أدبيات د. عبدالله الطيب

المزيد

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التصنيفات : مقالات - أبحاث |

أرسل الإدراج

دوّن الإدراج

في 20 يناير عام 2009 ، اختار الرئيس الأمريكي باراك اوباما الشاعرة اليزابيث اليكساندر لتلقي قصيدة في حفل تنصيبه الرئاسي ، فألقت قصيدة "ترنيمة للنهار" والتي كتبتها خصيصاً للمناسبة ، وبذلك أصبحت رابع شاعر في التاريخ الأمريكي ينال هذا الشرف الرفيع بعد كل من روبرت فروست (عام 1961) و مايا آنجلو (عام 1993) وميلر ويليامز (عام 1997). وقد حظي ترشيحها لإلقاء القصيدة استحسان الكثير من الشعراء الذين استبشروا بذلك وأعدوه علامة على أهمية الشعر في الإرث الإمريكي.

اليزابيث اليكساندر هي أستاذة جامعية و كاتبة مسرحية وشاعرية أمريكية من أصل أفريقي ، ولدت عام 1962 في مدينة نيويورك وترعرت في العاصمة الإمريكية واشنطن. والدها هو كليفورد اليكساندر وزير سابق لشؤون الجيش الإمريكي في عهد الرئيس الأمريكي الأسبق جيمي كارتر ، والدتها هي أديل اليكساندر الكاتبة المعروفة وأستاذة التاريخ الأفروأمريكي في جامعة جورج واشنطن. أما أخوها مارك فقد عمل مستشاراً في حملة الرئيس الأمريكي باراك اوباما الإنتخابية.

بدأت اليزابيث دراستها الجامعية في جامعة يال وحصلت منها على شهادة الباكلوريوس ، ثم أكملت دراسة الماجستير في الشعر من جامعة بوسطن ، وهناك تأثرت كثيراً بالشاعر المعروف ديريك والكت واستفادت منه في صقل تجربتها الشعرية. وأخيرا حصلت على شهادة الدكتوراة في اللغة الإنجليزية من جامعة بنسلفانيا. درَّست الكاتبة في عدة جامعات أمريكية ، والتقت بباراك أوباما أول مرة حين كانت تدرِّس في جامعة شيكاجو ، وقتها كان باراك محاضرا في ذات الجامعة ، ثم استقرت أخيرا في جامعة يال حيث تدرِّس الأدب الإنجليزي والأدب الأفروأمريكي.

للكاتبة عدة دواوين شعرية وكتب مطبوعة وهي تعيش حاليا في مدينة نيو هافن مع زوجها وابنيها.

ترجمة د. عبدالله الطيب

نزاول أعمالنا كل يوم
نمشي بين بعضنا البعض
تلتقي نظراتنا أو ربما لا تتلاقى
نوشك على الكلام أو ربما تكلمنا فعلا

كل ماحولنا ضجيج
كل ماحولنا صخب و شجر شائك
شوك و لغط
كل فرد من اسلافنا
يجري على السنتنا

يخيط أحدهم حاشية
يرتق ثقبا في زي
يرقع إطاراً لعجلة
يصلح الأشياء التي بحاجة لإصلاح

يحاول أحدهم في مكان ما أن يألف لحنا
بزوج من الملاعق الخشبية على برميل صفيح
مع مسجل محمول ، وكمان جهير ، وهارمونيكا ، وحنجرة

إمرأة وابنها في انتظار الحافلة
ومزارع يمعن النظر في تقلبات السماء
ومدرس يقول اخرجوا أقلامكم ، ابدؤوا

نواجه بعضنا في كلمات
مجرد كلمات
حادة أو ناعمة ، همساً أو جهرا
كلمات للتفكير
إعادة التفكير

نعبر طرقات ترابية وطرق سريعة
تشير بدءاً إلى عزيمة شخص ، ثم آخرين بعده
قالوا نريد أن نرى ما في الجانب الآخر

أعرف أن هناك شيئاً أفضل في نهاية المطاف
فنحن نحتاج أن نجد مكانا نشعر فيه بالأمان
لكننا نسير إلى مالا نستطيع حتى أن نراه

قلها بوض

المزيد

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التصنيفات : قصائد مترجمة من اللغة الإنجليزية |

أرسل الإدراج

دوّن الإدراج

What Looked Like Oblivion

المزيد

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التصنيفات : Translated Arabic Poems |

أرسل الإدراج

دوّن الإدراج

المزيد

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التصنيفات : قصائد مترجمة من اللغة الإنجليزية |

أرسل الإدراج

دوّن الإدراج

المزيد

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التصنيفات : Translated Arabic Short Stories |

أرسل الإدراج

دوّن الإدراج

المزيد

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التصنيفات : Artikata - A Translated Arabic Novel |

أرسل الإدراج

دوّن الإدراج

Less than a Goodbye

المزيد

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التصنيفات : Translated Arabic Short Stories |

أرسل الإدراج

دوّن الإدراج

فلسفة الصورة والطبيعة في قصص الدكتور عبدالله الطيب

كتبهاالأديب الناقد السعيد موفقي ، في 9 يناير 2008 الساعة: 15:28 م

 من المؤكد أنّ البحث عن أسباب بقاء الأشياء و استمرارها يتطلب متوافقات كثيرة بين الذات و العالم الآخر ، المؤثرات الموزعة في كل شيء و بين طبقات النفس الغائرة في تراكمات مختلفة و متنوعة و متناقضة في كثير من الحالات ، التعبير عنها ، يستدعي التمعن فيما تتركه هذه المؤثرات في درجات متفاوتة من حيث التأثير و البفاء و التغيير ، ربما ما نشاهده في الطبيعة يعبر ما في الذات من مقاربات بين العالمين ، تشابه من حيث الحالات الشعورية التي تتفرد بها النفس في مختلف مستوياتها ، هناك عناصر في الطبيعة لا تتطابق مع ما نشعر به فنختار ما يتماثل معها في كثير من أجزائها ، فالإحساس بالألم قد يقابله ما هو أشدّ تأثيرا في النفس و يغرقها في عالم التفرد و الانعزال ، و إذا لم يكن من مما يعبّر أو يفسّر هذا السر ، قد يلجأ الكاتب أو القاص إلى حيلة أراها ناجحة في هذه المجموعة التي كتبها الدكتور عبد الله الطيب ، أول ما نلاحظه في هذه المجموعة تركيزه على ظاهرة الليل و توظيف مقارباته لعدة معان و صور نكتشفها في وقوفه المتأمل ، منطلقا من تساؤلات عميقة ، ثم يقابله بصور أخرى لا تخلو من تأمل ممعن يركب فيها صور السعادة التائهة بين مختلف ظواهر الحياة المنشغل بالترف و الزهو و الرقص و الفرح المفرط ، بينما ، عالم آخر غارق في متاهات القلق و العذاب زو الألم و الموت و الحياة ، يرسم أحلامه من هباء ما تلبث أن تتبخر مع أول هزة حارة وافدة من عالم من مختلف الجهات ،

ففي قصة (شقوق) أو البحث عن السعادة نلمس تراصف صور متناقضة تجمع بين الليل و الصبح ، و أشياء أخرى لم يجمعها التآلف و لكن الكاتب أراد أن يختلق لها مبررات من طبيعة جديدة ربما هي كسر روتين الحياة و بعث التجدد و الاتزان في التكيف مع عناصر الحياة و لو من باب المواساة ((في تلك الليلة.. الثالثة صباحاً.. مع ترنُّحات المتخمين.. ضحكات المدخنين.. زغاريد المهنئين.. وتهدهد المحرومين…..)) ، فهذا امتزاج بين الصورة و الصوت ، البحث عن الائتلاف الآني في ظل تشتت واضح للذهن ، و استغراق صارخ في ثنايا الليل المتجدد الطبق ((كنت أراقب المشهد المثير خارج الفندق.. حيث تلفني سحائب الدخان المنبثق من سيجارتي.. تعبت من زيف الكلام.. واتساع الشفاه.. والإنتشاء بغير مافعل.. تركت ذلك.. وخرجت بحثاً عن الهدوء.. واللقطات الغافلة.. رأيت جزءاً من تفكيري وخيالاتي وعشقي فيها.. غريب.. كيف يعشق الإنسان الهزيمة والإنكسار بكبرياء!…..)) ، هل هو الضياع ؟ قد يبدو كذلك لكن مع تركيز بسيط نجد تنقل الكاتب بين أماكن مختلفة يعني التنوع في الحركة و اللون و الصوت و الشعور توالدت دفعة واحدة و على مراحل ليست متباعدة من حيث استقرارها ، و لم يكن الكاتب ارتجاليا في هذه الطريقة ، و كان بإمكانه أن يختار أسلوب العرض المباشر و يترك القارئ يتيه مع المشاهد المتداخلة ، يبحث عنها بنفسه وهو مقيد بجملة من المحطات القصيرة ، و لذا كان اختياره ناجحا في توسيع مجالات الت

المزيد

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التصنيفات : قراءة نقدية |

أرسل الإدراج

دوّن الإدراج

- When are you going to stop fighting with the boys in school? I see new cuts and bruises on your body and your face everyday.

