les confins d’une ville portuaire
au nom imprononçable
comme un ordre inévitable en ce monde
mêmes mots même nom mêmes lettres la même image
la même fleur mènent au même regard
à la même plage la même cicatrice la même ouverture
précipice entre les phrases entre les mots quelquefois
entre les syllabes entre les lettres ellesmêmes entre les
entre le entre où
est donc cet amant
est-ce là le parc dont les allées sont les mêmes la même
ombre le même fleuve empêche l’accès au même château
sur l’autre rive où rendu étranger par le temps
tu te préparais à fouler le même gazon le même sable
tout ce faste ces saisons ces enfants ces rumeurs ces plages
ce cri même tu crois le pousser parmi les promeneurs à jamais immobiles
tu ne fais se retourner personne et pour cause
toute chose inchangée normale ordinaire immobile
tu soulèves un caillou découvres une fille
en train d’écrire des bricoles
des désirs se figent au motif du papier peint
l’amour quitté le vent l’endort
et ces deux voix sont dans une île
une girafe se désaltère
la rua col molo audace coude à gauche
détaler en zigzag (pendant quarante ans) frein
la pédale couine
oscaria in örebro
serveurs au sourire dur au phrasé mou
pas d’allegro vivace il tombe trop d’eau
mars puis avril donc c’était coimbra
la pluie horizontalement griffe la vitre
de la très grande vitesse d’un train toulouse
cyprès dans les parages octobre du rhône
l’ombre d’un homme qui monte l’escalier tombe
emporté prisonnier du lac gelé
près des pommes de terre
en ce pays le vent est blanc ardoise et cendre
aux alizés des rires
dans les pages erronées de plages brouillées
naviguer enfouir l’énigme des belles histoires dans l’herbe
quel manque d’oiseau à la forêt des équinoxes
le tilleul le faucon le miel
le passereau détrempé la boussole
tu deviens dans les jours je voyage
nage comme une écharde sur le miroir
l’ile émeraude sans doute jusqu’où je veux dire vois-tu
sans préavis n’importe quelle rose
sur n’importe quel rosier
têtes de loup sous l’ombrelle les jets d’eau disent
un peu seulement
le non-jour non-espoir non-printemps non-présent
la petite ourse me guide en aveugle
le vent gratte à l’auvent de l’automne
et parapluie noir le voeu en toi de mers et de mutisme
les yeux ennuagés d’alcool il oubliait les cerises
lorsque lui sont posées des questions sur son passé
une petite flamme s’y allume tristement
perse regardant le feu comme un être céleste
(jupiter feu céleste vulcain feu terrestre)
chef du monde pur et fils du grand dieu ormazd
il fallut dénigrer le ciel
paradis déconsidéré
solitude des couleurs vert pur gris chance gris chancelant
les orangers les vergers de ta nouvelle zemble
où gisent les gris joyeux du temps
il viendra battre de chaque moitié du monde
et du regard tu fends la courbure de la ligne de l’eau
retourne à des durées chaudes et sûres
effacées les enfances les amours
est-ce loin est-ce ainsi sans souvenir sans vent
sombres tropiques
sous le vaisseau-soleil
(il disait que le soleil est un vaisseau)
est-il un exil qui fasse la terre étrange
eau air terre feu inversés avec patience
sans le secours de l’habitude
la métaphore yaghan définit la monotonie comme
une absence de camarade
et fait dériver paresseux du nom du manchot
il y a sept roses dans la maison
cinq tao lents pour les cinq éléments
métal bois eau feu terre
pensée brusque pièce close et changeante
tu retrouves celle à qui tu penses parfois
nomade en tes demeures
tu pensais prête pour d’autres cartes
terre des pensées selon jacob von uexküll
dans ses espaces tactiles
dialectique des vraisemblances
dans la chambre de rhétorique d’amsterdam
deux logiques contradictoires s’affrontent
sad verso
îlot atlantique au large duquel disparut corto
il est midi au lieu du méridien que j’habite
l’univers caresse tes épaules dors mon île au trésor
tu dors aux trottoirs où déambule la raison du printemps
au milieu de la place des sables dans le square finissant
plus de traces de pas
tu cessais d’avoir une fille ici tu le pensais
sauf là-bas pas seulement la porte les fenêtres verrouillées
mais les pièces désertes
la poussière un sentiment d’être dans le décor
dans un grand dénuement avec des moyens restreints
mais tu n’as pas cessé de respirer
les feuilles de l’arbre sautent les syllabes à toute vitesse
leeward islands un jour
l’homme de l’ombre sourde comme une colère
le ciel grisonne pour avoir l’âge du capitaine
au désespoir tremblant
les fils n’abandonnent pas leur mère
quid des filles nées de l’oreille de la chèvre
tes doigts ont cessé de torturer la fermeture de ton
blouson ton coeur est devenu plus petit à l’intérieur
oublie d’avoir raison et tu comprendras tout
il allume un cigarillo
le sixième de la journée
cinq n’est pas un joli chiffre
NourbeSe Philip & Omar Berrada
Seven Stations of the Harmattan
Station 1. Tangier, 2013
In the forest we don’t have anything to protect us.
We don’t have anything to eat and we get sick.
I don’t play. I cry every day. There is no food.
I was on the first fence when a soldier threw a stone.
Three of us fell. The drop was about three meters.
He came and lit a lighter on my body
to see if I was alive or dead.
I wanted to run, but they hit me and I fell down.
I tried to protect my head and they broke my arms.
The Guardia Civil took me and gave me to the Moroccan military.
What is worse? Someone who beats you or someone
who gives you to other people who will beat you?
The men there they have sex with you like a dog,
morning, noon and night, they have sex with you constantly.
They beat you, they do what they want. If you don’t want to,
they make you leave and the police come and take you.
I’m like a child now, even though I am old. My life is over.
It’s a story that I will always tell.
I will always tell my story.
Melilla, 2014 (photo by José Palazon)
Station 2. London, 1601
‫هذا وانه يرد عىل مكانك املكي حامل هذا الخطاب الكريم‬
‫خديم مفامنا العيل الكات االنجد االث عبد الواحد بن مسعود بن محمد عنوري‬
Acclaimed playwright William Shakespeare refuses to say whether his character, Othello,
was based on Moroccan ambassador to the court of Elizabeth I.
