Four Poems by Hedy Habra

 

Recurrent Dream

 

Anxiety erodes my sleep night after night

as memories and fantasies collide. Heartbeats

merge, projected onto a screen at full speed,

till my heart loses its elasticity, unable to

bounce back: a dull horizon appears flattening

waves and desert dunes, a serene landscape

without ups and downs nor a change of seasons,

till the screen erupts ablaze, we enter a country

 

torn by civil war, trapped in winding alleys

with checkpoints, danger lurking in every

corner. I am back wherefrom I fled decades

ago, and now, I’m lost, dream after dream in

the wrong neighborhood: I can’t ask for a ride

home, home is the enemy, can’t find my way back

to safety. Desperate, I realize I am getting closer

to the straight line that accompanies silence. 

 

First published by Mizna Literary Journal,

From The Taste of the Earth (Press 53 2019) 

 

Riding the Winged Tricycle 

 

When Saturn’s three crescent moons enter

their wild dance, I see myself riding

the winged tricycle of my youth towards

an open nave that grows into a caravel

flaunting my winged effigy on its prow,

a figurehead that appears as the centerpiece

of a gilded triptych while concentric dark

brushstrokes around my wide-open eyes

 

convert me into a revered icon, glowing

crescents hover above my head, halos

inscribed within the alignment of Orion’s

three stars, ominous signs tell me that age

is but an illusion, that I can ride that small

bike, soar, heady with my childhood

dreams, dizzy with the illusion that past,

present and future come together at once. 

 

First published by Anima Methodi Anthology

From The Taste of the Earth (Press 53 2019) 

 

Note

"Recurrent Dream" and “Riding the Winged Tricycle” follow the Anima Methodi form based on the Poetics of Mirroring. Conceived by Desmond Kon Zhicheng-Mingdé and Eric Tinsay Valles, the Anima Methodi is a 16-line poem, comprising two stanzas of eight lines each. Two words or phrases are repeated anywhere within the first binate octave, and the same mirroring effect is done for the second binate octave.

 

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 colors, 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 in Nazim Hikmet Fourth Annual International Poetry Festival Awards

Winners: A Chapbook of Talks and Poetry,

From The Taste of the Earth (Press 53 2019)

Hedy Habra is a poet, artist, and essayist. Her latest poetry collection, Or Did You Ever See The Other Side?, won the International Poetry Book Awards and was a finalist for the Eric Hoffer and USA Best Book Awards. The Taste of the Earth won the Silver Nautilus Book Award and Honorable Mention for the Eric Hoffer Book Award. Tea in Heliopolis won the Best Book Award, and Under Brushstrokes was a finalist for the International Book Award. Her story collection, Flying Carpets, won the Arab American Book Award’s Honorable Mention and was a finalist for the Eric Hoffer Award. Her book of criticism is Mundos alternos y artísticos en Vargas Llosa. She is a twenty-five-time nominee for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net and a recipient of the Nazim Hikmet Award. https://www.hedyhabra.com/