المزيد

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التصنيفات : Translated Arabic Short Stories |

أرسل الإدراج

دوّن الإدراج

بمناسبة يوم المرأة العالمي ترجمت هذه القصيدة. وقد نشرت هذه الترجمة في دورية مجاز في عددها الأول الصادر عن نادي الطائف الثقافي الأدبي.

القصيدة في لغتها الأصلية غنائية حماسية ، وكانت بمثابة النشيد للحركة النسائية المنادية بحق التصويت للمرأة عام 1910 في بريطانيا. 

مسيرة النساء ، قصيدة الكاتبة البريطانية سيسلي هاملتون  

ترجمة الدكتور عبدالله الطيب

مسيرة النساء

اهتفن اهتفن .. علِّين الغناء

اصرخن مع الريح .. فالفجر سيطلع

سرن .. سرن .. اختلن ميلا

بعلم يرفرف .. وأمل يفيق

أغنية في قصة .. وأحلام في مجد

إنهم ينادون بسرور .. ياللعجب

إلى الأمام .. اصغين كيف يعلوا

رعد الحرية ..  صوت السماء

نحن في الماضي .. طويلاً .. طويلا

جبنا بخوف من نور السماء

قويات .. قويات .. نقف أخيرا

بشجاعة .. وإيمان .. ورؤية جديدة

قوة في جمال .. و حياة في عمل

اسمعن النداء .. اسمعن .. ولبِّين

هؤلاء .. هؤلاء .. إلينا يشيرون

افتحن أعينكن .. على يوم سيشرق

رفيقات الجهاد .. انتن الجريئات

أوائل المعركة في القتال والحزن

ازدريتن .. احتقرتن .. ولم تأبهن

فأعينكن مشرعة على غد واعد

عبر طرق مرهقة .. وأيام كئيبة

تحملتن الآلام والجهد .. بثقة وإيمان

مرحى .. مرحى .. نقف منتصرات

ننسج الإكليل .. الذي ارتداه الشجعان

حياة .. نضال .. اثنان في واحد

يؤخذ النصر بالجسارة .. والإيمان

كل ما فعلتوه في ما مضى

كان استعدادا لعمل هذا اليوم

بعزم التوكل .. اطلقن المقاومة

واضحكن بأمل .. فالنهاية وشيكة

سرن .. سرن .. كلنا كواحدة

كتف بكتف .. وصديقة بصديقة

تعريف بالكاتبة:

ولدت سيسلي هاملتون في بادنجتون ، بريطانيا عام 1872.  بدأت حياتها المهنية كمعلمة ، لكنها تركت المهنة وعملت كممثلة وبرزت في ادوار مسرحيات شكسبير.  اتجهت سيسلي إلى الكتابة المسرحية ونجحت في ذلك.  ساهمت سيسلي في الحركة النسائية عبر كتابها تجارة الزواج والذي ناقشت فيه كيف ان النساء ينشأن لغرض النجاح في الزواج ، وذلك يعطل تطورهم الذهني. خلال الحرب العالمية الأولى ، ساهمت سيسلي في العمل التطوعي النسائي في مجال التمريض والعلاج.

بعد الحرب ، عملت سيسلي كصحفية وكتبت في مطبوعات مثل الدايلي ميرور والدايلي اكسبرس.  تعاونت مع المؤلفة الموسيقية اثيل سميث في تقديم قصيدة مسيرة النساء للجمهور.

توفيت الكاتبة عام 1952

المزيد

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التصنيفات : قصائد مترجمة من اللغة الإنجليزية |

أرسل الإدراج

دوّن الإدراج

بحر الرمل إحدى قصص الأديبة الأماراتية المبدعة فاطمة الناهض

 A Sea of Sand

Written by: Fatima Al Nahidh

Translated by: Dr. Abdallah Altaiyeb 

We disregard; I emphasized every syllable of the word. Times change, we change, grow up, and start looking the other way to stay alive.  But he said one sentence only, while staring at the horizon stretching endlessly before him; if only those who said this would experience what I had been through

It hadn’t been easy for me to know, in those moments whenever we reached that edge, the sun would drown in a well of darkness, and we would part with heartache. But I could swear that we, as creatures blended with myriad lusts, tended to forget our traumas so we could go on. Our enemy, the time, deliberately awarded us one motive after another to jostle forward with our pains and broken dreams on the road to the terra incognita of oblivion, only to lose them there and go back to perhaps resume the same sins and harvest desire and agony

It was neither a confession session nor a sudden strike of transparency, let a lone a planned one. We just walked and let our feet take us towards calmness, and silence walked kindly between us like a mutual friend

He stopped for a while as if trying to ascertain the place, so I stopped as well. He then marched on, and I walked next to him and the silence

There was nothing but sands across the land. They rose a bit to form a dune, rose more to look like a hill, rose more and more to perhaps become a mountain, but then went flat like a sea spreading mercilessly, and then leveled some more like an infertile dry valley

There were only sands, and nothing else!

The astronomical moon seemed extremely close, much like a shield ornamenting a wall, sprinkling glistening silver on the peaks, and leaving us in a peaceful unknown

We shall have a rest on top of that dune; he clarified when we got closer to a sand dune about fifty steps away. I sensed that he said so because I had started panting with the effort of disentangling my bare feet from the softness of the sands with each step. I felt my back stoop a little as the walk upward towards the dune got steeper, as if the desert had been tilting

We walked a distance immeasurable with any decimal system ever since we left the camp an hour ago, going silently most of the time through silken sands, content merely with the company of each other

When we finally reached the top of the dune, we emerged onto a large open area of green meadow, with grass springing from the sands and extending to an end unknown to us. I screamed childishly: O God, why didn’t we camp here; my God where did this grassland come from? Is this your secret hideout

We sat down, silence along with everything before us bathed in an ocean of silver. He was looking at the far horizon, my hands were playing with the soft and juicy grass, not believing it was filling the spaces between my fingers, caressing it, touching the little flowers that glowed with sweet dew under the moonlight, forming circles, stars, lines, letters, and unlinked points

Then, like reading from a book, he said

 We cannot continue looking the other way. Our pasts don’t die; we are prisoners behind no bars, we foolishly think we left them behind, but they rise in their due time, to announce their barbaric presence

  My hand was still holding on to the coolness that was slowly slipping through my fingers; he was not waiting for a reply, and continued reading

That stormy night, they put us in the prison bus after covering our heads with sacks. I cannot remember how long we traveled, but it surely was a long drive, the only sound we heard was that of the squeaking joints of the bus. Sometimes we heard the sound of air ripped by a car speeding like an arrow, and every so often a coughing sound from the end of the bus broke our anxiety. We finally stopped, they got us down, uncovered our heads, and we found ourselves on sands like these

He held his arm high with a handful of sand from the heart of the grass and started slowly scattering it in the wind away from my face. He then took a deep breath

We didn’t know that there was another truck behind us, they brought from it excavating tools, piled them in front of us, and told us to get to work

Our hearts were gripped with terror. The first thing we thought, while digging under the threats of the loaded guns and the slowly growing sandstorm that had been stroking our spines, was that they were going to bury us in mass graves dug by our own hands. They didn’t talk much; they were just prompting us to dig faster, but we stalled fearfully for more time to live, and slowed down the digging