Your armie and our armie
peopling the land
with the help of god
subduing the land.
Commercial and diplomatic ties between Morocco and England grow ever stronger. Our
trade is the envy of others and our Queen is well pleased
‫وفد حملناه من ا المور ما يلفيه اليكم ان اء الله مشا هة ويبثه عليكم مكاملة ومواجهة‬
Not onely sack it and leave it
but possess it
under our dominion for ever
by the help of god
joyne it to our estate and yours.
‫هذا الكتاب الكريم و املدر العيل الجسيم صدر عن املفا العيل‬
‫االمامي املولوي الهمامي السلطاني الها مي االحمدي املنصوري الحسني دا افبال دولته‬
Letter from Sultan Moulay Al-Mansur to Queen Elizabeth I, 1602
Secret correspondence between our reigning monarch and the Sultan of Morocco, alMansur, has been disclosed by an unknown party or parties
Our armie or yours
or our armie without yours
The great heat of the clymat
the cold of your partes
Our men shall endure
with the help of god
The heat hurtes them not.
‫وعر ناكم لتعلموا اننا حملناه الفاء ذلك اليكم وامرناه ببثه عليكم‬
‫واملراد ان تص وا اىل ما استودعناه تبلي ه ان اء الله جملة وت صيال‬
Spain accuses England and Morocco of conspiring against it in the West Indies which it
insists have been given to it by God for safe keeping
Your power and command
Owre armie
All the Moores
nations of our religion
will confederate
by the help of god
with us and yow.
‫اىل ان نكون عىل بص ة من كل ما عندكم‬
Newsflash, London 1603
Our Great Queen now lies in mourning.
Abd el-Ouahed ben Messaoud ben Mohammed Anoun, Moroccan
Ambassador to Queen Elizabeth I, artist unknown, 1600
Newsflash, Fez, 1603
Al-Mansur, our Great and Giving ruler, is now in the protection of God.
Station 3. South Carolina House of Representatives, 1790
Four men and their wives claim to be subjects of the Emperor of Morocco; they ask that the
Law for the Better Ordering and Governing of Negroes and other Slaves not apply to them,
based on the Moroccan-American Treaty of Friendship.
‫الحمد لله هذا تفييد و الصل التي جعلناها‬
‫معاملاريكانوسوأتبتناها يهذاالد ووضعنا‬
‫عليها طابعنا لتبف مستمرة إن اء الله‬
‫وكتبت بح ة مراكش يف الخام والع ين‬
‫من عبان املبارك عا ما تي وأل‬
if either of the parties
and if any goods
and if the commander
and if any gun
it shall be done
if any moor
if any moor
if any vessel
if any vessel
if any vessel
if any vessel of the United States
and if any vessel
and if any American vessel
if any vessel of either of the Parties
Cover page of the US-Morocco Peace and Friendship Treaty, 1786
if we shall be at war
if any ship of war
fugitive slaves on board
if a ship of war
(an equal number of guns
more or less)
if there shall prove deficiency
merchants shall
all goods shall
no examination shall
unless it shall
goods on board shall
no other person whatever shall
nor shall
no vessel shall
who shall
if any American citizen shall
no will shall
the consul shall
and if there shall
the effects shall
the party shall
the property shall
a will shall
the property shall
the consuls of the United States of America shall
they shall
they shall
any citizen of the US shall
the consul shall
unless he shall
any redress shall
any difference shall
peace and harmony shall
a friendly application shall
that application shall
no appeal shall
a war shall
nine months shall
otherwise shall
the citizens of the united states shall
this treaty shall
the 25th day of the blessed month of sha`ban, in the year one thousand two hundred.
Advisory Resolution known as the Moors Sundry Act passed granting the petition of 4
Moroccan men and their wives.
Station 4. Randy Weston’s African Rhythms Club,
Tangier, 1967
“I heard the black church, the blues, and jazz all at the same time. I really realized that
we’re just little leaves of the branch of mother Africa... I was supposed to go back the
next night. I couldn’t go. It was too powerful. Because the color blue entered my spirit,
wherever I go, I have to play “Blue Moses”, which is Sidi Musa. I love blue. Remember
that to my great masters for me —Mr. Ellington and Mr. Monk. They were master
blues players. Duke even had his piano painted blue. And so I heard this particular
Sidi Musa. After the ceremony I was in a trance for about a week.”
‫سوداني مماريو‬
‫حوساوي مماريو‬
‫دابا يجود الله‬
‫دابا يحن الله‬
‫س واجي حمادي‬
‫لبالد السودان س‬
Guinea Bissau
Map of Africa, in special issue of the journal Hiwar, Beirut, 1965
‫فرقوني عىل حبابي‬
‫فرقوني عىل اخوتي‬
‫فرقوني عىل يمّ ا‬
‫الدنيا ما يدومو‬
‫‪Burkina Faso‬‬
‫ال إاله إال الله‬
‫رجال الله‬
‫ربي لعفو‬
‫جابونا من السودان‬
‫السودان يا يمة‬
‫السودان عبيد‬
‫السودان يا السودان‬
‫‪Cote d’Ivoire‬‬
‫جابوني وباعوني‬
‫فرقوني عىل حبابي‬
‫جابوني فخنا‬
‫جابوني لكفاراه‬
‫جابوني وباعوني‬
‫السودان يا السودان‬
‫سوداني بوليال‬
‫‪Sierra Leone‬‬
‫‪Central African Republic‬‬
Station 5. Tafilalt, Southeastern Morocco, 1910
He went out
with his brother
to graze animals
and they stole him
100 camels to move your belongings
He was four or five
100 cows to milk for your sons
I do not have
any aunts
or uncles
on my father’s side
100 carpets to be your spreads
If you meet a black person
without any cousins aunts or uncles
you know that person was stolen
Oh bride, the essentials will be provided
we are buying you three slaves
“Timbuktu: 52 days”, street sign in Zagora, Morocco
My father was stolen
I hope God and the Prophet give you, oh bride
7 sons with horses and swords
When he was a small
boy he was stolen
7 sons who are cavaliers and leaders
My father was so young
when he was stolen
he doesn’t know
where he came from
One grinds and brings water for you
and two will be your shepherds
He does not
his name
Station 6. Meknes, 1672
Tweet #1
I, Zaydana, black concubine, born Lalla `Aisha Mbarka, aka witch; aka drunk; aka
Empress of Morocco.
