FETHI SASSI

FETHI SASSI

A POEM CONTINUES IN THE ACHE

If only he  …..

Was a poet tromping the words  .

and between his arms clutters stutters  ,

fall in the deep of the absence

his fingers was wet as a night on the lips place  ….

Usually  …..

He was relieving the moon if he sweats in the whiteness  ,

Than the sun stumbles  in the braids reveal  ,

He was every night inventing for the sky two lips ,

to kiss doves   ….

While  …..

His dreams as a unseen needle sews  ,

two mustaches in the trope  ,

so far with pelican mummified in the rivers of the distance  ;

as he is   …..

a butterfly wets her wings with the call

doesn’t care if the sun raised in the maze night  ,

like this  ;

he washes the argil the letters of the poem  ,

and wets the salt hanged in the mouth of the wave  ,

running away from his face  ….

So that doesn’t injure the wind  .

He was everlasting the bewilderment   ….

Roving as a sun nipples   …..

Hollowing as an emergent sadness  .

With a poem continues in the ache  ,

Usually  ....

He raves and says with a voice

returning from a long travel  .

O  …..  lovers crowned of me  .

Slave like a poem fingers  ,

come to me satisfied  ,

And enter in my dispersion  ,

dissolve in my blood    ……

and he shuts up .

THE COLOR OF HER EYES

HAS ANOTHER STORY

The cloud has a balcony overlooking the wind  .

Imagine that the earth were sterile .

So it would not give birth to the probabilities of the beginning  .

I play with the Sassoon in my fingers when you come  ;

before the cloud by half rose  .

I came like the dichotomy of the dream in the range face ,

but I explode your kiss , to make a cigarette from the clay .

And from the twilight passing on your cheek, a last colors brush  ,

in the hope of shutting down all the exists to the dream  .

Then I comb my fingers to stay alone  .

I arrange my tears according to my will  .

Indeed, I didn’t cry, but the color of your eyes has another story  .

The language got old, and the berry’s leaves have left  .

I was sad , but I didn’t peel the wind between your hands  .

As if I wrote a poem and wore the tears  .

So, when would poems and women leave me   ?

I  ,

I have a tent in the question’s roots  .

And a pub in its face that is patronized by lovers  .

I have a winter on the beach of her eyes  ,

waiting for me, and other things  .

I left my face on the carpet, and fell asleep like a strange night  .

I wished then to die, and leave a speech to the coming storm ,

as  an arrogant wound ,

or a night without questions .

I haven’t committed an affront in the tradition of lovers  .

But bunches have silent moments  .

I was yelling  ;

and berating the wind when I found you in the stones’ books  ,

a tyrannical star in the sky  .

So let me rub your perfume with the clay of my eagerness  .

I was improvising to reduce the absence  ;

who had poured the sad night into your eyes  ?

So, the stars seemed sad since the god dawn  .

I was like that  ..

Kindling the wind with laughs and cry  …

DON'T  LEAVE THIS POEM

IN THE HANDS OF LOVERS

While you resist your beautiful laugh  ,

think well in the wide silence    ….

In the loose shirt of the unknown as my dreams  .

Write something   …

Or practice the narcissism of whiteness  .

In the legend of the beautiful text  ….

Please don’t let the smell of the cigarette leave the place language  ;

but before you limp to the sky , think well   ..

because , I’m used to the absence  ;

your panting face behind the whiteness  ;

help me with a love sonnet to trim my poems and that’s enough ,

every night letters ask me   :

where have I lost my words   ??

tell him  ….   :

you are an apple stolen from the coat of  Eve  ;

if a beautiful dream surprised you

I will give it my wings  ….

to get out from the injured white poetry  ,

so give me your hands to dream  ,

I’ m still luring the beloved songs to wear you  .

You were together running and sweating in the future glass ,

we were milking the moon together ,

and in the memory there is a rose and a pen  ;

the tree is a woman feeds her brushes with anthem

drops to fill the questions  ,

then she stays to tell the story to the passengers

about how doves are dead   ….

come on , and light the speech oil  ,

because you are the probability of the coming hour  ,

to make the ears  sleep on the wind pillow   ….

The nipples of the sun are elegant this morning  ,

Dribbling grapes, and injure the tree    …..

I was like someone sits on the wind borders ,

waiting a cloud  , and then cries   ….

and me finally , I draw a wound on the water  ;

to walk alone proudly in the path of the story  ,

your bare voice surmounted in front of the ruin   …

But , I fear losing my poems in your loneliness  .

So wait for me ….

I will come back before the whiteness by two nights and a kiss ,

so give me your lips; to sleep  …..

POET  AND TRANSLATOR

FETHI SASSI

FETHI SASSI: He was born on the 1st of June 1962 in Nabul  ( Tunisia ) . He is a writer of prose poetry and short poems and haiku; translator of all his poems to English. A member in the Tunisian Writers' Union; and in the Literature club at the cultural center of Sousse. His first book entitled "A Seed of Love" was published in 2010. Second) I dream …. and I sign on birds the last words ) in 2013 . The third book of poetry  “A sky for a strange bird“ in Egypt in 2016. The Forth published in Egypt in march 2017 (As lonely rose ..one a chair. His first translated and published book in Canada  2017  (And you are the entire poem) https://www.createspace.com/7092707 Under print a translated French book in France for the third Arabic Book ( Ciel d’un oiseau étranger ) .