We consumed about all the time we could stall for; after all how much time do you need to dig a hole your size, and in a sandy area? We were around fifteen prisoners but they asked each of us to dig two holes

Our hearts were roaring violently, and maybe their tumult reached climax as we stood in front of our open holes waiting for orders. Some of us struggled to keep standing straight, with knees knocking in fear, before destiny gave us a break; each one of us was ordered to bring a corpse from the truck and bury it in a hole. Just then, we realized that the covered truck was carrying a load of dead people too

We walked to the truck with steps heavy like iron. Each one carried a corpse on his shoulder, headed towards his two holes, buried it hurriedly, and ran again to the truck to bring another one. I guess we were just afraid they would change their minds and ask us to jump into our second holes

We couldn’t believe when we finally got back on the bus that we had actually survived, just like that. We didn’t talk on our way back but when we reached our cells, the dawn was approaching, so we just collapsed on our bunks from tiredness and restlessness. Those of us who had dozed all through the journey continued the rest of their nightmares till sunrise

For seven nights and in the same manner, we labored in burying countless corpses. By then, we had known the exact location by calculating the distance, but we had become like machines that failed to recognize their own parts. It didn’t matter much, because we had lost forever our humanity along with our dreams

I buried fourteen people, dug their graves with my own hands, and carried them on my weary shoulders. I laid them in small holes and large holes all the same, and covered them with sands. I still could feel their smell in my lungs. Some of them were lightweight and petit, some had fresh wounds, and some had broken jaws or limbs; one of them dropped one of his eyes on my hand

In many instances, our shovels hit corpses that we had previously buried because we were so disoriented from stress. Many times, we found the graves and the corpses uncovered by the blows of the passing winds and we had to rebury them again. Sometimes the dead were actually not completely dead

He suddenly stood up and looked far away, as if to seek refuge in the stretching horizon

The dead used to visit me in the night, looking the same way they did when I buried them, and ask me, why? And honestly, all I could remember was fourteen corpses; after that I got mixed up and could not distinguish between what was real and what was mere optical hallucination. After the fourteenth corpse, whenever they got us out of the bus, we would see a large area of corpses thrown out of their graves, waiting for us, as if the sand sea spat them out to float on its waves again

Illness then rescued me from the burying rituals. I was admitted to the prison hospital for a long time before they eventually pardoned a group of us old prisoners, those whose opinions were a threat to no one any more, not even to stray animals. We were finally free of our obsession of being buried half-alive by our friends one day

I saw him clearly in the moonlight, my throat was dry, and my stomach was churning. I was afraid he would hear the beating of my heart or hear my soul fighting not to wail.

المزيد

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التصنيفات : Translated Arabic Short Stories |

أرسل الإدراج

دوّن الإدراج

ارتكاتا - رواية الكاتب السوداني هشام آدم مترجمة

الفصل الثاني 

Artikata - A novel written by Hisham Adam

Translated by Dr. Abdallah Altaiyeb

Chapter Two

Cuenca … The Dream of Freedom

- City of Evil Spirits and Roe Deer -

With arrogance, Amado stood up, casting away the dirt that stuck on his pants while speaking in a very bossy way, “the half hour is now over … everybody… get ready”.   The half hour was not exactly over, but time was a subjective matter to him, so we all got back to our spots once again, and continued riding into the cruel calmness of the night, while its coldness was slowly sneaking its way into our underwear, shamelessly.  I was awake all night, deprived of sleep by Amado’s ugly voice singing a folklore song that I could not enjoy much, and the shaking of the vehicle, which failed to stop until we reached Cuenca the dawn of the next day.

The first thing I saw were women carrying tin cans of water over their heads while watching us from far away. In a festive way, Amado started sounding the horn, announcing our arrival.  Everybody was awakened by the sound and all started looking around as if searching for someone. I could see a polite yearning in my mother’s eyes, as she was looking around, and that somehow gave me the feeling of belonging to the place.

As soon as they heard the sound, people started coming out of their houses, and in a way that had a touch of showing off, Amado continued to circle around the place with his vehicle before he stopped in a spacious sandy plaza.

The same festive scenes in Katyusha were repeated once more in Cuenca. I started to feel an unprecedented yearning for Artikata, and I wished everything around me were a passing dream.  The details of the reception, the repeated words and kisses, the curious looks, and the stupid remarks were all very tiring and boring.  Juanita started crying when my mother ignorantly left her with the company of ugly looking girls, while I was left with boys who wore nothing but dirty shorts and undershirts.  Later, I found out that the eldest of the boys was my uncle, Santiago Emilio, whom I saw for the first time, but felt nothing different towards him than I felt towards the rest of the boys.

The most sacred duty of all was to greet elderly people, especially Orville Bodin whom I feared facing the most, bearing my father’s sin in the letters of my name. But contrary to my expectations, he was very nice and gentle.  He was a small-time writer, only known in Artikata.  I heard that he authored a novel, which I had not read at the time, called Beyond the River.  In addition to the fact that he was the priest of the famous Saint Julio church, I was surprised to find out that he married a second woman, named Owamariz Rogelio, much younger and more beautiful than Soledad Fidel!  It was my first encounter with my ethnic roots, and I later discovered that Orville, the polygamist, had antagonized a wide population of Norcks who never accepted polygamy. This was why Soledad packed her bag and left Cuenca with her little daughter, Damita Orville, to Toledo, next to her other daughters who were living with their husbands.

Toledo was a haven for those fleeing the hell of civil war, which erupted in 1936 and lasted for three years, during which the Norcks suffered the most devastating hunger strikes.  They ate oranges for lunch and saved their peels for dinner.  But eventually, Toledo became very famous, and besides, it was the home for the sons and daughters of Orville Bodin, for none was able to stand his moodiness and hot temper.

Some members of the Orville family, who were advocates of the strong family concept, directed their criticism to Soledad Fidel and accused her of dividing the family when she left.  They attributed her act to sheer irresponsible feminine jealousy.  Orville, the priest, had with Soledad alone seven sons and daughters.  My father was the oldest, then Tierra who married her nephew Vardon Russell and went to live in Toledo early on in her marriage years,  then Coretta, the rebel who married a short man from outside the family, and also lived with him in Toledo before the war. Aunt Coretta was the only one who believed in and practiced Totemism, and for that, she was considered as the renegade of the solid Orville family. 

Dulcinea came next. She stayed in Cuenca with her father, not out of love, but a commitment to her husband, who worked there in Marine transportation. Salvador was next, the Organ player and the passionate lover of music and lavish life.  Santos, the most popular amongst the sons of Orville, was quick with a joke, and very cheerful to the extent that one could not believe he was an Orville.  Rumor had it that he died as a result of drinking ill-brewed wine in 1989.  He was the first to die among the sons of Orville Bodin, and his death was the most devastating news that Orvilles had ever received.  Lastly, Damita, the aunt I never liked, and with whom I developed a feeling that later turned into a history of long animosity. From Owamariz Rogelio, Orville had five children; Doctor Zinon, Emerald, Esperanza, Hermenia, and Aldonsa who died of breast cancer in 1999.

Those were just names I read on our family tree, and up until my historic visit to Cuenca, I knew none of them other than Uncle Salvador who was living with us in Artikata until the death of Uncle Santos Orville.

The most difficult task was to get to know the family members, and bond with them.  The boys who had been surrounding me gave me looks I could not rationally explain, as if I was an alien with human features.  The voice of my grandfather Orville Bodin, who was advancing towards me with a slight limp caused by chronic gout, scared the boys away from around me.  He stared at the details of my face which he saw for the first time, and with a mechanical fatherly passion, kissed me once and exclaimed, “So this is Casper then!”

Then Owamariz Rogelio came.  She looked kind; her eyes did not have those cunning looks of Soledad’s. It was puzzling that she welcomed me, and I could not decide whether she really loved me or she was just pretending to please Orville.  Was she really pleased to see me or wanted to show Orville that she could love his sons from his first wife?  However, I discovered that her lips were not moist like Soledad’s, but they had the same smell!