Comment #1
Zaydana, b. Lalla `Aisha Mbarka, was sold for 60 ducats to Sultan Mawlay Isma`il,
himself son of a black concubine later known as Umm al-Walad and of Sultan ashSharif.
Tweet #2
I, Zaydana, b. Lalla `Aisha Mbarka, have endeared myself to Sultan Mawlay Isma`il
and have power over his mind. Some say I use magic.
Comment #2
Zaydana, Negro queen, b. Lalla `Aisah Mbarka, is mother of Sultan Mawlay Zaydan,
who was strangled by his two wives, sent by his father, Sultan Mawlay Isma`il. She,
Zaydana, had their breasts removed before having them killed.
Letter from Sultan Moulay Ismail to the scholars of al-Azhar in Cairo, c. 1680
Station 7. Mecca, 622
Have I conveyed the message ?
You have conveyed the message!
‫قالوا بل رسول الله‬
What day is this?
A sacred day.
‫قالوا يو حرا‬
What month is this?
A sacred month.
‫قالوا هر حرا‬
What city is this?
A sacred city.
‫قالوا بلد حرا‬
‫قال ف ن الله قد حر بينكم دماءكم وأموالكم‬
‫كحرمة يومكم هذا يف هركم هذا يف بلدكم هذا‬
‫أبل ت ؟‬
Have I conveyed the message?
You have conveyed the message!
Let whomever is present tell whomever is absent.
‫قال ليبل الشاهد ال ا‬
Sign at the entrance of Zawiya Sidna Bilal, house of the Gnawa in Essaouira
Coda - ‫الرياح‬
Bilal was black
an Abyssinian slave
with a deep melodious voice
Bilal converted to Islam
Bilal was tortured
Abu Bakr came –sent by
Muhammad– to free him
‫يا أيها الناس‬
‫أ ال إن ربكم واحد‬
‫وإن أباكم واحد‬
‫أ ال ال ف ل لعربي عىل أعجمي‬
‫وال لعجمي عىل عربي‬
‫وال ألحمر عىل أسود‬
‫وال أسود عىل أحمر‬
‫إال بالتقو‬
Bilal joined the companions
He was the first muezzin
From the roof of the Kaaba
he chanted the call to prayer
It has been estimated that the wind carries some 250 million tons of sand from the
Sahara across the Atlantic Ocean where it falls on the west. It falls on Paris, it falls
on London; it falls on the so-called New World, including the Caribbean, covering
everything with red ochre dust.
Among the Gnawa, spirits are sometimes referred to as winds.
Textual Sources
Doctors without Borders: Violence, Vulnerability and Migration: Trapped at the Gates
of Europe (march 2013).
Chouki El Hamel: Black Morocco - A History of Slavery, Race, and Islam (Cambridge
UP, 2013)
Henry de Castries: Les sources inédites de l’histoire du Maroc (Paris : Leroux, 1905)
Moroccan-American Treaty of Peace and Friendship (http://avalon.law.yale.edu/
When the prophet’s
daughter was down
Bilal made an instrument
Cynthia Becker: Amazigh Arts in Morocco - Women Shaping Berber Identity (University
of Texas Press, 2006)
When he played the instrument
she went into a trance
Deborah Kapchan: Traveling Spirit Masters - Moroccan Gnawa Trance and Music in the
Global Marketplace (Wesleyan UP, 2007)
[ Tr a n s l a t e d b y S a r a h R i g g s ]
From October 27, 2003
I say that I’m not afraid
of dying because I haven’t
yet had the experience
of death
on the walls of an overheated
bedroom images on paper
wither like my bones in a bed
women love the night
which hides their
lack of love
they want clouds
with no shadow over
the poverty of memory …
while their astonishment
moves on
At Two in the Afternoon
the autumn garden isn’t enough
for our impatience. I am exiled
from my inner land since
a lost love left me
the hardened wood of a plumtree threatens
a galaxy unknown to all, and the
word borrows the reversible path
of light to bring relief
greek thought has turned around
things the way it has turned
around the islands
limits everywhere; how to reconcile
soul and body, what to do between
two white sheets?
the body is a sacred place
because it bursts with life and lasts
a short time
over there there’s nothing besides the rising
paths, a naked horse, clumps
of grass, wind
a permanent eclipse is predicted.
it seems far in the past, but
close in thought
from Return from London
the season passes a rapid hand
through the trees; don’t believe
the wind is absent-minded,
that sleep is guaranteed
it’s not a question of
descending into the garden
time must
leave us
thought derailed from the first
instant. I told you : go to
the mountains, where we no longer
see anything
attention has its origin in
an impalpable fog.
rainy days, we become
me, I waited to grow up and suddenly
love fragmented in the middle of the street : I have
received mortal blows. that person there
has disappeared
don’t tell Khaled that the truth is
reason’s error because it will go
immediately to the door and will lose
itself in the crowd of voyagers
[ O r i g i n a l Te x t s ]
Du 27 Octobre 2003
je dis que je n’ai pas peur
de mourir parce que je n’ai
pas encore fait l’expérience
de la mort
sur les murs d’une chamber
surchauffée des images sur
papier se fanent comme mes
os dans un lit
les femmes aiment la nuit
qui cache leur
manque d’amour
elles veulent des nuages
qui ne font aucune ombre
sur la pauvreté du souvenir… et
leur étonnement se déplace
le jardin d’automne ne suffit pas
à notre impatience. je suis exilee de
mon territoire intérieur depuis
qu’un amour perdu m’a quittée
A Deux heures de l’après-midi
le bois durci d’un prunier menace
une galaxie inconnue de tous, et la
parole emprunte le trajet réversible
de la lumière pour porter secours
la pensée grecque a fait le tour
des choses comme elle a fait
le tour des ^iles
des limites partout ; comment concilier
l’^ame et le corps, que faire entre deux
draps blancs?
