mohamed-ali-yousfi
Tunisian
Tunisian writer and translator. / His first novel appeared in 1992: “The time for elves” (prize for best Arabic novel in 1992). His second novel “Sun tiles” was published five years later (prize for best novel of Tunisia 1997). / But he mainly translates various authors in Arabic: Gabriel Garcia Marquez, Miguel Angel Asturias, Alejo Carpentier, Shichiro Fukazawa, Álvaro Cepeda Samudio, Christine Bruet, Octavio Paz, an anthology of Greek poetry, biography of Nikos Kazantzakis, The Beginnings of the bourgeois philosophy of Max Horkheimer and Balzac and realism french Georg Lukács. / Other publications / Edge of the earth-poetry / The Night of ancestors-poetry / A sixth woman for the senses-poetry / The kingdom of al okhaydhar- novel / Yesterday, Beirut-novel / Dentella-novel / Thresholds of paradise-novel
A paintbrush and girls: a verdant creation expressed in the longed for
language, dew on the tufts of grass.
A sheen on every face to accept the ***** of life
In a conscious coming of age in life’s embrace, he attempts to push the
buttons of time, knock on the door of
the house of emptiness welcoming the kinship of fear. A sweet dream,
he removes the shadows from the water,
in the wash basin
of a ********** The bite of dogs in the park. An eye, slicing him up into
images under the perch of dragonflies.
He gathers them in the foundations of his despair, then he tries to exile
them far away, and then he's left with a hint
of the scent of patriotism, on which the blood of the past is drying.
Traveling so he can return to live in his solitude:
There he is,
outside time, inside time.
There he is,
he has not returned: that's his image . . .
Apr 26, 2017
Apr 26, 2017 at 6:58 PM UTC
The child burst out in belly laughter, details of the world coming at him,
the echo of water flowing through
river reeds, the nettle of the plain, thorns of plants, a little girl's ****
nestled in the grass, a pinch
from the foreign schoolmistress, the drawing of a dream in a
class notebook, the shape of sin
alluded to in sketches, the incandescence of afternoons,
for you who judge the value of the birth of new life
only by the rosiness of cheeks,
the balance scale pan clatters just once
from the lightness of being in one of the pans
Apr 26, 2017
Apr 26, 2017 at 6:57 PM UTC
A man's tears are a spring that whimpers under the earth
A woman's are a tree that shakes its leaves.
Apr 26, 2017
Apr 26, 2017 at 6:48 PM UTC
The revolution that burst out the rose of wind in the sand,
And for which Anemone bled in the field
Is now led by grave wisdom
Filling our lungs with incense’s rotten fume …
Birds are alarmed by the hissing of the leaves
The mole broadens the strategy of the pit,
And announces today the birth of his (nightly) ninety-ninth party
While, from a thousand sheds, echoes Surat The Merciful.
Feb 8, 2014
Feb 8, 2014 at 1:15 PM UTC
Ain Chammas a spring that was a child
The spring which saw me a child
has lost its abundance of water
and the crab's side-jump.
When I visited it yesterday,
it saw me,
through its old water,
standing.
Jun 24, 2013
Jun 24, 2013 at 8:49 AM UTC