Or What Else Could We Do But Raise Our
Hands?
After
Arabesque Mortem by Reem Bassous
What of the feeling of sinking
whether
in water or quicksand
when
tall waves or sand storms
engulf streets, when silt, dust,
shards,
erase boundaries, words
break
down, and scattered letters
run wild in search of meaning
we
raise our hands
when
the earth shakes, when
institutions
falter, whether it is
a
fault line, an explosion,
or an unforgivable negligence,
when
heirlooms and artworks bleed
to
death, their remains floating,
when
we need to start from scratch,
we
raise our hands
when pine needles whisper
hopelessly
trying to reach
an
empathetic ear or heart
when their underground veins
shiver
in inaudible speech,
when
fragmented words rant,
stop conveying meaning
we
raise our hands
when
rivers and waterfalls
darken,
suffused with harmful
dejections,
debris and waste,
when tired fish no longer procreate,
when
trees yearn for their
birthright,
remembering their
original
sap, and fruits wither
we
raise our hands
when a knotted hand shivers
for
lack of care and medicine
when
trust is buried under deceit
when windows shatter and buildings
stand
naked, when firemen are thrown
into
an unfathomable abyss
we
raise our hands in prayer
we
raise our hands in anger
we
raise our hands,
we
raise our
we raise
we
First published by On the Seawall
Collected in Did You Ever See The Other
Side? (Press 53 2023)
Hall of Mirrors
First, there’s the mirror of memory: you only need
to refuel it with lies and illusions,
project it onto a
screen, winding up sequences of animated
scenes at will.
In the dormant
well of memory
you
seek yourself and lose yourself,
sit for hours on the polished lip of the
well as you
meditate over your lengthening shadow,
perform a
makeover of your mind to erase the
ravages of time:
a touch of blush over cheekbones blurs
gravity lines,
tilts features upwards, and if this
fails, a few hours
of sleep should put a glimmer in the
eyes, redress
drooping eyelids, avoid the unsightly X-rays
of your mortality.
Then comes the mirror of forgetfulness:
swallowing bit
by bit your selective memory, stretching
time and space,
a fluid mirror clouded with ripples,
rippling memories
the elusive mirror in which
you drown night after night
searching for answers to the same
questions. You
wish to turn nightmares into paradise:
sleep paralysis
overcomes you as past and future merge on
their own
terms, choose their own colours, glide in
swift motion,
deafening rhythmic steps resound in
premonition,
emerge erratically from the recesses of your
mind,
inaudible tunes fall, scatter like the
last leaves of autumn.
First published by Ghost Town
From The Taste of the Earth (Press
53 2019)
I
Always Knew I Was a Sibyl at Heart
I have paid my dues and fought mood swings
before entering that stage of well-earned
wisdom
preventing me from climbing over walls in
midday,
pacing interminable labyrinthine pathways
or drowning
in the deep wells of insomnia.
I’ve collected enough books to keep me
company
till the day I die, stacked in double and
triple rows,
in an arbitrary order they refute in
unison. Each
volume stares at me with eyes shut,
scrutinizes
my movements, tries to lure me into
caressing
its spine, opening it like an I Ching.
Shouldn’t I, on account of my years, be
granted
the Sight, recognize the rhythm of unspoken
speech
in the folds of each palm, read the veins
of each leaf
blown by the wind? I could be scrying in
the moonlight,
eyes wide-open like a wise owl sensing the
slightest
reflection on still water.
First published by Nazim Hikmet Fourth Annual International Poetry Festival Awards Winners: A Chapbook of Talks and Poetry
Vanishing Point
After Juanita Guccione’s Surreal
Board Games
Under a dark moon that has decided to keep silent, I wander along the street of chance, staring at the vanishing point, uncertain of the odds of being, but with the certainty that it leads to the sea. I walk like an automaton among passers-by, gliding as faceless pawns. A couple of black horses pound the pavement, wavering between going forward or backward.
I wonder what
lies for me at the end of this road lined with lamplights and palm trees.
Fan-leaved branches stretch, unfolding an animated deck of cards turning into
murals that grow in size. Shuffled and reshuffled at each step, some cards flip
into a hall of mirrors in which I lose myself in my own reflections, as though
in an old photo album where the faces of those now buried are fading.
we’re crossing the
bridge of death to leave behind
the madness of the civil war... black sacks
stained
with
blood... stillness... snipers...
a heart skips a beat.
I walk faster,
look sideways: some things are best forgotten. Let’s fold the night into light. I pass a couple of young men who seem
to get closer to me, then recede and peel off the murals, disintegrate like
antique parchments at the sight of an imposing woman in Tyrian purple, a
younger version of my mother who takes me by the hand and whispers in my ear:
“There isn’t a minute to lose.”
First published by Gargoyle
From The Taste of the Earth (Press
53 2019)
Hedy Habra is a
poet, artist and essayist. She has authored four poetry collections, most
recently, Or Did You Ever See The Other Side? (Press 53 2023). The
Taste of the Earth, winner of the Silver Nautilus Book Award and honourable
Mention for the Eric Hoffer Book Award. Tea in Heliopolis won the Best Book Award and Under
Brushstrokes was finalist for the International Book Award. Her story
collection, Flying Carpets, won the Arab American Book Award’s Honourable
Mention and was finalist for the Eric Hoffer Award. Her book of criticism is Mundos
alternos y artÃsticos en Vargas Llosa. A twenty
one-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/
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