When I finally entered the grand family house, it felt as if I was passing through a time gate to an ancient world.  The feeling was intensified with the sight of dust that inhabited the place. I was anxiously searching for my mother among the crowds when someone surprised me with an advice, close to being an order, go and play with the kids outside.  The kids were busy collecting money to go to the moving theatre which opened every Easter’s morning.  I stood near them, looking around, but showing no interest to participate.  Santiago Emilio came to me, and with a serious voice said, “do you have money?.  I suddenly remembered the banknote that my grandmother Soledad secretly hid in my pocket and I felt ashamed to admit, let alone deny.  But admitting having a miserable banknote was less shameful than denying, which would mean that the rich boy of Artikata was broke, and that would be a stab in my alleged aristocratic pride.  I decided to give him the banknote.  To my astonishment, I immediately discovered that what I was holding in my pocket, carelessly, was a valuable banknote to the extent that everybody else put back their money into their pockets.  That piece of paper was more than enough to get us all to the theatre and buy us beverages too.  I felt proud of Soledad and realized how much she really loved me.

The kids of Cuenca were very good with their hands. They crafted small makeshift cars using empty oil cans, with souls of old shoes dug out of the dumpster, as tires, and long thin sticks with rounded metal bars at their ends, as steering wheels.   I liked those cars very much, and as my face radiated the feeling, one of the boys was kind enough to give me one of them.  That was the start for me to have a real friendship with some of the boys.

At noontime, while the adults were asleep, the boys gathered in a nearby court, holding the sticks of their cars, to go swimming in River Cuervo.  The sight of the river with its clear water was very tempting, that the boys took advantage of the moment, since the adults banned children from swimming.  I was not a good swimmer, so I only played in the shallow area of the river where there were large rounded stones that looked like eggs of a mystic bird.  I was and still am unjustifiably afraid of swimming and the concealed water world.  I felt like I was a shapeless piece of sponge, not knowing the techniques of floating and seeing under water. 

Some boys told me stories – adults invented to scare children away from swimming in the river – about alligators which devoured thousands of men and women of the village and capsized the boats of those who wanted to cross the river to the other side to get medicinal herbs. Despite the fact that I was still in shallow water, I felt that some of those alligators were particularly going to swallow me, leaving all the other boys unharmed.  I felt, in a way, that those damned alligators smelled my fear, and so I began beating the water with my feet to scare them away.  Later, Santiago told me that alligators were scarce species of dinosaurs that took refuge in water bodies at some point in time, fleeing the enormous fire, caused by an erroneous meteor that hit a forest and caused the death of a lot of creatures. He told me how they adopted to living in their new environment.  Although he laughed at how he was able to scare me, I was deeply convinced with that fable.

In the evening, when darkness prevailed, we used to spend our time in the wide sandy court in front of the house of Manuel Emilio, my grandfather from my mother’s side, who settled in Artikata.  Living in this house were my aunts Emayrees and Eldora in addition to my grandmother Mariabella Tancredo.  I could not recall having intimate moments or memories of any of them, and so was the case for all of my relatives from my mother’s side.  Uncle Santiago Emilio used to explain to us the rules of the game “Ojos Del Tigre” or “Eye of the Tiger”.  We would stand with our backs facing north so we would not see him, then he would take an old bone of a dead animal and throw it randomly, and then we would start searching around the place for the bone depending only on the moonlight.

Cuenca, the mountainous city inhabited by evil spirits as Mariabella Tancredo said, was not very scary, notwithstanding the strange sounds heard at night, coming from Las Torcas[1].  While all the stories of Cuenca women agreed that the sounds were of the locked evil spirits in Las Torcas, few people attributed the sounds to the passing wind on the Torcas that looked like inverted trapezoids.  Mariabella said that the souls of the mortals of the civil war, buried in Las Torcas, moved angrily at night, especially those who had their heads separated from their bodies, across the Torcas that together formed what looked like rings of a gigantic chain.  She also said that, once, a priest had besieged them and locked them in the Torcas , which were the main source of the sound, after they refused to live in a large sculpture made especially for them.  This fable was widely believed, especially among the children of Cuenca, who were not allowed to go out at night for whatever reason.

I still could remember the looks on uncle Santos’ face, which radiated lovable warmth, as if he was someone you knew for long time.  I did not witness his naughty days which my father used to make fun of, but people said that, he once was sitting with a friend drinking French wine, and while his friend was trying to pour the wine in small bottles, some of it spelled on the floor. Santos shouted in his face, be careful.  The friend replied back indifferently, Easy Santos, it is only wine, it is not like it is Oil!  But Santos was quick with a convincing counterargument as usual, “the natural place of oil is underground, but wine lodges in the heads!

That day when my mother went with Aunt Coretta Orville to a family funeral, she left me and Morris Lionel for his caring.   While he was busy playing folkloric music on the large piano he had in his room, Morris convinced me to go out and follow our mothers, not for anything but to disobey orders and live an adventure of some sort.  Morris Lionel, who came with his mother, Aunt Coretta, from Toledo, had already visited Cuenca before and that assured me of his knowledge of the area.  On our way to the cemetery, we passed by the wild area of Cuenca, which was considered the most famous deer protectorate in the whole region.  After a half hour of walking, we reached the cemetery.  The grave stones, topped with cross signs, gave me the feeling that the dead were teasing us with their extended wooden tongues from deep under.  The cemetery was desolated and gave me the creeps.  I felt my hair rising like thorns of a hedgehog sharpened for a fight.  There was a strange smell tainting the place, and I imagined it to be the smell of the dead or the smell of death itself. On th

المزيد

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التصنيفات : Artikata - A Translated Arabic Novel |

أرسل الإدراج

دوّن الإدراج

الغراب قصة إنسانية من قصص الرائع الكاتب الكبير عواض شاهر  أشكر الأديب عواض على نصه المتميز  

The Crow

Written by: Awaadh Shaher

Translated by: Dr. Abdallah Altaiyeb

The fragile virginity of the place trembled before me. The sky had frail blue ends, and the sun was awesomely naked. A wooden pole, with a lone crow announcing its presence on top, was determined to stay but with an undecided mission in the middle of the desert, after they had removed the electrical wire holders and fixed them on an enormous steel tower, newly erected on a road that traveled far.  It had resolved to stand tall with its dark color and cylindrical body, as it had been doing for ages, diligently carrying the wires.  So, why couldn’t it simply stay a bit more for a lone crow that possessed nothing but its raucous sound    

I shifted my sight deliberately from one pole to another in the heart of the desert, while the crow echoed its caws solemnly.  I took a deep breath, for I was not annoyed of its presence around me.  Quite the contrary, a feeling of joy made me listen to the beat of life in its cries, echoing naturally in the place. Its petit body gave the pole a jet black pointed head.  Every time it raised its head to bestow an everlasting greeting upon the place, ancient shadows of a nomadic nation that dwelled once upon a time in the wedges of the sands, hunting fresh lightning as an offering for the commanding door, moved on things. Ages with unbroken flashes of lightning passed by the sky, and yet other ages marched on while the barefooted nomads waited daily for the clouds.  Generations died and left their spines for the grinding teeth of stones and the remains of the ancestors, who showed up in dreams with their exposed skulls pouring ashes

Black and clammy winds carried the news.  The Door had abandoned the lightning flashes and the desert, and instead started building houses in so many cities that only welcomed whomever it invited.  It shaved its matted beard and fixed its moustache.  It donned its very precious turban and married many women of different breeds and lands.  It learned the languages of nations and sent its children, in a crusade for knowledge, to the lands of Christians

They all came back home, eyes looking down.  Their heads were consumed with thoughts they could not describe, let alone get rid of. They felt defeated, and inside their ragged houses they stayed awhile nurturing their skeletons and weeping all along. They felt deceived by the sand; the very one they devoted their lives for its cause over the ages.  Its overwhelmingly silky touch on hands puzzled them, and its discontent with their old habit of digging water out of its guts discomforted them. The sand had become domesticated, but only like quern stones in times of hunger. And while the Door had forged a deal with a foreign wind to carry it along with the smell of homes and the seeds of their fertile plants, the desert contracted the fever of infectious water, where hallucination was the sole gate to madness and death on long roads