le corps est le lieu du sacré
car il explose de vie et dure
là-bas il n’y a rien d’autre que des sentiers
qui montent, un cheval nu, des masses
d’herbes, du vent
l’éclipse permanente est prevue.
elle semble éloignée dans le temps, mais
très proche de la pensée
la saison passe sur les arbres
une main rapide ; ne pas croire que
le vent est distrait, que le sommeil est
il n’est pas question de
descendre dans le jardin ;
il faudrait que le temps
nous quitte
la pensée a déraillé dès le premier
instant. je vous ai dit : allez sur
la montagne, là d’où l’on ne voit
plus rien
l’attention prend son origine dans
une brume impalpable.
les jours de pluie, nous devenons
des plantes
moi, j’ai attendu de grandir et soudain
l’amour éclata au milieu du pavé : j’en ai
reçu des éclats mortels. cette personne-là
a disparu
ne dites pas à Khaled que la vérité est
erreur de la raison car il ira immédiatement
au port et se perdra dans la cohue des
Omar Berrada directs Dar al-Ma’mûn in Marrakech, a library and residency center
for artists and writers. Previously, he hosted shows on French national radio and
public programs at the Centre Pompidou, curated Tangier’s International Book Salon,
and co-directed Dubai’s Global Art Forum. He edited, with Erik Bullot, Expanded
Translation – A Treason Treatise (2011); and, with Yto Barrada, Album – Cinémathèque
de Tanger (2012). He is active in the bilingual poetry collective Double Change and in
the international arts organization Tamaas, and is currently a visiting scholar with the
Comparative Literature department at NYU.
Marie Borel is a traveler, author, and translator. She has published several books, some
of which have been translated into English, including Fin de citation (CipM, 1995),
Close Quote (Burning Deck, 2001), Trompe-Loup (Le bleu du ciel, 2003), Wolftrot
(La Presse, 2006). Her latest book is LOIN (Ed de l’Attente, 2013), from which the
work here is taken. She has translated work by English and American poets, including
Rosmarie Waldrop, Tom Raworth, Lisa Jarnot, and others.
Lily Robert-Foley is the author of m, a book of poetry-critique-collage (Corrupt
Press, 2013), graphemachine, a chapbook of visual poetry (Xerolage, 2013), The North
Georgia Gazette (Green Lantern Press, 2009) and a bunch of unpublished manuscripts
(at least three). She currently teaches the anatomy of hands at the University of Man.
Marilyn Hacker is an American poet, translator and critic. She is the author of
numerous books of poems, including Names (Norton, 2009), Essays on Departure
(Carcanet Press, 2006), and Desesperanto (Norton, 2003). Her ten volumes of
translations from the French include Marie Etienne’s King of a Hundred Horsemen
(Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2008), which received the 2009 American PEN Award
for Poetry in Translation; Vénus Khoury-Ghata’s Nettles (Greywolf Press, 2008); and
Emmanuel Moses’ He and I (Oberlin College Press, 2009). She is a past recipient of
the National Book Award and the Lenore Marshall Award.
M. NourbeSe Philip is a poet, essayist, novelist and playwright and former lawyer
who lives in the space-time of the City of Toronto. Author of five books of poetry, one
novel and three collections of essays, her most recent work, Zong!, is a genre-breaking,
book-length poem which engages with law, history and memory as they relate to
the transatlantic slave trade. Winner of many awards including Guggenheim and
Rockefeller Fellowships and the Arts Foundation of Toronto Writing and Publishing
Award, she is also a Dora Award finalist for her play Coups and Calypsos.
Golan Haji is a Syrian-Kurdish poet and translator with a postgraduate degree in
pathology. He was born in Amouda, a Kurdish town in the north of Syria & studied
medicine at the University of Damascus. He has published four books of poems and
several translations from English to Arabic.
Egyptian poet Iman Mersal is the author of five books of poems in Arabic, Characterizations
1990; A Dark Alley Suitable for Dance Lessons, 1995; Walking As Long As Possible, 1997;
Alternative Geography; 2006, and Until I Give Up The Idea Of Home 2013. Selected poems
from Mersal’s oeuvre have been translated into numerous languages, including Spanish,
French, Italian, Dutch and Hindi. In English, translations of her poems appeared in Paris
Review, American Poetry Review, The Kenyon Review and Michigan Quarterly Review. These
Are Not Oranges, My Love, a selection of Mersal’s work translated into English by Khaled
Mattawa, was published by Sheep Meadow, New York in 2008.
Virginie Poitrasson is a French writer, performer and translator. Published works: Il
faut toujours garder en tête une formule magique (éditions de l’Attente, 2012), Journal
d’une disparition (Ink #1, 2010), Nous sommes des dispositifs (La camera verde, 2009),
Tendre les liens (http://www.publie.net, 2009), Demi-valeurs (éditions de l’Attente,
2008), Série ombragée (Propos2 éditions, 2006), Épisodes de la lueur (L’Atelier du
Hanneton, 2004). Translations: First figure, Michael Palmer, with Éric Suchère (José
Corti, 2011), Slowly, Lyn Hejinian (Format Américain, 2006).
Anne Portugal is a poet and translator. She has written more than a dozen books
including with POL Editions, Les commodités d’une banquette (1985), De quoi faire un
mur (1987), Le plus simple appareil (1992), définitif bob (2001), la formule flirt (2010),
and Paramour, which was translated by Stacy Doris.
Sarah Riggs’ most recent publications of poetry are Pomme & Granite (1913
Press, 2015) and Each dix minutes (Contrat Maint, 2015). Forthcoming are short
films of a movement-text collaboration at La Source du Lion in Casablanca and
Mount Tremper Arts in New York, as well as a co-translation with Cole Swensen of
Stéphane Bouquet’s Un Peuple. She coordinates Tamaas (www.tamaas.org) with
Omar Berrada and Blaire Dessent. Etel Adnan’s sequences, excerpted here, will
come out as a book with La Presse.
Andrew Zawacki is the author of Videotape, Petals of Zero Petals of One, Anabranch,
and By Reason of Breakings. He has published three books in France: Georgia and
Carnet Bartleby, both translated by Sika Fakambi, and Par Raison de brisants, finalist
for the Prix Nelly Sachs, translated by Antoine Cazé.
Cole Swensen, co-organizer of the READ Seminars in Paris, is a poet and translator.
