Two Poems by Hedy Habra

To Henriette

 

Back to the house in Heliopolis,

wallpapered with oils, your oils.  Were

they Renoir, Boucher, Monet, Manet,

Turner or Bouguereau?  So many, you

forgot the artists' names. "I painted it

from a postcard," you'd say, or "a picture

my Art teacher gave me.  It was so long

ago.  Before I married your father."

 

I see you on the balcony, bent over

the easel, the crisp blue Egyptian sky

filtering through wrought iron balustrades, lost

in other dreamers’ visions, you recreate trips

along the European countryside, smoothing

haystacks under the young peasant girl. 

An intimacy you never knew. 

 

You carefully rearrange the mantilla

of the woman watching the sunset from her

window.  An oval mirror reveals her concern: 

Is her lover late?  She fears she no longer

pleases him.  Through the verandah, framed

by stone pillars entwined with vines, waning

golden corals tinge the dark waters.

 

Day after day you instill life, following

the master's brush strokes, adding a touch

of blush, redefining the lower lip, preserving

the airiness of the gauze lining her profile. 

Her confidante, you hear her intimate thoughts,

enter her world, visit places you'd only

seen in print.  At night, the easel rests in

the bedroom shared with your mother, a widow.

 

You dream the painter painting his model,

merging dreams, erasing distances.  You sleep,     

smiling, inventing happy endings, excusing

the lover's delay, convincing the reluctant father.

 

I see you mastering that tempest, redress

the sinking ship's reclining masts, and blown

sails.  Day after day, you wait for the paint

to dry next to the original, long months

for the fierce waves to reflect the lightning

menacing the deck's flickering red lantern. 

 

Does it matter if you forgot the artist's name

when you possessed part of his soul?

You say: "I don't remember anymore,

"then laugh at my wild guesses: 

"We're very much alike you and I..."

 

                              *     *

 

"There's no such thing as true love," you'd

say, " the greatest passion melts like ice." 

How I wanted you to be wrong.  Your canvases'

message reaches me, muffled by time and

distance, as I paint stage butterflies pinned

by Degas or Turner's gilded Venetian sunsets.  

 

Was it a prince standing opposite the beauty

by the stream, above the upright Steinway? 

Seated on a rock, her lower back loosely draped

in muslin, unabashed, she offers him her nudity,

turning towards us, eyes lowered, a perfect

profile. Myosotis crown her coiled hair,

a few falling, opalescent, over the nape of her

neck.  The youth's belt encrusted with precious

gems, his heavily ornate chain and medallion,

a sign he is not a mere hunter.  One hand raised,

he addresses the nymph, ceremoniously.

 

A child, I thought him her older brother,

reproaching her carelessness, begging her

to fold the veil over her breasts.  I scrutinized

each scene, encounters where men talked and

women listened, faces moulded at my fancy,

shuffled in my dreams, in every page I'd read.

 

Farewell to the shepherdess, leaning against

a horizontal trunk, chewing on a long-stemmed

pâquerette, lost in rapture at the shepherd's

speech.  Her opulent breasts, freed from the

ruffled bodice, emerge, taunting as Caravaggio’s

pears.  He looks sideways, pointing

an index finger, half-smiling, seduced

by his own words, lascivious eyes oblivious

to the flock fleeing the canvas.

 

"She's looking for trouble," I often thought. 

"Did it take long," I later asked, "to make

her skin so real?"  "I don't remember," you

said, "but aren't her nipples une petite

merveille"?  Schooled in a convent, you

chose to paint tender, playful scenes, always

telling your daughters:  "Beware, never let

a boy kiss you," warning of hidden perils,

the paintings above our heads, teasing us silently.

 

                        *      *     *

 

Two women, face to face, facing palettes,

our dreams reshape spaces, erase corners,

stretch walls, fill oceans of absences.  I watch you

run rivulets through rocky shores, wildflowers

springing while your mouth creases, a reflection

of your mother's pensive twitch as she pondered

the last notes of the Solitaire's decree.

 

Two girls read under a willow, faces receding,

more distant every day.  "Here," I say, "let me

finish it." Mouth twisting, I bring the girls

to life.  "I gave you my eyes," you said, that

day, smiling across the kitchen table, "I can

still paint Corot's landscapes." 

 

Your late seasons revive in mine, against

the current, into your own.  You guided my first

steps, the movements of the needle, the pen,

the brush.  Now you play Solitaire, your hands

bring cards to wide-open eyes, hold magnifiers,

Psyche, immersed in endless tasks, too many

seasons bent over the easel, feathers, leaves,

flowers, emerged in silk, linen, wool, invaded

glass, wood, pewter, my daughter's smock,

until your root lost moisture.

 

Seated next to me, all eyes, the palm of your

hands, your fingertips, your empty, absent look,

follow my progress.  I wear glasses now. 

The sunset over the russet field defies me.

From above the columns of Solitaire, a voice

reaches my canvas:  "Try a dry brush, a dash of

colour, a drop of linseed oil."

 

The same smile sips Turkish coffee, turns cups

upside down.  I read the dregs. You shuffle the pack. 

 

First published by Negative Capability

From Tea in Heliopolis (Press 53 2013)

 

 

Open-Air Cinema in Heliopolis

                                   

You used to say, mother:

“Let me see your face when lit

by a crescent moon:

every day of the month

will smile the way you do.”

 

We saw double-feature movies

in open-air theatres.

The cool breeze ran through our hair,

over our necks, lifted our skirts,

swayed us in a magical carpet.

 

Tempted by vendors chanting

Greek cheese and sesame breads,

we often stayed, sipping icy lemon

granitas through replays, the lift

and pause of cascading light.

 

Characters entered our own

camera obscura.

We never agreed on their age:

you added a few years,

I wanted them closer to mine.

 

I remember a recurrent scene,

fading now into a sepia cameo,  

where a woman--always the same

yet different--slaps a man

before falling in his arms.

 

I watched your face then,

as stars outlined the sky,

the slight opening of the lips,

the Gioconda’s elegant smile

you allowed yourself,

befitting the sfumato of the late hours.               

Arm in arm, we walked home,

following the trail of the moon.

 

First published by Cutthroat: A journal of the Arts

From Tea in Heliopolis (Press 53 2013)

Hedy Habra is a poet, artist and essayist. She is the author of three poetry collections from Press 53, most recently, The Taste of the Earth (2019), Winner of the Silver Nautilus Book Award and Honorable Mention for the Eric Hoffer Book Award; Tea in Heliopolis Winner of the Best Book Award and Under Brushstrokes, which was a Finalist for the Best Book Award and the International Book Award. Her story collection, Flying Carpets, won the Arab American Book Award’s Honorable Mention and was Finalist for the Eric Hoffer Award. A seventeen-time nominee for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the net, and recipient of the Nazim Hikmet Award, her multilingual work appears in numerous journals and anthologies. https://www.hedyhabra.com/