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  April 2020
volume 17 number 1
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  Kathie Giorgio
  Edward Lee
  Jennie Lindthorst
  Frank Mundo
  Christine Murray
  Abdel-Wahed Souayah
  Viola Weinberg
  Martin Willitts Jr
 
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Abdel-Wahed Souayah April 2020
   

 

bio

    Abdel-Wahed Souayah (born in Bembla/Tunisia) studied Arabic Literature at the University of Sousse and later taught Arabic Literature. He heads the Tunisian Writer’s Association (Monastir chapter) and ranks among the principal characters who firmly established modern literature in his country, often referred to as »Mouvement du texte«.
    He has published widely in local and international literary magazines and has participated in multiple radio and television broadcasts. Souaya has authored eight volumes of prose poetry and also writes short stories, literary criticism as well as scholarly essays. Last publications: I Write For the Tree (2017, Badaoui-Verlag, Tunis); Two Summers Have Passed and Winter is Not Here (Irak, 2018); Car tu étais pluie (Because You Were Rain), (L’Harmattan, Paris, 2019, with Francisca Ricinski); Translator in Arabic of Memory Under the Wind by Francisca Ricinski, Khayal Editions, Alger, 2019).

   

 

I Forget the Whereabouts

In this place an olive tree guarding me and watching my sleep
In this place the sea is throwing me with gravel and beautiful shells
In this place, our street kids are good at playing with a cloth ball
In this place God manifests and the rain rinses my sins
And on my pillow "a drunken boat" and a beautiful woman await me
I'm sure this place does exist
But I forget where



(translated into English by Mehdi Hamza)

copyright 2020 Abdel-Wahed Souayah

   

 

Downfall

Joy finally returned with her wet feet with blood
She returned with her Gray headdress, that she bought last feast
She returned trembling like an old tree
like a sparrow was singing

Joy finally returned to this old, windowless door with a rust latch
The door that gave its color to the eyes were seen
The wooden door that waited for the iron key long
Through it overlooks peace with bare feet

Joy finally returned
No one remembers what happened last feast
No one is paying attention to casting snails
No one looks at the Sun
No one thought of just thinking about that locked door
Behind an old tree

Joy finally returned
She passed by the only tree before the door
The tree that starters getting its green color
The tree from which the sun suddenly fell

copyright 2020 Abdel-Wahed Souayah