The crow’s caw came out softly like smoke from ruins. Then, with its freshly sharpened voice, it began mercilessly slashing the innocence of whatever stood in its way, causing the faces to revert back to their origin, to the first set of eyes that feasted on them the very first time.  And when the place lost its identity and things looked quite the opposite of what they were, the soft lines on the sand’s facade quivered.  The sand deserted its serenity, giving rise to dust and burnt papers that flew around with a native wind that was murmuring unexpectedly in the place

Terrified, I was looking at the charred relics of ancient creatures surfacing out of the folds of the volatile sand that was flying with the wind. I was wondering why it didn’t rain instead of this branched lightning that burned everything. Only the wooden poles survived the flashes. Yet, there they were, standing in the desert helplessly and vainly, just like me; exactly like me, except for the crow which at that particular moment landed on my head and indulged in cawing

From the book “Not a Trace” by the same author, 2007

الغراب

 قصة الأديب عواض شاهر

من مجموعة " ما من أثر " الصادرة عن دار طوى/مركز الانتشار العربي 2007  

النص الأصلي منقول من موقع القصة العربية

المكان، ترتجف بيني وبينه عذرية هشة. سماؤه مفككة الزرقة من الأطراف، وشمسه فاضحة الضوء. ..

العمود الخشبي الذي و

المزيد

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التصنيفات : Translated Arabic Short Stories |

أرسل الإدراج

دوّن الإدراج

The Museum Girl

Written By:  Faisal Abu Saad
Translated By:  Dr. Abdallah Altaiyeb

Heading towards the Grand Museum, Salwa was crossing the street, holding on to a brilliant hope for a job as a tour guide.  She had just earned a degree in Foreign Languages from the National University, but the words of all the languages she had learned seemed to vanish, like bubbles touching the land of reality

There, just few meters away from the museum, a tall handsome tourist appeared in her sight, a dream that had lost its way home.  He was beaming like a sun, and she too was beautiful like a fairytale; it seemed that, together, they portrayed what looked like the masterpiece of a legendary painter

He asked her, in broken Arabic that sounded like the first words of a joyful child, to show him the way to the Museum.  Captivated by his spell, and swept off her feet by his charm, she told him she was going in the same direction.  She thanked her degree that had come in handy as she hastened to add that he needed not to struggle with words, she could fluently speak his native language!

And they walked together

Jonathan, who made heads turn in awe, in every country he toured, with his natural elegance, streaming blonde hair like ribbons of gold, and superior culture, had stunned her, and she wrote in her diary that day

I think God is still on my side

She carried the same first name with two of her cousins, and shared with them the same family name, and a similar fate.  She would later be known as Salwa of the Museum, just to tell her apart from her cousins, for, simply, it would not be appropriate to call her limping Salwa.  She distanced herself from those around her when she realized that there were people living freely as they pleased in this strange world.  Despite her astonishingly beautiful eyes and classic features, so many others wished for, all they could see was her slight limp
 
Jonathan was the only one who looked into her eyes, and did not seem to notice or wonder much about her short leg.  He did not care if it was polio or an old accident; he showed no sympathy, and certainly no displeasure.  He just walked with her like two old friends, reliving shared memories, and minding their sprouting moment

That day, it was only reasonable for her to write atop a fresh page in her diary: is my dream finally coming alive

In college, Salwa was an accomplished student, and languages came easy to her.  She answered those critical about her passion for languages, that a new language gives a person a new life.   She was very talkative, but her eyes were always fixed on a point somewhere, visible to no one but her, looking beyond the seen, and dreaming

After years in college and meeting different people, it was not likely for her to marry her Libyan cousin, the knight on a chronically disabled white horse.  Nor could she settle for her military cousin, although she liked him, for the smell of his uniform reminded her of the associated backwardness.  And definitely, she could not revive old friendships with her male colleagues from school time; after all, she used to look down her nose at them

This time, she weaved her nostalgic words onto the fragile fabric of her heart:  Jonathan my love, where are you

With him, she had the time of her life.  They walked together, trying to discover whether their forefathers were distantly related.  He too was good with words, simply because he was free as a dream, and no problems could keep him on a tight rein.   He talked with the sweetness of running through open and wide prairies, feeling her eyes on him the entire time.   He told her he liked her, as he was preparing to leave.  She was aware of the subtle difference between like and love, but still, his words felt just as good as love in her dictionary of dreams.  She asked him to return back for her, and he said while kissing her, in the street, I will.  Yet, somehow, she felt certain it was goodbye

She was hired as an assistant museum cura

المزيد

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التصنيفات : Translated Arabic Short Stories |

أرسل الإدراج

دوّن الإدراج

رواية آرتكاتا للأديب هشام آدم رواية عربية مكتوبة بلغة رفيعة تبدو وكأنها إحدى الروايات الأجنبية حيث تدور أحداثها في بلد أجنبي.

Translated by Dr. Abdallah Altaiyeb

From Artikata to Cuenca

- Chicken Pox and Pale Complexions -

We were about to leave when my grandmother, Soledad Fidel, kissed me while secretly putting a wretched banknote in my hand. Although I did not know its value at the time, and despite the fact that I did not expect her to do so, I was angry because she found nothing but that miserable paper to show her love to me. Yet, I allowed her to kiss me with her moist lips without reciprocating just to let her know how offended I was for the insult she dropped on me. I still could remember how she cried that day for a reason I did not know, for I could not believe that she loved me enough to cry while bidding me farewell. But I discovered the contrary when we arrived to Cuenca after a long and tiring journey during which I contracted Smallpox. And maybe my mother suffered the most in the journey, as she had to care for a sick child, and my moody and turbulent sister, Juanita Serginio, who was two years my senior. My father, who stayed behind in Artikata where he worked in a diamond mine, had already stressed to my mother in one of their quick phone calls, which lacked exchanged sentimental words, to take us to our hometown to get to know our relatives there. This act of his, which aimed at strengthening family ties, carried an important meaning for him but stained with male ego he always wanted to feel since he married my mother in 1971. I felt overwhelmingly happy when I heard the train whistle announcing its departure to Toledo, and I started waving goodbye to those standing alongside the station even though I did not know anyone of them. 

During the short and sporadic times when I awakened through my weariness, I saw nothing through the train’s window but arid and rocky land, fitting perfectly with the fever that was battling with me throughout the journey, a matter that suggested to me that I might die of thirst. What bothered me even more than the fever was the sound of the couplers of the train cars that seemed to be about to separate from each other any minute, and the sound of the cast iron wheels that resembled heartbeats of a giant genie. These sounds aroused laziness and were very depressing especially with the melancholic atmosphere that engulfed the cabinet. The only thing that got stuck strongly in my mind from that journey was the smell of seat leather, which largely resembled the smell of cat fur. In that period, I was the center of attention for the female golden agers, a thing that made me disgusted with the smell of oldsters and the sight of their wrinkled skin in addition to their eating habits that made me sick to my stomach. Despite that, they were the most caring of all people. On the other hand, there was an old family grudge caused by the independent behavior of my father, which my grandfather considered as ingratitude, when my father refused to name me after him, and instead sent him a one-line telegram that said “congratulations on the newborn, Casper Serginio”. This was back in 1974. 

None of his sons or daughters fulfilled his dream of having a grandson bearing his name, which only existed in old French. That was a reason behind softening the anger of my grandfather after five years of my birth. However, flying shrapnel of that anger somehow reached his brothers and sisters who witnessed his last heart attack that hit him when he read the provocative telegram. But the truth was they were discontent with my father’s success in fleeing the hell of domineering Orville Bodin, to work in the most famous diamond mind at that time, leaving them for the iron fist of a hardheaded father, and a hard social consuetude that did not stimulate ambition. And maybe refusing to name me Orville was one of my father’s rare deeds that I could remember, for it would sound like a name of a declassed clown “Orville Serginio Orville.

