Hedy Habra
(USA)
The Abandoned Stone House in Damascus
Don’t ask me what side I am with!
Don’t ask me about the outcome!
They say rain won’t wash the indelible blood splattered in the streets, the moans and cries of children resonate in my aching ears, filling each crack and corner of my heart. Will anyone open doors and windows wide, let the wind in to erase the bitter clouds of gunpowder? Faces smeared with dust and sweat all look alike, come and go as they please, their footsteps resonate in my temples as over worn out, stretched out drums. My walls yearn for the daily smell of freshly cut herbs, for the warmth of the hearth, the familiar sight of the iron pot hanging over glowing coals. Once, the simmering stew was singing with spices and children played under the shade of the olive tree. I can still hear their mother’s humming while separating lentils from stone.
(Originally published by Mizna, 2014)
Signs of Spring, 2011
Sunshine fires flakes,
crystalline needles,
uncovers a glossy landscape of frozen tears
steeling timid tendrils’ first breath.
Bold hyacinths stick out
jade periscopes
in albescent wilderness. Even willows
yellowing by now in Kalamazoo,
remain invisible,
pigments hiding inside each pore, eyelids
heavy under coats of dried ochre,
a cloud of rust blurs bushes and brambles.
Oaks’ broken limbs still hang,
lassoed by last year’s
vines shooting tentacles
around warped branches
awaiting makeup from mushrooming moss.
Soon, chartreuse ink will unfurl,
twisting its woven net
around dark distorted joints.
Elsewhere, all over Egypt,
spring comes in the land of my youth
with thumping pace, feet roaring
in crowded squares, streets
resonating with raucous sounds,
shaking deep-rooted fears.
Veins fill with the sap of freedom,
voices burst in vibrant flags,
each poem carves tendrils
of hope in the air,
words cling like vines,
climb spiral staircases,
coil over the tallest towers,
each drop of blood
consecrates the ground,
but no one bends to see how tender blossoms swell,
no one marvels at the pink and white oleander,
the lush crimson palette of bougainvilleas,
no one notices
the way jasmine hedges infuse
the air, their sweet scent mixed with pungent
wafts of honey suckle,
no one is soothed
by the enveloping perfume of golden
mimosa pearls in bloom.
(Originally published by Mizna, 2013)
Erasing the Memory of Fear
In awe, I watch on my television screen
how Egyptians openly storm the streets,
walk in throngs, chant in unison their
will for change, crowding Tahrir Square.
I still remember my youth, under rigid,
military rule, when lips were sealed,
when every wall had ears, when every
corner café, every restaurant table
remembered our conversations.
That was so long ago: we chose
to leave, hearts heavy with memories.
Others got used to the status quo.
From far away, I marvel at the power
of images, when throbbing hopes
brighten ebony eyes, raise flags,
press bodies against bodies hours long,
oblivious of hunger and discomfort.
No dissonant gestures break the ebb
and flow of their unified voice,
rhythmically shaking their reclaimed
mare nostrum.
A page has been turned. Men
and women want to write letters
of freedom on their children’s
foreheads, one by one,
cover the walls of their dreams
with glistening graffiti and sparkles,
erasing the memory of fear.
(originally published by Pirene’s Fountain, 2011)
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Hedy Habra is the author of a poetry collection, Tea in Heliopolis (Press 53 2013) that was named finalist for the 2014 International Book Award, a story collection, Flying Carpets (Interlink 2013), winner of the 2013 Arab American Book Award’s Honorable Mention in Fiction, and finalist for the 2014 Eric Hoffer Book Award. Her multilingual work appears in numerous journals and anthologies, including Connotation Press, Poetic Diversity, Blue Five Notebook, Nimrod, The New York Quarterly, Drunken Boat, Diode, Cutthroat, The Bitter Oleander, Puerto del Sol, Cider Press Review and Poet Lore. She lives in Kalamazoo, has a passion for painting, and teaches Spanish at Western Michigan University.
Please visit www.hedyhabra.com