BOOKS

Excerpt from "Anna Gréki Just above silence" (in French)

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Originaire de France
Issu de grands Bourgeois
Mon oncle mythomane est mort poignardé
A Shangai et à la fleur de l’âge
Dans son bar américain
Où il vivait avec une japonaise sage
Et folle d’amour
En se faisant passer pour Brésilien

Tu racontes cette histoire de famille
Dans la cour usée
De la Prison Civile d’Alger
Par une journée d’août parfumée
Où l’on entrerait nu dans la mer
Comme dans la confiture
Dans la mer qu’on hume
A cinq cents mètres
En écoutant tes histoires de famille

Et la terre éclate
Et s’abolit le temps
Poignardé

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Excerpt from "Like a dwarf that slowly moves forward inside the legend" (in French)

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Sur la terrasse d'en face, un fauteuil vert

(appartenant à un roi qui aurait perdu son trône depuis des lustres)

Qui tourne son dos à la mer - et à une ville en ruine

Personne ne s'assoit dessus

Il est entouré d'antennes paraboliques, collées aux bords

Tels des pions qui semblent hésiter -longtemps- avant de se suicider.

Devant lui, s'étend une grande surface de carrelages- rouges pâles

(Et une cheminée aveugle)

A sa droite, un "roof" luxueux, en verre

Qui lui rappelle les anciennes gloires

Personne ne se rappelle, comment ce fauteuil est monté jusque là

Les escaliers du bâtiment sont -toujours- aussi étroits

Et l'ascenseur en bois, ne peut porter plus que deux personnes maigres

Mais il est sans doute, comme tous les trônes de cette ville

(Parachutés soit par les anges, les avions, ou le derrière des pigeons)

Et, qui n'arrivent jamais à redescendre

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Excerpt from "As a ravaged city" (in Catalan)

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No tinc prou dolor per a escriure poesia sublim,

no tinc prou dolor per a morir de manera sublim,

no tinc prou dolor per a maleir al mon amb nous insults,

no tinc prou dolor per a cridar-li a la cara,

no tinc prou dolor per a estar tota sola... Per aco jo soc com qualsevol esser huma normal que pateix.

I de la mateixa manera que un mosquit no em deixa dormir en una breu nit d’estiu,

aquest lleu dolor no em deixa viure.

Excerpt from "Room 102"

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“I think he left”. With a shy and empathic smile and with a voice closer to a whisper, the nurse reported his death. Then she added: “But I should call the doctor to confirm that “ as if she was trying to give us a final dose of hope. Every time I used to climb the stairs leading to the first floor and walk through the corridor leading to room 102, I would echo my favorite prayers: "Kah.Ha.Ya. Ayn.Sad. [This is ] a mention of the mercy of your Lord to His servant Zakariah, When he appealed his Lord for a hidden invocation ...”. I was scared to meet death face to face while I knew that death was hanging around in the same corridor. Sometimes I was seized by a light and a cold shiver while she (death) was passing by. For years, many years, i was obsessed with the death of my father, and his grievous loss. Maybe since the terrorism period in Algeria. My mother declares: “I was scared he gets murdered so grows anger and finds hate a way to your hearts” When he turned seventy, and began to be hit by various diseases, I began to watch his breath out every time I find him asleep and not to get reassured unless I see his chest moving up and down. In the corridor leading to room 102, We reached the nurse who has just left his room, we asked her about his case and she replied “he's relieved and he 's sleeping quietly”. When I opened the door and looked at his chest, I knew he was not breathing. My mother gapped his hand, it was warm and smooth and does not resemble death in anything, but his face was like one has got rid of a last gasp. We afterwards forewarned the nurse. Usually, after he has dinner and takes a dose of painkillers, we used to leave him to sleep and return to the hospital the next morning. This time we decided to return and visit him at 11pm. We were like one who conforms a hidden invocation. In the oncology department, there are no specified visiting hours. How ridiculous it is to establish visiting hours when there is a familiar visitor who enters the place at any time and without any permission. The nurse has said: “he was waiting for you to leave”. He was waiting for the women of his life to leave, My mother, my twin sister and I. However, he left in an intimate instant with death, not seen by anyone. He prevented us from being face to face with death. He left in The minute separating the moment the nurse has stepped out of the room and the moment we stepped in. He passed away quietly and with love.

Excerpt from "to the Movies ..."

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CASTING

An amateur

Untalented

Never acted in a movie before

Never stepped on a set before

Never watched a movie before

Doesn’t like the camera Nor does it like him

Barely remembers his own name during the shoot

Un unwilling to follow the director’s instructions

In search of the part

For which he got stuck in this film
 

Excerpt from "As usual, I forgot my suitcase"

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At the end of the passage

Accidentally I find myself part of other wayfarers’ snapshots…

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I feel a cold shiver

And a salty drop turning me to fog

Each time they enter their caves

And light a candle

To search in mirrors for their imprisoned souls

While in the details of a distant life

I roam

Inspired by the echo of an ancient call

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The roads know me well

But they are unable to wave like old friends

Or smile like strangers when they meet you a second time

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Without a face

I walk

No one turns around

They too, like me, have lost their faces

But all the roads lead to the end

For it was no coincidence

That we were all there.