Some of her books of poetry include Ours: Poems on the Gardens of Andre Le Notre
(University of California Press, 2008); The Glass Age (Alice James Books, 2007); The
Book of a Hundred Hands (University of Iowa Press, 2005); and Try (1999) which won
the Iowa Poetry Prize. Her translations of contemporary French poetry include Physis
(2007, by Nicolas Pesquès); Future, Former, Fugitive (2004 by Olivier Cadiot); and
Oxo (2004) by Pierre Alferi.
Sam Wilder lives in Berlin, Germany. He is studying for a Phd in literary studies from
the University of Cambridge, and is also the translator of Describing the Past by
Ghassan Zaqtan (Seagull Books, 2015). He has previously published in makhzin
(98editions, Beirut).
‫مر برا ة‬
‫يدير عمر برادة دار املأمون‪ ،‬وهي مكتبة وإقامة سكنية دولية للفناني وامل لفي يف مراكش‪ .‬و قد‬
‫كان يف الساب منت برام يف املحطة ا ذاعية فران كولتور ‪ ، France Culture‬ومعد برام‬
‫يف املجالت الشفوية التابعة للمرك الثقايف جور بومبيدو يف باري ‪ ،‬ومندوب املعر الدو‬
‫للكتاب يف طنجة‪ ،‬ومدير يك يف منتد الفن العاملي يف دبي‪ .‬كما أدار‪ ،‬إىل جان إيريك بولو‪،‬‬
‫اﻟﱰﺟﻤﺔ اﻟﻮاﺳﻌﺔ–ﻣﻌﺎﻫﺪة اﻟﺨﻴﺎﻧﺔ(‬
‫‪، De la traduction étendue – Traité de trahison‬‬
‫‪ .‬وهو ع و مكات تجمع‬
‫وأدار بمعية إيطو برادة‪ ،‬أﻟﺒﻮم –ﻣﻜﺘﺒﺔ اﻷﻓﻼم اﻟﺴﻴﻨامﺋﻴﺔ ﰲ ﻃﻨﺠﺔ (‬
‫دوبل ان ‪ Double Change‬وجمعية تماس ‪ .‬ويشت ل حاليا كباحث ضيف يف جامعة‬
‫نيو يورك‪.‬‬
‫مار ب ري‬
‫ماري بوريل كاتبة وم جمة‪ .‬ن ت عدة كت ‪ ،‬ترجم بع ها إىل الل ة ا نجلي ية‪ ،‬مثل‪ :‬ﻓﺎن دو‬
‫ﺳﻴﺘﺎﺳﻴﻮن)‪) ،(Fin de citation‬املرك الدو للشعر يف مارسيليا ‪ ،(CipM1995‬ﻛﻠﻮز ﻛﻮت)‪Close‬‬
‫‪) ،(Quote‬جريدة بورنين ديك‪ ،(2001 ،‬ﺗﺮوﻣﺐ‪ -‬ﻟﻮ)‪) ،(Trompe-Loup‬دار الن لو بلو دو سيال‪،‬‬
‫‪ ،(2003‬ووﻟﻔﱰوت)‪) ،(Wolftrot‬جريدة البري ‪ .(2006 ،‬والعمل املقد هنا مقتب من كتاب‬
‫ﻟﻮان)‪ ،(Loin‬مجموعة »فيلوك « الصادر يف منشورات )‪ (l’Attente‬يف العا ‪ .2013‬وقامت ب جمة‬
‫قصا د لشعراء إنجلي وأمريكيي‪ ،‬من بينهم رو ماري والدروب‪ ،‬تو راوورث‪ ،‬سارة ري ‪ ،‬لي ة‬
‫جارنو‪ ،‬ومنذ وقت قص إيتيل عدنان‪ .‬ماري بوريل فوايا ‪.‬‬
‫ليل روبيرت ف ل‬
‫تشت ل لييل روب ت فو حاليا كأستاذة الل ة يف جامعة لومان )‪ .(Le Mans‬وناقشت يف العا ‪٢٠١٤‬‬
‫أطروحة حول علم الت ي الخا باليد يف جامعة باري ‪ .٨‬وهي م لفة كتاب ‪ ،m‬كتاب خا بالشعر‬
‫والنقد والت رية )جريدة كوريبت بري ‪ ،(٢٠١٣ ،‬وكتاب ﻏﺮاﻓامﺷني )‪ ،(graphemachine‬وهو م لف عر‬
‫مر ي )دار ك يورال للن ‪ ،(٢٠١٣ ،‬وكتاب‪ :‬دو ﻧﻮرث ﺟﻴﻮرﺟﻴﺎ ﻏﺎزﻳﺖ )‪(The North Georgia Gazette‬‬
‫)منشورات جريدة رين لونت ن‪ ،(٢٠٠٩ ،‬وكتاب‪ :‬ﺟﻴﺠﻲ )‪ ،(Jiji‬وهو مجموعة أخبار الخيال العلمي‬
‫النسوي )جريدة فورت كومين أومانيافانيتاس‪.(٢٠١٦ ،‬‬
‫ماريلين اكر‬
‫ماريلي هاكر اعرة وم جمة وناقدة أدبية أمريكية‪ .‬ألفت عدة كت‬
‫ن ربي فيلي‬
‫عرية‪ ،‬السيما‬
‫‪ ،‬وكتاب رواﻳﺎت ﺣﻮل اﳌﻐﺎدرة (‪Essays on‬‬
‫كتاب أﺳامء (‪ Names‬دار نورتون للن ‪،‬‬
‫‪ Departure‬جريدة كاركانيت‪،‬‬
‫وكتاب دﻳﺰﻳﺴﺒرياﻧﺘﻮ (‪ Desesperanto‬دار نورتون‬
‫‪ .‬ومن بي امل لفات الع التي قامت ب جمتها إىل الل ة الفرنسية‪ ،‬نذكر ﻛﻴﻨﻎ‬
‫للن ‪،‬‬