We were sharing our cabin with a mouthy and snoopy woman, wearing a black dress spotted with white small circles, eyeglasses, and black gloves that matched her dress. I found out later that she was the wife of one of my father’s friends. That woman, Charlotte Corbin, was endlessly advising my mother of the best traditional methods of treating me since she had a long experience in dealing with this illness that had hit her two brothers and son lately. And I wondered how she had survived it! The worst experience I had gone through in this journey was when my mother left me for the caring of this woman and went to the bathroom.

It was the first time for me to find out that my family, descendents of Norck tribes, favored traditional medicine and believed in it more than they trusted technology and developed medicine. They viewed medicine and science in general as less respectable, and therefore the nearest clinic was at a one-day walking distance from Cuenca. Through the train window, I enjoyed watching the peddlers in the stations during train stops, each of which lasted not more than a quarter of an hour. The sight of the stations was very miserable and attracted drowsiness, and if it were not for the passing of some generic faces, they would seem deserted. On top of that, the stations had no signboards or nameplates. I paid mind to this through the questions of Mrs. Corbin who was drooping from the window to ask a passerby “which station is this?” And I could still remember that skinny girl who was selling red drinks packed in transparent bags and arranged in a classic old bucket. When I asked my mother to buy me some of the red drink, that woman volunteered her advice to her for the contrary, arguing that cold drinks might aggravate my health condition. Although my mother was convinced of her advice, I had achieved an advanced degree of hatred for that woman, that I was not about to accept her advice, or submit to her and her snoopiness, and I even considered the matter of buying the chilled drink a private family matter. I had to resort to crying, using my illness for support, and normally such trick works, since ill people receive special treatment and they are usually pampered more than healthy people. But I did not enjoy the taste of the drink because of the bitterness in my throat, but it did not matter since I was drinking my triumph in glee anyway.

I did not know why it seemed to me that Mrs. Corbin was exchanging with me antipathetic looks through her glasses. This undeclared war between us continued until the train reached Katyusha in the afternoon of a very warm day when tens of men and women gathered for the reception. That was the last of the days of motherly warmth. I felt illogically estranged and sad while watching the melodramatic scenes of families forced to separation and displacement by war .

The sad words, which my mother and the women were reciprocating, had profound effects on me although I had not mastered the local dialect professionally, and sometimes I used the sign language and head nods to the extent that many people had confused me for a mute. I liked the way people switched between crying and laughing, and then to guffawing, but later I found that one could easily train for that. I was less than eight years old, and traditional richness was showing on my mother who would not dare to take off her golden bangles that weighed down on her wrist like guards of a Buddha temple, as if that was the only proof that she had come from Artikata, the city of diamond. I could not come up with a reason why she had to prove that, but through additional mingling with the Norck tribes, I knew they cared for such details to a great extent. 

Pale yellow was the prevailing color in everything I had seen and remembered of that town, the houses of which were scattered around leaving large spaces for people to use for various occasions. At that time, I had almost recovered and I was able to walk unsupported. “Oh my God.. he is the son of Serginio”; these were the words that everybody uttered as they set their eyes on me. Only then, I uncovered the male conspiracy that my father weaved as he insisted that my mother should take us to Artikata. I never wanted others to treat me as the son of Serginio, but our people, naïve as they were, exulted in doing so. I had endured tens of kisses from men and women unknown to me with a strange bounteousness. And although everyone had introduced themselves to me, I did not care much at the time. I was only reading joy in their faces, and the simplicity of their life was a reason for me to castaway my embarrassment, and to directly ask where the bathroom was, contrary to my habit of only confiding in my mother my need to answer nature’s call. My memories of Katyusha were not exactly perfect, maybe because I only stayed there for two days, during which we were waiting for a transportation vehicle to take us to Cuenca, the ultimate reach of our journey.

The journey was much like the illegal immigration crossings that some people were secretly organizing across the western border using various transportation means. In one of their evening gatherings under the moonlight, a woman, who still maintained the looks of aristocrats bestowed upon her by an aged estrangement that only ended a few years back, came through holding a bag full of traditional souvenirs. She gave the bag to my mother who took it gracefully and promised to deliver it to its intended person in Cuenca.

Those evening gatherers talked about issues, which were not that important to me; issues mostly about those who died while my mother was away from Katyusha when she left with her husband to Artikata, those who migrated to distant lands, and about the newly celebrated marriages with their subsequent offspring. Meanwhile, I was busy watching a big monitor lizard that was diligently digging a hole in a sandy area nearby. I thought it was an alligator at the beginning, but someone patted me on the shoulder and said, “it’s the first time for you to see such an animal… right?”, and gave me a smile that made me fear him. Next day, Georginio Amado had arrived early morning in his vehicle, the most famous in the area, sounding its musical horn, which I still remembered to this day. The villagers knew every driver by the sound of their horns. Moreover, the children used to indulge in contests to mimic those musical sounds vocally. And as an aristocratic lady, my mother lead her way to the front seat next to the driver where only elites were allowed, while everybody else started laying down their mats on the back of the truck. Mrs. Corbin was among them, and I had a reason to gloat. Although she was kind to ask my mother to have my sister Juanita stay with her, at an advanced stage in my life, I found out that what Mrs. Corbin did was a professional technique; grownups can punish children by ignoring them and diverting their attention to other ones. It was a matter of minutes before the plaza was full of farewell bidders, and the back of the truck was full of male and female passengers grouping together like African emigrants. This scenic festival was repeated every Wednesday with the same details that emphasized the importance of the receiving and farewell bidding rituals among the residents of Katyusha.

Men’s hats and women’s handkerchiefs, were slipping away from sight along with the houses, and sinking in a red twilight river, while we were heading north to Cuenca through Guadalajara, the rocky valley that our ancestors used to pass through with their cattle to the fertile ground of the Savanna. This valley turned to a streaming river during rainy seasons, which sometimes lasted more than three months. I had no curious desire to observe the road or know the landmarks.  I also missed the sight of Ojos Del Sol, the mountain known to have the sun slide through a wide orifice at its peak, but later I read about it in some travel books.

I used to wonder about my mother’s strange ability to sleep all through the annoying vehicle movement caused by the bumpy road. It felt as if we were on a howdah, a top of an Arabian camel, and what helped intensify the feeling was a red piece of clothe ending with embroidered velvety strands, Amado used as a decorating ornament dangling from the ceiling of his car. Suddenly, my mother awoke in panic and made the sign of the cross with her hand in a mechanical worshipping way when Amado suddenly cried “Lourdes…Lourdes”. I wondered about the sudden devoutness that engulfed them while they were looking at something outside. I looked out of the window to see while smiling at the contagious curiosity I contracted from Mrs. Corbin. I only saw a pyramid shaped building with a cross at the top. It looked like a monastery, the designer of which probably did not select the right location. I looked at my mother, she was still in her catholic religious fervor, and I asked her “what is this place?”, but she signaled to me to keep quite. However, Amado smiled at me, pulled me from the arm, and sat me next to him.

Son, I’ll tell you the story … it had been said that a teenaged catholic girl called Bernadette Spyros came to Grotto of Massabielle, which you can see in front of you over there, withdrawing from life and people, and asked the Virgin Mary to appear for her if she could do that

And did the Virgin Mary really appear to her?

I guess so!

Although I liked tales that involved ancestors and long gone people, this particular one was very depressing and lacked interesting details, and so I resorted to my childish imagination to add more dramatic and interesting twists to Amado’s abridged story.

Despite the privacy of sitting in the front seat and its bourgeois significance, I did not feel comfortable, for I could not stretch or make the slightest move without getting one of my mother’s hard line looks. She was very keen for us to look very polite in front of others, especially grownups and I used to work hard to meet her expectations, but all she could notice was the rare slips.

Amado stopped the car, turned down the engine, and announced a half hour rest. We all got out of the car, and some started stretching and unfolding their bodies, while others were on their knees peeing nearby. It was very cold and men were breathing out white vapor clouds like mystic dragons, while women wrapped their faces with cotton shawls. I liked the sight of white clouds and it gave me a perverted idea; I exhaled through my first and second fingers pretending to look like a professional smoker. What I liked most about this was that I was not afraid of my mother. Juanita was begging mother to take her to the front seat compelled not by a bourgeois flair, but seemingly, she got bored of the company of Mrs. Corbin. I enjoyed my mother’s firm position, although I felt pity for Juanita. Some of the passengers gathered in circles and started talking and laughing, disturbing the calmness of this desolated place. Amado was sipping on his evening coffee from a pot that he neatly hid away. I used to wonder about adults’ addiction to coffee and tea, things that I never developed a taste for. It seemed as if they were meant for grownups, and having a cup of tea was a sign of being an adult. For us children, our mothers cooled the tea in a very laborious way, and sometimes they added cold water to it. Anyway, I never drank tea in my life, saving this adventure to later.    

