Thursday, March 28, 2013

The Cherry of Her Lips

When I took a course in creative process, we had to prepare a poetry portfolio besides one for screenplay and one for fiction. I wasn't that excited to write poetry cuz it's not my cup of tea. Not that I didn't like poetry since I devour some from different corners of the world but I wasn't the one who would write poems. I was content with reading and enjoying the lines from Hafez, Khayyam, Baudelaire, Poe, Darwish, etc.
I contented myself with the last poem I wrote and breathed a sigh of relief that I didn't have to write anymore poems.

Later, when I showed it to one of my friends who is a poet herself and started a website of "The Poetry of tomorrow, 100 Days", she told me that she wanted to post it on her website. We translated the poem together from English to French on a weekend over a tisane, at a cozy cafe, because her website was in French.

Here goes what I wrote



‘’The cherry of her lips’’



Red turns green

steps forward like machines

crossing the zebra garb

on the adorned black street



my eyes followed the wind

through her hair

my steps, her steps



a sudden fall on the stripes

a trickle of blood

down her ghostly face



white



she ran to her like an angel

and lifted her up

but I only saw her cherry lips



her steps I followed

not to lend a hand but

to pleasure in her presence



her hand I saw, not

the bruised nose she cleaned

her fingers, not

the bloody napkin

on the still white face of the woman

who had fallen



the evil in me wished for more blood

for I wanted to engrave in my mind

the cherry of her lips



* * *
And here's the French translation


’’La cerise de ses lèvres’’



Rouge tombe vert

Mécaniques pas en avant

Tirant le voile du zèbre

Sur la rue noire décorée



Mes yeux suivent le vent

À travers ses cheveux

Mes pas, ses pas



Une chute soudaine sur les rayures

Une chute de sang

Coulant du spectre de son visage



Blanc



Elle a couru à elle comme un ange

Et la soulevât

Ses pas j’ai suivi

Pas pour prêter la main

Mais pour jouir en sa présence



Ses mains j’ai vu, pas

Le nez couvert de bleus

Ses doigts, pas

La serviette tâchée de rouge

Sur le visage figé blanc de la femme

Qui était tombée



Le diable en moi désirait plus de sang

Pour graver en ma pensée

La cerise de ses lèvres

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