‫أوف ﻫﺎﻧﺪرﻳﺪﻫﻮرزﻣﺎن (‪ ، King of a HundredHorsemen‬مل لفته ماري إيتيي دار الن فارار‪،‬‬
‫‪ ،‬والذي حا عىل الجا ة االمريكية لوبي أوارد ألف ل ترجمة عرية‬
‫س وس أند ج و‪،‬‬
‫وكتاب ﻫﻲ‬
‫كتاب ﻧﻴﺘﻠﺰ(‪ ، Nettles‬مل لفته فينو خوري اتا جريدة ريوولف‪،‬‬
‫‪ .‬وفا ت بجا ة‬
‫أﻧﺪ أي (‪ ، He and I‬مل لفه إيمانويل مو ي جريدة أوبرلي كوليد ‪،‬‬
‫ناسيونال بوك وجا ة ليونور مار ال‪.‬‬
‫والن حجي اعر وم جم سوري كردي‪ ،‬حاصل عىل دبلو يف علم األمرا ‪ .‬ولد يف عامودا‪ ،‬املدينة‬
‫الكردية الص ة يف مال سوريا‪ ،‬ودرس الط يف جامعة دمش ‪ .‬ون أربعة كت يف الشعر وترجمات‬
‫عديدة من الل ة ا نجلي ية إىل الل ة العربية‪.‬‬
‫يما مرسا‬
‫ألفت الشاعرة امل ية إيمان مرسال خم م لفات يف الشعر بالل ة العربية‪ ،‬وهي ﻛﺮاﻛﺘريﻳﺰاﺳﻴﻮن‬
‫أ دارك اﻟﻼﻳﺴﻴﻮﺗﺎﻳﺒﻞ ﻓﻮر داﻧﺲ ﻟﻴﺴﻮﻧﺲ(‪A dark Alley Suitable For‬‬
‫واﻟﻜﻴﻨﻎ أس ﻟﻮﻧﻎ أس ﺑﻮﺳﻴﺒﻞ(‪، Walking As Long As Possible‬‬
‫‪، Dance Lessons‬‬
‫أوﻧﺘﻴﻞ أي ﻏﻴﻒ أوب أﻳﺪي أوف ﻫﻮم (‪Until I‬‬
‫أﻟﱰﻧﺘﻴﻒ ﺟﻴﻮﻏﺮاﰲ (‪، Alternative Geography‬‬
‫‪ .‬تُرجمت قصا دها إىل عدة ل ات ا سبانية والفرنسية‬
‫‪، Give Up The Idea Of Home‬‬
‫وا يطالية والهولندية والهندية‪ .‬أما إىل ا نجلي ية فقد صدرت ترجمات لقصا دها يف مجالت‪ ،‬مثل‬
‫باري ريفيو‪ ،‬وأم يكان بوي ي ريفيو‪ ،‬ودو كينيون ريفيو‪ ،‬وميشي ان كارتر ريفيو‪ .‬وسيصدر يف‬
‫‪ ،‬كتاب بعنوان ﺻﻮر أﻣﺮﻳﻜﺎ ﰲ أدب اﻟﺴﻔﺮ اﻟﻌﺮيب (‪Images de l’Amérique dans la littérature‬‬
‫‪ ، de voyage arabe‬املستوح من األطروحة التي ناقشتها يف جامعة م يف العا‬
‫‪ .‬نوربي فيلي اعرة وروا ية وكاتبة مقاالت وم حيات ومحامية سابقا‪ ،‬تعيش يف‬
‫الف اء ال مني ملدينة طورنطو‪ .‬ألفت خم كت يف الشعر ورواية وثالث دواوين مقاالت‪،‬‬
‫وكتابها األخ ‪ ،‬زوﻧﻎ!(‪ ، Zong‬هو قصيدة مس سلة من نوع مسبو تتحدث عن الح‬
‫والتاري والذاكرة املرتبطة بتجارة الرقي ع املحي األطل ‪ .‬حا م لفها عىل جوا عديدة‪،‬‬
‫وهي جا ة بورس و نهايم وروكفيلر‪ ،‬وجا ة رتفوندايشن أوف طورنطو ورايتين‬
‫أند بوبليشين ‪ .‬وكانت مر حة لنيل جا ة دورا‪ ،‬بقطعتها ﻛﻮﺑﺰ أﻧﺪ ﻛﺎﻟﻴﺒﺴﻮس(‪Coups and‬‬
‫‪. Calypsos‬‬
‫فير ين ب ا راس‬
‫‪ .‬وألفت كتاب ﻳﺠﺐ دامئﺎ اﻻﺣﺘﻔﺎظ ﰲ‬
‫ف جيني بواتراسون‪ ،‬كاتبة وفنانة وم جمة‪ .‬ولدت سنة‬
‫‪ ،‬ﺳﺠﻞ اﺧﺘﻔﺎء (‪ Journal d’une dispariston‬إنك‬
‫ذﻫﻨﻨﺎ ﺑﻮﺻﻔﺔ ﺳﺤﺮﻳﺔ دار الن التونت‪،‬‬
‫‪ ،‬ﻣﺪ اﻟﺮواﺑﻂ ( ‪.‬‬
‫‪ ،‬ﻧﺤﻦ أﺟﻬﺰة دار الن الكام ا ف دي‪،‬‬
‫‪، #‬‬
‫‪ ،‬ﺛﻢ ﺣﻠﻘﺎت‬
‫‪ ،‬ﺳﻠﺴﻠﺔ ﻣﻈﻠﻠﺔ دار الن بروبو ‪،‬‬
‫‪ ،‬ﻧﺼﻒ اﻟﻘﻴﻢ دار الن التونت‪،‬‬
‫‪ .‬ال جمات كتاب ﻓﻮرﺳﺖ ﻓﻴﻐﻴﻮر‪ ،‬مل لفه ميكا يل باملر‪،‬‬
‫اﻟﻮﻣﻴﺾ دار الن التوليي ديهانتون‪،‬‬
‫‪ ،‬ﺳﻼوﱄ (‪ ، Slowly‬مل لفه لي‬
‫دار الن جو ي كورتي‪،‬‬
‫ُم جم باال اك مع إيريك سو‬
‫هيجينيان دار الن فورما أم يكان‪،‬‬
‫ب ر ا‬
‫‪ ،. . .‬من بينها كتاب ‪les‬‬
‫ن بورتو ال اعرة وم جمة‪ ،‬ن ت اثني ع كتابا بدار الن‬
‫‪ ،‬وكتاب‬
‫‪ ،‬وكتاب ‪( De quoi faire un mur‬‬
‫‪( commodités d’une banquette‬‬
‫‪ ،‬وكتاب ‪la formule flirt‬‬
‫‪ ،‬وكتاب ‪( Définitif bob‬‬
‫‪( Le plus simple appareil‬‬
‫‪ ،‬وقامت ب جمة كتاب ‪ ،Paramour‬مل لفته ستي دوري ‪.‬‬
‫سارة ري‬
‫أندري واك‬
‫تحمل دواوين الشعر األخ ة لسارة ري عنواني ‪ Pomme & Granite‬مطبوعات‬
‫‪ .‬ومشاريعها تتمثل يف أفال‬
