SOUZI ALI - THE FOXE'S FUR - TRANSLATION OSAMA ESBER

                                                         The Syrian poet Souzi Ali, 2022. 

I first became aware of the poet Souzi Ali two years ago when I was co-editing the April edition of Live Encounters with Mark Ulyseas. As a co-editor,  I wanted to ensure that the edition was not just Eurocentric. The war in Syria was still ongoing and with increased barbarity with the intervention of the Russian army. Osama Esber, the Syrian poet and translator, had already sent me on some wonderful poems about his experience as a poet in exile and who was recounting his experiences from the perspective of California where he had had the good fortune to be now living. So, I was really interested to know if Osama knew of any Syrian poets who happened to be writing poetry in Syria, as I was very interested in including more work from this war- torn land, and that is when Osama sent me on a couple of poems by Souzi and I was immediately hooked.

The following poem, translated wonderfully by Osama, is but one from Souzi's latest collection which still remains unpublished ( The Sixty Year Old Narcissus, 2022) and which Souzi, in a sign of her constant generosity, has allowed me to publish here. I will be publishing more of Souzi's poems over the coming months and weeks as to my mind she is one of the most authentic voices in contemporary poetry. The reason why I say this is because her poetry tackles such difficult subjects such as incest and patriarchy, war and abuse of all kinds. Yet, and here is the ( yes) Miracle, her poetry remains extremely innocent, and for this recent I simply marvel at Souzi's  consummate Art. I am deeply grateful that she has allowed me to publish her work here on my blog, and I also wish to thank Osama for his translations and for introducing me to Souzi's work.  

The Fox’s Fur

Translated by Osama Esber

 

Time, isolation and the sidewalk will be yours.

You will pave the way for the words: “Good Morning!”

Imagine a train under snow

that takes the pelicans of the frozen lake to the north.

You will claim that your wrinkles

 resulted from laughter and inattention,

forgetting great things

the house in the house

and the star in another star.

At 3 o’clock every night

you put your hand under the pillow

and sleep naked.

You dream that you are a painter

that only paints the flowers of cherry trees.

Those who loved you enter your dream

 to make sure that their gardens are intact.

On the shoulder of one of them a blue parrot repeats without end,

“A little Bitch!”

Your blood is as blue as an execution yard.

Everybody waved at you while you crossed the market.

A man was hanging on your back

and a child clung to your shoes and cried.

 

Yours are the brothel, exile, and the bitter beginnings that fascinate you and the spider.

Yours is your mother’s wedding ring.

You will look at your skinny legs while clinging to the legs of a woman

obsessed with tattoos.

You will suck your lazy hands while squeezing the breasts of a woman who has not grow since she was created.

You will smell my dried blood in the corner of your house

while ejaculating your semen in the air.

I will be your insult, which I like,

And your disappointment that stamps my burgundy carpet as ephemeral as snow- flakes.

I will pull down for you from the curtain a turtle that you like.

I will secretly stumble while boiling tea for you.

I will shake my smoking hair on the threshold and listen to your eyes

And you will be calmed again,

after everything returns to its place.

Your only skinny legs

Your only lonely hands

The lonely pain

The storm.

You will be as you are.

You will not do anything more than being you,

lonely as a dim cottage

as a tumor that stabs the leg of an old tree.