شيئ من همس البنفسج

 

شيئ من همس البنفسج

سأوازن نفسي

على الظل البني

وشيئ من همس البنفسج

لتتكيئ الاهداب

على سكون اول انبلاج صبح الرباط هذا

اقول لك

وانا مشدودة عيني الظليلة

بالوثاق

كلي وطنٌ

وبعضيَ

وطنٌ

وانا مذ غادرتُ

غيم وكُدسٌ من مزن

واني رغم االسهاد

ووطئة التنهاد

تناوشني مرائي اغترابي

بأرض احل بها

قُبيل ارتحالي

فهل وانا اطل على ضفة ابي الرقراق

يجُيئ شيئا مقامَ مقامٍ

فلا لون يحل على ماءٍ

ولا من سلَا في سلا

غير اني

واذ بي معلقة فوق المحيط

وبي وجد الدعاء

استظل في هجسي

بتلك العيون المحبة

واطفال

على وقع اسمي المدلل

ركضوا لحضني

ناموا في حضني

بي توق

وبي فيض

وبي آجمات خيلاء

لا أرِيْمَ

ولا استكينُ

سوي وقاريونس

زُرقة على يميني

وتلال الرجمة على مد عيني

وصحبٌ

وشعر

وليبيا قصيدٌ صامت

في جمع العيون

وظل لظلي

ليلى النيهوم

الرباط في 28/ 10/ 2010

So

At the abrupt end of the laughter,

the sky shut the lense.

So let me indulge in the secret of the rose,

or I'd rather sit here to cry.

Laila Neihoum

Tell us

Photo: Laila Neihoum

Tell us

In the dark alleys of surfing

 the aura of the missed land

I wish for an illuminated keyboard

with an umbrella to shade

 the day light off my laptop mentor

When losing the ability to touch them.

Tell us about distances

About that oceanic darkness.

Just tell us if what you have done

other than kilometers and miles,

was mere elastic elevations.

If an ant walks your thread of longing

for a century, would not last to the beginning.

Tell us if you would consider

drawing a painting on the

map of continents lost and found.

or on virtual routes of migrated thoughts,

when paralleled hearts never see eye to eye.

Let me utter and articulate

those pleas of throbbing entities,

of volatile Whisperers in need.

That door once ajar, now three quarters inviting,

hesitation was the herd of exaggerated politeness.

Let the leopard, the bard and the shaman

slither inside the orbit of transit policies

as we replace home for a shadow,

for a static, phobic and disciplined new home.

Laila Neihoum

Clovis CA 2010

A morning Thought

The roses came with names, they left their visiting cards,
to rent a space in my garden's sunniest spot,
calling San Joaquin Valley a home.
In my mind ,travels the endless dream,
at some speed,
while poems are conflicting;
between what was then in,
What is now out here, at the foot of The Sierra Nevada.

Laila Neihoum
Clovis CA March 2010

Marathon

Laila Neihoum

Translated by Lauren Shapiro

Another morning for the sleepy girls,

Benghazian journalists

tripping along dead streets

in night’s leftover darkness

in the echoes of windy dreams.

Their desks gather rime

from the nearby harbor

scattered by winter’s rain

their papers are pure ice

their seats confused frost

their breaths

their ideas

their writing

the remnants of sleep

nothing

nobody

Soul’s shiver waiting for them,

the years’ marathon approaching

slowly

stubbornly.

----------------

From: IWP Translation Workshop Anthology 200 5 Iowa University