 Out of somewhere, we heard the voice of a young girl shouting, cursing, and name-calling someone. We later found out that he was hitting on her while she was peeing. Quietness then prevailed, while some were gossiping and making fun of the event. I pitied the girl as her mother smacked her on the face and grounded her for the rest of the journey. I could not understand why the mother punished the girl, since she was the victim, and why no one condemned the incident, and instead everyone just raised their eyebrows in displeasure that vanished in few minutes. This incident caused all other mothers to do the same with their daughters. I felt that they were like helpless flocks of sheep, that had no way but to befriend wolves, which played double roles; protecting them and devouring them at the same time.

المزيد

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التصنيفات : Artikata - A Translated Arabic Novel |

أرسل الإدراج

دوّن الإدراج

A Luminous Woman

 Written by Sharif Saleh

Translated by Dr. Abdallah Altaiyeb

There was a silvery light, from an unknown source, in the room, along with a woman, freckled and lonely.  She was tightening her eyes, so it was not possible to tell their color, but probably they had a silver shine to them, matching that of the lonely light.  A lonesome window was closed in the face of the room, and a clock was ticking from somewhere, with a perpetual monotony, tick … tick … tick

She had been standing there in the room for a while.  Then, she decided to take off her black velvet jacket, revealing a blouse of a blended green and yellow color, crowned with a large collar.  She took it off too, and looked somewhat taller in her high heal shoes and slender legs.  Her body was still great, despite the grey strands of hair above her ears 

She opened the window, and the lonely light was quick to change its color, just as the air in the room was trading its smell with the wind outside

Was I late for you, darling

As if talking to someone in the room, she asked, and then started wandering around, disturbing the fragile peace forged between the thin layers of dust and the room furniture.  Whether lying in the open atop the commode or hiding behind the desk, she knew where to find them     

Fetching wilted flowers from under the bed in the corner, she murmured

He used to love these flowers

While still on her knees, she cast them away to the wastebasket.   Standing slowly, holding on to the bed frame for support, she glanced at his stretched body and, on the spur of the moment, leaned forward and kissed his forehead, which was cold as ice.  However, just for a second in the frail light, she thought he blinked his eyes

He kept his eyes closed while she was pulling his body to the bathroom.  He was heavy, but she maintained her hands firmly under his armpits and pulled steadily, two steps at a time, st

المزيد

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التصنيفات : Translated Arabic Short Stories |

أرسل الإدراج

دوّن الإدراج

 رجل الخامسة والنصف

انهزمت حقيبتي.. تبعثرت.. قطع الملابس ألقت بنفسها على أرض الحجرة.. التصقت بالسجاد كجزء منه.. حتى أدوات الحلاقة توَّجت انهزامها بدمائي تسيل على الحوض.. لماذا أغادر؟.. عمري في دنياها يومان.. لماذا أغادر.. كأني أختصر العالم بسؤالي.. ورأسي أفرغ من صحراء..

 ــ هيا.. خابر زوجتك قبل أن ترحل.. غير معقول أن تتركها دون كلام أو سلام ..

  ــ لماذا لاتعطونها رقمي ؟

ــ يا أخي .. النساء أشد خجلا .. أو يفترض!.. لقد تزوجتها بالأمس وتريد أن ترحل دون أن تخابرها.. تريد أن تصبح أمثولة!

ــ يا جماعة.. أنا لست من هذا النوع .. ربما أبوها يمانع .. ثم إن موعد الزفاف  قريب .. شهر على الأكثر وتكون معي ..

ــ أنت عنيد ومزعج.. والله إن لم تخابرها الآن .. لن نعطيك رقمها وإن أريتنا دموعك!

ماذا أقول لها .. لا نملك مقومات اللغة الحوارية فنفترشها .. غريبان وإن كنا زوجين .. كحجري رحى يفصلهما القمح.. ومن يذيبه؟.. أأبدأها بالسلام.. أم أهنئها على اقترانها بي.. موقف مثير.. ومحرج.. كطبق شهي من الكيك تريده وتريد أن تأكله في نفس الوقت ؟!

أفضل الهرب.. وحقيبتي اللعينة تنهزم .. حتى موعد الرحلة يريدني أن أخابرها .. الجميع من حولي .. أقرأ في عيونهم توسلات أمي ..

ــ حسنا.. أكلم أمها..

ــ وتطلب زوجتك..

ــ كلا..

ــ لافائدة منك

ــ حسنا.. سأفعل

سأقول لأمها.. كيف حالك.. كيف الصحة.. ثم أقذف بالسماعة إلى أختي .. ولكني وعدت .. سأكلمها وأطلب منها هيفاء.. ممكن أكلم هيفاء .. وماذا بعد .. أقول لها أني مغادر بعد نصف ساعة وألقي بنفسي في التاكسي قبل أن يلقي بي خجلي من النافذة ..

لم أحس بمثل هذا الشعور من قبل .. أنا متزوج .. ولا أشعر بذلك .. كمتسابق يسمع إسماً قريباً من إسمه يفوز بالجائزة فينتفض فرحا ثم يعود إلى ترقبه من جديد ..

حملت ست سنين من التعب شهادة جامعية لأبي .. وطلبت أن أتزوج .. بعد يومين قالوا نذهب لرؤية العروس..

رائحة العُودة تزكم أنفي .. حفرت وجهي في المرآة .. وتركت أصابعي بصماتها على العقال .. أخرجت الجورب الأبيض الجديد وغرست قدمي في الحذاء الأسود الضيق .. بللت منديلي بلساني وتأكدت من لمعانه .. أشعر بملايين العدسات تراقبني وأنا أصعد الدرج .. حفظت عدد الدرج .. ولونه .. ودرست طريقة صنعه إلى أن دلفت إلى الحجرة .. استقامت رؤيتي وارتخى عنقي حين رفعت رأسي ..

أخفيت ركبتاي بطرف كمي كيما تفضحا انفعالي .. ألف

المزيد

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التصنيفات : قصص قصيرة |

أرسل الإدراج

دوّن الإدراج

Don’t Leave The Door Open… Please

Written By: Wafa Altayeb

Translated by : Dr. Abdallah Altaiyeb

My husband left without closing the armoire door after changing his clothes.  He knew how I hated for our maid to see me scattered all over my bed and in my sleep. Carelessly and as usual, he left the door of the apartment open.  He did not close the door behind him when he got in either 

Despite my frequent warnings not to leave the door open at night, he always counterargued by saying

Don’t worry, we are in the eighth floor, and the apartment next to us is vacant; and besides, the doorman would not allow strangers in

My heart was restless as I forgot my keys inside the apartment this time. It was already past 1 AM and I was on my way to my apartment with my friend, Um Ahmad, and her husband as I had prearranged with her to give me a lift at the conclusion of the soiree.   I got out of the car while still in full makeup.  The doorman opened the door of the house and I climbed the stairs.  I knew that the elevator would be out of service by force of habit.  But what if my husband did not leave the door open?  No…this time he would intentionally leave it open, because he knew I was outside and I would return at 1 AM

Regrettably, the door was not open, I would have to wake him up and ring the door bill

 Actually, I was not sure how many hours passed while I was still at the door.  A white light was sneaking through the roof’s door. 

