As Libya frees herself, here is a poem \u00a0by Libyan poet Ashur Etwebi, who said (in 2008): “An active world of literature and poetry has developed in Libya over the past thirty years. Little is known about this in Europe because to the West, Libya did not exist on the world map until recently.” Time has come to change this.<\/p>\n
SUNS ON A STONE<\/strong><\/p>\n
by the sea
\nby the high hill
\nby the stoolie taxi driver
\nby the old woman who lost her son in the Iraq war
\nby Sawsanah the agreeable divorcee
\nby a wall that grows larger day by day
\nby a moon that doesn\u2019t leave the sky
\nby me the foreign musician
\nby God,
\nmy house.<\/p>\n____________________<\/p>\n
five suns on one stone, five roads that lead to her heart, five wings for
\nthe\u00a0kite, five ladders to the house of the Lady, five spices for his
\nExcellency the cook, five seasons for the lazy gardner.
\nonly one reverence for earth, one heart-break for the sky
\nnothing for me, nothing for you.
\nfor us two
\nalone.<\/p>\n________________________<\/p>\n
in front of the camera life flows tirelessly
\nthe darkness behind the women
\nand the eloquent silence
\nbelow Them someone dead
\nand the remains of cooked veal
\nabove Them a heaven
\nopening the door of its bedroom
\nand warm and lavish sweat, flowing from the eyes of a wingless white\/black bird<\/p>\nBetween their hands a ring and a sieve
\na large and curved elephant\u2019s tusk
\na cold body and a river without pulse
\na stale loaf of break and sad mutterings<\/p>\nmy foot neither touched the bottom of the sea
\nnor did it come to rest on dry sand<\/p>\nneither by hunger
\nnor through a bout of madness
\nnor through fear
\nnor through joy
\nnor through faith in something obscure.<\/p>\nin front of the camera this one stands upright in the lit space
\nthis other one finds only shadow but smiles and puts his hand behind his back to better show the magnanimity of his gaze as his head turns toward the light
\nthis one slowly opens his eyes so that dreams not disappear too fast from his head
\nthis one tightens his fingers and bends his knees slightly for the wall to absorb a part of his tallness
\nand this one recites the sura right from the starts and counts the glasses on the coffee table<\/p>\nin front of the camera life flows tirelessly<\/p>\n
_________________________________<\/p>\n
her hair, waves of an ocean churned up by winter
\nher dress drifting on the sand, unbridled dance of dragonflies
\nthe red silk belt opens vast and moist on the gate of desire.<\/p>\nwith her soft hands she has rolled out the dough on the ancient roman marble<\/p>\n
the dream was still moist, strong enough to let the tremors filter through her body. she has not forgotten to put rouge on her cheeks, to button her corsage so as to leave her neck alone, white and haughty.<\/p>\n
_________________________________<\/p>\n
he set the flask down on the small carpet
\n\u201colive oil from castile\u201d he said
\nthen he disappeared with the sun behind the high<\/p>\n_________________________________<\/p>\n
a wooden pole, upright, tall, without wire or electricity.<\/p>\n
sometimes decrepit eagles come to rest on it or sparrows drawn to the south by earth\u2019s magnetism. sometimes it listens from on high to the beduins\u2019 stories of the town, of henna and hot hamburgers. when the noon sun slows down its course as it passes by it doesn\u2019t pay it any attention and lets it stare into emptiness without opening the eyes.
\nit is a romantic wooden pole.<\/p>\nat night its gaze follows living beings dragging themselves to the crest of the dune and spies on the naked woman and the naked man.<\/p>\n
alone on the vast steppe it spins the desert sands above the shoulders of the wind.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n
translated from Arabic by Samira Hassan ben Ammou & Pierre Joris<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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