Hayat Belkacem
(20/11/1998- 25/09/2018)
but she felt tired.
The Consular Officer Won’t Take That Away
Mercilessly,
years are plucked from my life
like a beige feather
from an old lady’s hat
Yet, I still laugh with the children
pick carobs,
pat the meek donkey,
plant seeds
& weed the garden of life
I cannot promise you very much,
But I promise you love
The consular officer
will not take that away
Da Brik Meets Matisse
Dada Brik is a native potter,
Who sits comfortably in his woolen jellaba
He does not mind the flies bathing in his mint tea
His life on the periphery has gone untaxed
His sole preoccupation is making
jars for thirsty harvesters
he sits still and shapes pottery on a wheel
& bakes it in a kiln
Next week, he is scheduled to have cardamom coffee
with Henri Matisse at the Salon des Independents
the main topics of discussion will be
The Day the Nazarenes Arrived
When I was a child
I remember
Blonde travelers ( we call them Irumayn)
(survivors of spaghettios and fries)
they came to my native Amazigh village
In Land Rovers
Covered in red dust
& bottled water
They gave me
stylos,
chocolat,
bonbon français
& a pat on the head for free
I trusted them until
I heard them speak in a different tongue
Summer’s Ex Dreams
A summer of extremes cancels everything
Your idea about eternal return
Your disillusionment with the proliferating breweries
Your unattended garden in a Southern rain forest
Late in the afternoon, we observe
women, skirts tied in knots to their waists
squatting, digging for mussels and seashells…
& I say these beaches are mere flat waters which consume
quiet anger crushing against empty horizons.
A dog barking up the crowded beach
has found shelter under a camels belly, its legs
and face of the beggar worn
with the weight of long years gone hungry
he refuses to eat beautiful roses the bathers offer.
The complicit Moroccan immigrant plays beach tennis
while the horse is digging his grave,
while the camel has dreams about another desert
do not serve the ponies cardamom coffee or mint tea
they had enough of Molotov cocktails in the backyard of a moveable feast
stop talking about man’s survival
biosphere survival
social engagement
political disengagement
Let us go for a walk
we are losing light
The End as I Imagine It
They break you into small pieces
they say emphasis must be
on accessibility
not artistic expression
but what about silence
and the thing that follows
the unexpected arrest
numerous elements get lost
easily inside in such a closed setting
as institution, as class, as prison
as a cell within a cell
can you signify in the void?
visions become ephemerae
dreams are beads strewn in space
the guard becomes a prisoner
& nothing matters after that
Nation Is What?
the flag saluted
by students
in the schoolyard
the flag hanging
Unnoticed
on the public buildings
the flag waved
fervently
when the commander of the
faithful passes
is not an expression
of loyalty
is not an expression
of identification
i belong where home is of clay
i belong where goats climb trees
i belong where trees are holy
i belong where children sing for rain
i belong where looms are sacred
i belong where solidarity is currency
i belong where memory is history
this is not a manifesto
& i don’t want you to use it
to conceive of me
