“A hand that does not compromise” .. spying on the coffin of secrets of life

Within the “Approaches” publications, in the Moroccan “Fez”, the Moroccan poet Amal Al-Akhdar recently released a new collection of poems entitled “A hand that does not reconcile”, which contains (25) texts, distributed over 103 pages.
The texts do not take the technique of syllables close to the writing of the open text in a poetic style that uses the scene of everyday life in an explosive writing that lurks in the box of life’s secrets with its people and beings. concede to defeat with a stubborn spirit. hangs on a defenseless wall, but resists poetry, hope and love.
The book is not without romantic spaces during which the soul arranges its deep noise, listens to what the carnation whispers to the only balcony, and expects a flood in which the whole world will drown, before the horses of the Resurrection, and the bitter the fate ends with us ..

Disclaimer ..
Green opens the volume with a text entitled “I am not interested in anything”, in which she continues; She denies everything that happens in her environment and in this world, while drowning in a poetic ocean that stretches to the end, she announces herself on a single path away from the wars and tragedies of the world A scene of chaos, death, and homelessness: “I’m not worried about the large number of images of dead and crippled people on television, nor does the river dump the bodies of the afflicted seeking bread in the land of the Franks do not, “… etc. The simple patients. ” And Monday, “offensive,” as she put it, receiving the prescription of empty-bag medicine, writing their last will and testament, the crazy man stationed on the corner of the road, the remnants of wars, the little one’s life, Umm Kulthum’s songs, and other details and characters … The poet is suffocated by all this reality exploited by chaos and scarcity of life, which has become a ghost that worries her for the moment: “I’m not worried. .. I’m just suffocated by all these images, every time I close my eyes, and a degree of fatigue calms me down. “

In a text entitled “The Poet,” Al-Akhdar writes about a “Muslim” poet who did not have time, who came up to her; A poet whose violins are heavy with metaphors and music (He came to my mind this morning, I made him my home and the foam of my wonder). And she calls – in this context – all the poets of the universe, not just the poet who lives in the land, or the stranger in the land, or the one who stands before God’s door and asks him for his to dry withered rose, and to give his angry girlfriend back to him, as many ask him of “wet speech.”
And even that sweet chaos that permeates the life of the poet, who lives by force in minefields, does not stop the birds from waking up from his chest, where near the (poetry) gardens full of apples and bunches of grapes.
After the poet announces her rejection of the burdens of life that burden many here and there, and of all the wars and present tragedies of the world, she keeps herself busy with these worlds and delivers them poetically. As she proclaims her glorification of poetry, it arranges the chaos of life and yet gives us gardens of beauty.
In the text entitled The Uncompromising Hand, the poet opens a window to the soul, which opens to the visible and invisible worlds: she glorifies “insomnia”, in which she saw a rejection of the daily routine, or the idea of to give up too early On the one hand: through insomnia we can contemplate the worlds around us, as it provides a space for the weary soul to contemplate the “sleep of the world”. It also creates a new moment for the phrase’s awakening, and the bells of silence that hang in the long street of life.
The poet cherishes the idea of ​​not giving in to the bitter reality, while blowing the building of joy in the fallen petals on the arm of the couch, after confronting the (run-away) time: she caught it and the band tightens, to greet the world “Good morning, world” to a bitter insomnia – Beautiful, a loving greeting, and a hope-inducing invitation that transcends the scars of life tattooed on a tired face : (Good morning, world / I straightened the pockets of my worn soul / I embroidered it carefully / It entered the vastness of your sea).
The poet listens to the hoarse meow of cats in the middle of the night, then flees to the shores of a dry lake (the song of hope) to find there the “hedgehog” who sings the grief of his ancestors, and times back to be overwhelmed. by the sounds of crickets beneath the rubble of rubbish, and there is one last acrobatic dance of a dying spider being run over, and not far away: birds Weakly decide to commit suicide, and live in a kingdom of bees. .. The poet is engaged in all these voices with her various rituals between insisting on life, or surrendering on the path of extinction. However, the poet’s curiosity drives her to pay attention to all these voices that come from lives near or far from us, to listen to the secret box of all these beings, just like her – in the context of texts that go to the group penetrated it – eavesdropped on it. the secret boxes of people in the neighborhood, to give her reader a letter that soothes the wrinkles of a sad life. Through a love letter she writes with the ink of her astonishment, and then spreads it in the nights of ” Arifeen “.

Opera song …
And the beautiful listening of the inner worlds of the poet continues, through the technique of questions: (Are you still? / By reciting the opera song in the audience of the universe / around you the choir / choir / angel songs / and the wider space …), and this happens while the poet acknowledges that the ceilings of the heart have become very low, squeezed by regret, and ink has become a place for a plant “and for him”, a dwelling place in the worlds of wandering, and pursuing the struggle of the soul: a woman / poet feeds her lost dreams, drinks toasts of pain, and silently curses the remnants of darkness, dry dust, and reckless impatience.

In general, the poet opens a window, through which she looks at a world exhausted by its wars and disasters, laden with its lamentations and sorrows, to create her beautiful moments; Moments from the dungeons of chaos, written in poetry, in a moment of the night, on a walk, or a break from a day: (I will tell Sunday of a chair / Of a daring lover who her lover’s hand turns / almost amputates it / Of the joy of pleasure / And the drunkenness of lovers / And the wine of lovers …), but those moments that are cut out of the crater of the volcano of life, call to the poet’s thoughts the sorrow of the afflicted, the chorus of loss and the oppression of the weak, for they are plagued by beauty, groans, people’s sorrow and pain, even though she pretends not to be concerned with them as they is in the pinnacle of joy. was overwhelmed by attacks of intense anxiety, as if she had taken one last look at a drowned man in a lake, and there was nothing she could do to save them.

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