Tuesday, December 1, 2020




The Poet And The City


The city lies on his hand,

Its pain is poured on his lines,

It hides its breath under the shadow of his hands.

His fingers point out,

To the ripeness of the palm-hand heart of stabs,

To the darkness that is kept by the sun’s memory,

To the wound palm climbed by the bread’s sweat,

To the wave that ascends.

Revealing the secret of the drowned.

His fingers point out also:

To the hymn flute lifted by the throat whispers.

From every hole,

It comes up a word " no",

Don’t worry on things,

If wearing the soul was late!

Don’t worry on the grass of the poem,

If misleading to the port happens.

There is no worry to the soil of the city,

If it slides.

This happens only to release its happiness,

overwhelmed by cry.

A cry on the road trembles,

Covered by the travelling of arrival,

But it doesn’t arrive,

A cry on the balconies,

The windows are ready to receive light,

But it doesn’t enter.

It is a cry on the mornings.

It hunts the smiles of spring,

But it doesn’t flourish.

The city flourishes on another hand,

He stretches out his hands,

The city reads the names of its siblings,


And squares,

But the names have no meaning,

He gives its meanings.

But the names have no pictures,

He draws it and colors it.

The names have no melody,

But he sings it.





Doors, Beloveds

And One Balcony


There is no one but you today,

Under the light of the city,

Receiving the current morning.

You enter into the flank of courtesy,

Through all the closed doors.

It was impossible to those who pass by,


How could you enter into?!

I heard you,

Repeating the words of pedestrians,

Travelling to a dusty distance,

There is no banging that can wound the old ornaments,

There is only a dusty heart which cried,

There is also wind that lost the way.

The heart was stained,

 By the cactus of steps and its sting,

There is no one but you in the happiness of the city,

The one who knows the path of the doors,

From the beginning of the journey,

To its end.

There is no one but you,

 Making the rose's voice flourished,

On the chest.

There is no one but you,

The doors can talk to him about the thresholds’ secrets,

 Returning it back from the old distance.

Stretch your hand,

Stretch it and return it,

If you committed a mistake,

Chants can guide you,

Here is a balcony that lies only on you,

It repeats your songs,

It makes the night wet with melodies,

You throw out chants toward the sky,

Your beloved names flourish rose by rose.

Their laughs are like lilies,

And the buttons are the handgrip.

From your heart,

You get out what you hide in,

To the last one,

To the last one.

When the door is closed,

An island and water began to make love,

Between both of you.

It overwhelms you with the kindness of its coat,


The winter has come between you.

When she begins to fly,

The seagulls peck at the clefts of echo.

When she passed over,

She touched the doors of the city,

It was decorated by the ancestors,

With the gasp of fire in the dreamy steps.

I grew up a little between two steps,

Two possibilities,

And a dreamy kiss.

She is the one who collects the seasons altogether,

And the winter flourishes in between.

Cover me…

Cover me…

Cover me…

Don’t reveal my sighs to the windmills,

Or what Sisyphus can hold in his climbing,

To the top of a mountain.

You can name it: The Experience,

Or the Body of Lover.

Don’t reveal my sighs to the rain,

Coming from the sky.

I’m confused,

I’m like me and you!

All fruits are dropped down on us,

It wetted us with dew.

Lovers think that dew is like us,

It’s the end.

Return the doors back to the city,

Don’t reveal the secrets of its alienation,

Knock on the inscriptions of her femininity,


The doormats can give birth as icons of light,

That it can cast a shadow over all the beloveds:

Some of beloveds went to the darkness of forgetfulness,

  And others wait the cellphone call.

The cellphone rang,

I said: “Who are you?”

I didn’t wait,

Rain on the city,

He realizes that the doors have longing,

There is no one can pass only under my order,

Take it!

Wash the inscriptions of the ancients,

You will find,

Brilliance is a friend of what the door hides,

To one balcony.





From The First Word

 To The Last One


I will throne this whiteness,

As a master of the square blooming with pure colors.

I ask him to show wisdom,

He teaches me how to transcend,

To the baskets of poems,

It is hung on the sky.

In my throat, there is a path,

It leads me to talk.


When it became impossible,

Or became as a shadow for the stars,

Or formed small or big clouds,

Or felt thirsty,


Speech was inevitably breaks the siege of alphabets,

And passes the barriers of allegory.


 Where will you be when an hour of night runs?!

You uncover me on the verge of water,

Turning down to the waves of the sea,

In my two hands.

When I listen to the sea salt, he cries in front of the tears.

He says:

“But I’m living in the dream”.

When he comes to you as a guard who is homeless,

And you are asleep,

I share you sleeping as well,

On a pillow of speech.

Do I talk about my water?!


 Do I bare the sigh of the wind, naming it raindrops?!

Do you see the sky declining from its loft?!

It escapes.

Perhaps it discovers the secrets of two lovers.

To them,

The jungle of balm opens its chest,

For dreaming.

They dream as if they weren’t dreaming before.


I said: “Catch the wind”

I’m still catching the wind with my fist.

I dig a passage where I enter,

Into the Unseen.

I follow the trace of the palm.

When it became high, I became high.

When things on its lashes flourished, I opened my fist,

Light your lamps for the walking of fog,

You guide the translator to the sky,

And you draw to us a home,

In the whiteness of air.

There is no compass you can use.

I name you as sea.

I irritate ink against you.

And I name you as honey of the poem,

 I also irritate foes against you.


I make the dream of yesterday white,

I make the bosom of the tale white,

The pain of weaning debarks.

I make white what our blind hands weave on ease.

The country becomes as a vessel,

And the sails become as spells.

It makes us escaping from drowning.

We love the country,

We love it wide.

Let us fly as seagulls,

We can gain brilliance and wings,




Let us guide it to us,

And guide us to us.

We are all searching each another.

The one knows the end of the speech.

The last sentence is:

I love you.





MAJIDAH ALDHAHIRIA: Tunisian poetess. Born in Seedi bu Zaid. She has graduated from the institute of teachers in Kairawan. She is a pedagogical assistant in the northern association of inspecting of the Arabic language in Zagwan state. She is an activist in the civilized society. She holds many responsibilities in the cultural and legal associations. She co-operated in many cultural activities inside and outside Tunisia, Egypt, Morocco, Libya and Jordan. She has published at the end of 2010 her first anthology “Hymns of water”. She has published in 2010 another anthology “What it facilitated from her image” in Arabic. She has many joint anthologies in Tunisia and outside like the Arab chamomile spring in Egypt and the door latches of the sea in Tunisia.

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