‫‪ ،‬و ‪ Each Dix Minutes‬دار الن كون ا مانت‪،‬‬
‫قص ة نابعة من تعاون ن حركي يف السورس دو ليون‪ ،‬يف الدار البي اء‪ ،‬يف ماونت تريم‬
‫رت‪ ،‬يف نيويورك‪ ،‬وكذا ترجمة مش كة مع كول سوينسن‪ ،‬لكتاب ستيفان بوكي تحت عنوان‬
‫‪ ،Un peuple‬تولت ا دارة املش كة مع عمر برادة وبل ديسان لجمعية تماس‬
‫‪ .‬ستن مقتطفات مأخوذة من كتاب إيتيل عدنان‪ ،‬يف كل كتاب‪ ،‬بدار‬
‫الن البري ‪.‬‬
‫أندريو واكي هو م لف ﻓﻴﺪﻳﻮﺗﻴﺐ (‪ ، Videotape‬وﺑﻴﺘﺎﻟﺰ أوف زﻳﺮو ﺑﻴﺘﺎﻟﺰ أوف وان (‪Petals of‬‬
‫‪ ، ZeroPetals of One‬و أنابرانش ‪ ، Anabranch‬و ﺑﺎي رﻳﺰون أوف ﺑﺮﻳﻜﻴﻨﻐﺰ(‪By Reason of‬‬
‫‪ . Breakings‬ن ثالث كت يف فرنسا‪ ،‬وهي ﺟﻮرﺟﻴﺎ (‪ ، Georgia‬و ﻛﺎرين ﺑﺎرﺗﻠﻴﺒﻲ (‪Carnet‬‬
‫‪ ، Bartleby‬اللذان قامت ب جمتهما سيكا فاكامبي‪ ،‬وكتاب ﺑﺎر رﻳﺰون دو ﺑﺮﻳﺰان (‪Par Raison de‬‬
‫‪ ، brisants‬من األعمال التي وصلت إىل املباراة النها ية لنيل جا ة نييل ساك ‪ ،‬امل جم من طرف‬
‫أنطوان كا ي‪.‬‬
‫س ين ن‬
‫ينس كول سوينسن مع سارة ري يف تنظيم حلقات دراسية خاصة بال جمة الشعرية‪،READ ،‬‬
‫يف جامعة ريد هال باري ‪ .‬حيث نقرأ من بي امل لفات أورس ‪ Ours‬ﺑﻮوميﺰ أون دو ﻏﺎردﻧﺰ أوف‬
‫أﻧﺪري ﻟﻮ ﻧﻮﺗﺮ ‪ Poems on the Gardens of André Le Nôtre‬منشورات جامعة كاليفورنيا‪،‬‬
‫‪ ،‬ودو ﺑﻮك أوف‬
‫‪ ،‬ودوﻏﻼس أﻳﺪج ‪ The Glass Age‬دار الن ألي جيم بوك ‪،‬‬
‫‪ ،‬و ﺗﺮي‬
‫أ ﻫﻮﻧﺪرﻳﺪﻫﺎﻧﺪز ‪ The Book of a Hundred Hands‬منشورات جامعة أيووا‪،‬‬
‫‪ ،‬وقد فا بجا ة أيووا للشعر‪ .‬ومن بي القصا د الفرنسية املعا ة التي ترجمها‪،‬‬
‫‪ ،‬وقصا د اﳌﺴﺘﻘﺒﻞ ‪ ، Future‬اﻟﺴﺎﺑﻖ‬
‫هناك قصيدة ﻓﻴﺰﻳﺲ ‪ ، Physis‬مل لفها نيكوال باسكي‬
‫‪ ،‬وقصيدة أوﻛﺴﻮ ‪ ، Oxo‬مل لفها بي‬
‫‪ ، Former‬اﻟﻬﺎرب ‪ ، Fugitive‬مل لفها أوليفيي هكاديو‬
‫ألف ي‬
‫سام ويلدر‬
‫يعيش سا ويلدر يف برلي‪ .‬ويقو حاليا بتحرير أطروحة يف األدب يف جامعة كام يد ‪ .‬وترجم‬
‫دﻳﺴﻜﺮﻳﺒﻴﻨﻎ دو ﺑﺎﺳﺖ ‪ ، Describing the Past‬للشاعر سان قطان دار سي ول بوك ‪،‬‬
‫والذي ن ُ يف مجلة مخ ن طبعة ‪ ،‬ب وت ‪.‬‬
Omar Berrada dirige Dar al-Ma’mûn, bibliothèque et résidence internationale pour
artistes et écrivains à Marrakech. Il a été producteur à France Culture, programmateur
aux « Revues parlées » du Centre Pompidou, commissaire du Salon international
du livre de Tanger et co-directeur du Global Art Forum à Dubai. Il a dirigé, avec
Erik Bullot, De la traduction étendue – Traité de trahison (2011) et, avec Yto Barrada,
Album – Cinémathèque de Tanger (2012). Il est membre des bureaux du collectif «
Double Change » et de l’association « Tamaas », et est actuellement chercheur-invité
à l’université de New York.
Marie Borel écrit et traduit. Elle a publié plusieurs livres, dont certains ont été traduits
en anglais : Fin de citation, (CipM, 1995), Close Quote, (Burning Deck, 2001), TrompeLoup, (Le Bleu du ciel, 2003), Wolftrot, (La Presse, 2006). Le travail présenté ici est
extrait de Loin, coll. « Philox », paru aux éditions de l’Attente en 2013. Elle a traduit
des poètes anglais et américains, parmi lesquels Rosmarie Waldrop, Tom Raworth,
Sarah Riggs, Lisa Jarnot, et, récemment, Etel Adnan. Marie Borel voyage.
