Two Poems by Abdellatif Laâbi
This week in the PEN Poetry Series, PEN America features two poems by Abdellatif Laâbi, translated from the French by André Naffis-Sahely.
My mother’s language
It’s been twenty years since I last saw my mother
She starved herself to death
They say that each morning
she would pull her headscarf off
and strike the floor seven times
cursing the heavens and the Tyrant
I was in the cave
where convicts read in the dark
and painted the bestiary of the future on the walls
It’s been twenty years since I last saw my mother
She left me a china coffee set
and though the cups have broken one by one
they were so ugly I didn’t regret their loss
even though coffee’s the only drink I like
These days, when I’m alone
I start to sound like my mother
or rather, it’s as if she were using my mouth
to voice her profanities, curses and gibberish
the invisible litany of her nicknames
all the endangered species of her sayings
It’s been twenty years since I last saw my mother
but I am the last man
who still speaks her language
Burn the midnight oil
You must stay up all night at least four times a year.
There aren’t enough crazy people around me to go further than that. A single sleepless night isn’t worth much when you’re on your own. It needs to be shared. Only then does the city open up to you without thoughts of death. Gargoyles carry out their work as exorcists. Muezzins get drunk on street corners. There is always a couple who get married at dawn by drawing lots. The Partisans’ Chant becomes a drinking song. Satan starts to wax lyrical and hands out unbaited, red apples to the worshippers. Feet trample on a treasure-hoard of stars. The taste of sex rises in the mouth like lemon on oysters.
Only vagabonds can be poets.
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