بقلم / د. ريم عبد الغني
أصدقائي...
هذا نموذج لكتابة جيل جديد..
لكي يستمر الحوار علينا أن نفهمه..
والفن مرآة العقل والروح
..أحببت أن أشارككم خاطرة كتبتها ابنتي ميسان
حاولت ترجمته.. لكني فوجئت بالنص يفقد شخصيته عندما تُرجم
والصورة المرفقة اخترتها من مجموعة الصور التي تلتقطها ميسان ...
...و قد نشرتها في موقعها مرفقة بكلمات محمود درويش:
"أنْزِلْني هنا.
أنا مثلهم لا شيء يعجبني،
ولكني تعبتُ من السفر."
Virgin Ink
‘I wish I was a poet’. I didn’t, wasn’t going to, and had no intention
of opening it. It will sit there until it rots, I had decided.
‘I wish I was a poet’ reads the smudged ink on the envelope. It sits
patiently on the bottom left corner of my grey bed sheets collecting
dust, while I struggle not to give in to the lure of memories.
The fan struggles on, with its 90 degrees rotation. Around the 45th,
ever so slightly it starts to churn; starts to sound like it is possibly
agitated with my immobility. I don’t care, I’m not getting up. If only
you could order food online, life would be complete.
The light
bulb on the other hand, is a warrior. It has been struggling night and
day to keep my eyesight intact. My right eyelid twitches regardless.
It’s probably overloaded with decaying visual realities. The phone
rings. I let it ring. I know it’s not you.
At seven past seven, I
share a private joke with my watch. I wish I was a poet as well, a bad
poet. You always said if there was a prize for bad poetry, I would win
second place. On days like this, when Bukowski’s voice scoffs in my ear
,“You don’t choose writing; writing chooses you”, I leave the pen a safe
half mile away, knowing that staying intact is the outcome of not
trying to form sentences on paper.
‘I wish I was a poet’
My eyes gravitate to the same six words. Or are they three? Do letters
count ? Any distraction will do, any distraction is keeping my head in
place. I steal a quick glance. The messy green ink probably means you
had been exhausted that night and couldn’t find your darling black. So,
you decided green would be louder.
I’ve quit biting my nails, you
know? I would write back to you and tell you all about the range of
shadows that no longer make my day. All about the aqua blue I’ve puked
on and the tar black I’ve befriended. See, I would write it all in a
letter, but that would mean...that would mean—my eyes can’t sit still, I
move them all around the room in hope of a distraction. ‘I wish I was a
poet’ Damn. Heavy, so heavy, I trace the wrinkled edges with my eyes. I
pick up what’s left of you, and urgently place you on the bottom of the
garbage can.
Finally, I breathe, and notice a sly shadow
sneaking its way in between the chipped wooden window frames and the
dirtied pale curtains. It lies shyly on the welcoming naked floors, as I
resist an urge to free-fall beneath my eyelids and think of every
surfacing suppressed memory. My eyelids kiss, I give in for a split
second. I’ve forgotten what you look like.
- Maysan