Lily Robert-Foley est actuellement Maître de Langue à l’Université du Mans. En
2014, elle a soutenu une thèse sur l’anatomie de la main à l’Université de Paris
8. Elle est l’auteure de m, livre de poésie-critique-collage (Corrupt Press, 2013),
graphemachine, un livre de poésie visuelle (Xerolage, 2013), The North Georgia Gazette
(Green Lantern Press, 2009) et Jiji, une collection de nouvelles de science fiction
féministe (forthcoming Omnia Vanitas Press, 2016).
Marilyn Hacker est une poète, traductrice et critique américaine. Elle a écrit de
nombreux livres de poésie, notamment Names (Norton, 2009), Essays on Departure
(Carcanet Press, 2006) et Desesperanto (Norton, 2003). Parmi les dix ouvrages qu’elle
a traduits du français, citons : King of a Hundred Horsemen, de Marie Etienne (Farrar,
Straus and Giroux, 2008), qui a obtenu le PEN Award américain de la meilleure
traduction poétique ; Nettles, de Vénus Khoury-Ghata (Greywolf Press, 2008) ; et
He and I, d’Emmanuel Moses (Oberlin College Press, 2009). Elle a été lauréate du
National Book Award et du Lenore Marshall Award.
M. NourbeSe Philip est une poète, essayiste, romancière, dramaturge et ancienne
avocate qui vit dans l’espace-temps de la ville de Toronto. Auteur de cinq livres de
poésie, d’un roman et de trois recueils d’essais, son ouvrage le plus récent, Zong!, est
un poème-fleuve d’un genre inédit qui convoque le droit, l’histoire et la mémoire liés
à la traite négrière transatlantique. Son œuvre a été récompensée par plusieurs prix :
les bourses Guggenheim et Rockefeller et l’Arts Foundation of Toronto Writing and
Publishing Award. Elle est finaliste du Dora Award pour sa pièce, Coups and Calypsos.
Golan Haji est un poète et traducteur syro-kurde, diplômé de pathologie. Il est né à
Amouda, petite ville kurde du nord de la Syrie, et a étudié la médecine à l’université
de Damas. Il a publié quatre livres de poésie et de nombreuses traductions de l’anglais
vers l’arabe.
Poète égyptienne, Iman Mersal est l’auteur de cinq livres de poésie écrits en arabe,
Characterizations 1990; A Dark Alley Suitable for Dance Lessons, 1995; Walking As Long As
Possible, 1997; Alternative Geography, 2006, et Until I Give Up The Idea Of Home, 2013.
Ses poèmes ont été traduits en plusieurs langues : en espagnol, en français, en italien, en
hollandais et en hindi. En anglais, des traductions de ses poèmes ont paru dans des revues
telles que Paris Review, American Poetry Review, The Kenyon Review et Michigan Quarterly
Review. A paraître, en 2016, Images de l’Amérique dans la littérature de voyage arabe, inspiré
de la thèse qu’elle a soutenue à l’université du Caire en 2009.
Virginie Poitrasson, écrivain, performeuse et traductrice, est née en 1975. Elle a écrit
Il faut toujours garder en tête une formule magique (éditions de l’Attente, 2012), Journal
d’une disparition (Ink #1, 2010), Nous sommes des dispositifs (La Camera verde, 2009),
Tendre les liens (http://www.publie.net, 2009), Demi-valeurs (éditions de l’Attente,
2008), Série ombragée (Propos2 éditions, 2006) et Épisodes de la lueur (L’Atelier du
hanneton, 2004). Traductions : First Figure, de Michael Palmer, co-traduit avec Éric
Suchère (José Corti, 2011) et Slowly, de Lyn Hejinian (Format Américain, 2006).
Anne Portugal, poète et traductrice, a publié une douzaine de livres chez P.O.L.,
parmi lesquels Les commodités d’une banquette (1985), De quoi faire un mur (1987),
Le plus simple appareil (1992), définitif bob (2001), la formule flirt (2010), et traduit
Paramour, de Stacy Doris.
Les recueils de poésie les plus récents de Sarah Riggs ont pour titre Pomme & Granite
(1913 Press, 2015) et Each Dix Minutes (Contrat Maint, 2015). Ses projets : des
courts-métrages issus d’une collaboration mouvement-texte à la Source du Lion, à
Casablanca, et au Mount Tremper Arts, à New York, ainsi qu’une co-traduction, avec
Cole Swensen, du livre de Stéphane Bouquet, Un peuple. Elle co-dirige l’association
« Tamaas » (www.tamaas.org) avec Omar Berrada et Blaire Dessent. Les séquences
tirées d’Etel Adnan seront publiées, sous la forme d’un livre, aux éditions de La Presse.
Andre Zawacki est l’auteur de Videotape, Petals of Zero Petals of One, Anabranch, et
By Reason of Breakings. Il a publié trois livres en France : Georgia et Carnet Bartleby,
traduits par Sika Fakambi, et Par Raison de brisants, finaliste du prix Nelly-Sachs,
traduit par Antoine Cazé.
Cole Swensen coordonne, avec Sarah Riggs, les séminaires de traduction de poésie,
READ, tenus à l’université de Reid Hall à Paris. On peut lire, entre autres, Ours: Poems
on the Gardens of André Le Nôtre (University of California Press, 2008), The Glass Age
(Alice James Books, 2007), The Book of a Hundred Hands (University of Iowa Press,
2005) et Try (1999), lauréat de l’Iowa Poetry Prize. Parmi ses traductions de poésie
française contemporaine : Physis, de Nicolas Pesquès (2007), Future, Former, Fugitive,
d’Olivier Cadiot (2004), et Oxo, de Pierre Alféri (2004).
Sam Wilder vit à Berlin. Il rédige actuellement une thèse en littérature à l’université de
Cambridge. Il a traduit Describing the Past, de Ghassan Zaqtan (Seagull Books, 2015)
et a été publié dans la revue makhzin (98editions, Beyrouth).

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