المزيد

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التصنيفات : Translated Arabic Short Stories |

أرسل الإدراج

دوّن الإدراج

المزيد

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التصنيفات : قصص قصيرة |

أرسل الإدراج

دوّن الإدراج

المزيد

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التصنيفات : قصص مترجمة باللغة الفرنسية |

أرسل الإدراج

دوّن الإدراج

المزيد

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التصنيفات : Translated Arabic Short Stories |

أرسل الإدراج

دوّن الإدراج

Mister Jumah 

المزيد

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التصنيفات : Translated Arabic Short Stories |

أرسل الإدراج

دوّن الإدراج

لاتغلقــي الجـــوال

وقالت تعبت الآن منك ومن أبــي 

                         وشوق وحب قبل خوفٍ ومهرب

 فجهراً تحاببنا.. وسراً تلاقينــــــا    

                         بهمسٍ بجوَّالٍ.. وحــرفٍ مهــذب

فما حيلتي إن حال في القرب بيننا

                         حجابٌ من الدنـيـــا بأمرٍ مغــيــب

لهثتُ وراء العمر.. عمراً مهــددا    

                         فياحظ نفسي في سرابٍ ومشـرب

تركتُ وراء اليوم خلِّي ومتعــتي 

                         وصدقي وحبي وانهماري ومركبي

عبدتُ بأيامي.. نزقتُ بأحلامـــي  

                         سرقتُ بأفكـاري.. ومانلت مــأربي

فلا قمتُ ليلي كي تفيق مدامــعي 

                         ويغشى جمودَ القلب حسنُ المطالب

وما طفت بالأسواق أغشى وأنتقي 

                         وألقى وأُلقي بيــن حســنُ المطــايب

ومانــال قـلبي حــبُّ إنسٍ بعدمــا          

                      رحــلتِ .. وإنٍّي بين عجـمٍ وعــارب

لحدتك في قبرين.. قلبي وتربـــة

                         يجــــاورها خير الأنـــام بمــقـــرب

تركت على الأكفان جوَّالك الوفي

المزيد

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التصنيفات : شعر عمودي |

أرسل الإدراج

دوّن الإدراج

شهران .. مرا

شهران.. مرًّا

وكنا دمىً.. تتعرًّى

وقفزات حبٍ.. وحرف كبير بحجم ابتسامة عملاق..

وسقفٌ.. أوانا..

حبيسين كنا.. ونحفظ أرقام أقفالنا.. نتناسى..

قيودٌ.. وأقفال..

ونسكن أكرم سجن

وأطهو حساءاً.. أتذكره..

المزيد

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التصنيفات : قصائد نثرية |

أرسل الإدراج

دوّن الإدراج

رمال وأساطير

وأزرعُ في مقلتيك اكتئاباتِ رملي..

فيغدو السواد..

ويذوي فيها اصفرارُ السنابل.. ويغدو سحاباً..

ويهمي رموزاً.. تطلُ من اللغةِ البائدة..

فأنقشُ في ساعديكِ أماني كفٍ.. صغيرٍ.. صغيرْ..

علته الحروفُ.. بأقلامها..

وجاءتْ بحلوىً لذيذة..

وخاطت بأصبعه السنبلة..

وكانت.. حروف!!

وقالت.. لديكَ حقوقْ.. مخبأةٌ بين تلكِ الشقوقِ البعيدة..

ولست بغادٍ لها.. لإحتفاءِكَ بالسنبلة!

فذاك عقوقْ..

وتلك شقوقْ.. وبين الجميعِ.. حقوقْ!

فأرسمُ فيكِ الملامحْ..

فتأوي إليكِ المطامحْ..

فأنت الجميلةٌ.. أنت الخليلةً.. وحدي أراكِ البخيلة!

فأنحتُ في أنفكِ.. أنَفَه..

فما ضاعَ ضاعْ.. ووحدكِ غاديةٌ آتية!

كذاك أحسُ بأسطورتي..

فآخذُ من شَعرُكِ.. شَعرةً..

وأمشي عليها إلى كهفِ كهلٍ.. حزينٍ.. حزينْ..

تقرح منه اللسان.. وفاضت حياءً أحاديثه..

المزيد

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التصنيفات : قصائد نثرية |

أرسل الإدراج

دوّن الإدراج

هذه القصيدة هي للأديبة الامريكية الاسطورة..مايا آنجلو.. ألقتها في عام 1993، وقد قمت بترجمتها الى العربية

المزيد

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التصنيفات : قصائد مترجمة من اللغة الإنجليزية |

أرسل الإدراج

دوّن الإدراج

One(s) 1

المزيد

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التصنيفات : Translated Arabic Short Stories |

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خفافيـــــــش

 نتسلق الخوف .. ونبلغ القمة .. ومع ذلك نعيش برفاهية !!

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مجدةٌ هي الشمس .. لا تزال تكافح بقوة واهنة وهي تمد خيوطهـا العنكبوتيـة لتعلن انتصـارها المتكرر..  والخفافيش لم تزل تلعن الشمس.. إنها الطاغوت الأكبر.. فهي تسلبهم حقهم في الحياة كل يوم دون ملل.. تضئ أنفسهم لأنفسهم فقط ليزدادوا إظلاما..

كنا أربعة من هؤلاء الخفافيش.. يقتلنا خوفنا كل صباح ونجرعه بفرح عند المساء.. تفر منا طمأنينة الفجر الرمادية لنـأسرها قرب منتصف الليل.. أكان ذلك جميلا ؟ ..كنت أعتقد ذلك.. أنا (دريد).. وهم (عمرو) و(وابل) و(قيس)..

هم أعز اصدقائي.. وأنا لهم أكثر من مسلي !!

 كانت ليلة مشحونة بالظلام والعرق.. جمعنا بيت غير سيئ السمعة.. تنازعنا فيه أوراق اللعب وقتلنا عروقنا بالماء المصبوغ.. أنجزتْ ساعات الليل عملها بأسطورية.. وألفينا أنفسنا على أبواب الفجر.. تلكَّأ "وابل" قليلا  ثم تفصد مكراً..

ــ املأ رئتيك جيداً قبل الأذان.. فهذه فرصتك!!

نظرت إليه فوجدت عيناه احمرتا بالإمتلاء من النفس.. ضحكت من ملاحظته الذكية وامتلأتُ هواء..

تسلق الأذان أسماعنا.. فحرقت جوفي بالأستمتاع حتى انتهى ممتنعاً عن حتى مجرد التفكير في ذلك.. نهضنا ومارسنا حياة سعيدة.. ثم تجولنا بعربتي الفاخرة القذرة.

 ويشيخ حجم التصحر في داخلي ويهرم.. ولا يموت.. في ذلك اليوم أحسست ببلوغه عامه المائه بعد الألف.. فأينع حصاده على مساحات وجهي ضحكاً وانتشاءاً..

تململت الشمس.. كأني فرحت لذلك.. وكم أحسست بغربتها عن الكائنات أمثالي.. تقافزتْ من فمي نكتة سخيفه.. وكان صداها ضحكات واختناقات إضطرتني إلى الضحك.. أحسست بسماكة الصمت وكم هو صعب قطعه.. ولكن كنت أعي جو الإنتشاء السائد فوق الصمت.. فزدت الصمت صمتا..

 "عمرو".. عبقري الدراسة فينا.. يستحي لماماً وأحبه كثيرا.. أول صديق يهدي إلي حنجرته عبر أسلاك هاتفي المفعمة بالثلج.. ألا يكفي ذلك؟.. تنشقت أسعد ماعرفت من ثوان معه.. أترك أمي تبتلع حزنها ورغبتها الثائرة في الخروج معي لأسمع نكاته الباردة علي.. أقبع توسلات الدموع في عين أختي الوحيدة في البقاء معها ولو يوماً واحداً بعيداً عن رقابة أبي ليحمر وجهي خجلاً وحقداً على ابتكارات  الإستهزاء المسترسلة من فمه.. ولم لا أحبه؟ تكوين

المزيد

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التصنيفات : قصص قصيرة |

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Catch the Thief

المزيد

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التصنيفات : Translated Arabic Short Stories |

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Not Like That 

Her overly thin body was hiding in a pink summer dress with a wide neck revealing her collarbones and short sleeves that showed her arms sprinkled with freckles glaring through her very white skin. She extended her hand with thin fingers to shake my chubby hand, like two friends, not two women sharing one man 

المزيد

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التصنيفات : Translated Arabic Short Stories |

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دوّن الإدراج

المزيد

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التصنيفات : قصص قصيرة |

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