Sousse
—Poetry by Anissa Sboui, Sousse, Tunisia
—Photos Courtesy of Public Domain
SLAVERY
This is how slavery began
The day dealers sold her
On board The Phillis she rested
Shackled for months
In stone forts
To be transported
To what they called
The New Land…
Along the journey, she was puzzled
On her own
No kin, no brighter skin
But bitterness at being thrown
Into a mysterious world
Full of enigmas and cryptic clues
But agony of being thrown
In the arms of the unknown
With a broken shin
Pale with fear
What a dreadful atmosphere!
Heart thumping, fingers shivering
Head nodding
Look! Darkness marries loss
Once the Atlantic masters did cross
With smothered voice
Jesus! Hear me, I beg thou
Release this flock of sheep
Squeezed we are thus
Awaken us from sleep
Zipporah, free us
So must Jethro
Where to go?
Imprisoned, enslaved mercilessly
I have been squeamish
About history of servitude
Utter subjugation, forced labor
Due time to abolish
We are Christians too
Brothers, siblings and even neighbor…
This is how slavery began
The day dealers sold her
On board The Phillis she rested
Shackled for months
In stone forts
To be transported
To what they called
The New Land…
Along the journey, she was puzzled
On her own
No kin, no brighter skin
But bitterness at being thrown
Into a mysterious world
Full of enigmas and cryptic clues
But agony of being thrown
In the arms of the unknown
With a broken shin
Pale with fear
What a dreadful atmosphere!
Heart thumping, fingers shivering
Head nodding
Look! Darkness marries loss
Once the Atlantic masters did cross
With smothered voice
Jesus! Hear me, I beg thou
Release this flock of sheep
Squeezed we are thus
Awaken us from sleep
Zipporah, free us
So must Jethro
Where to go?
Imprisoned, enslaved mercilessly
I have been squeamish
About history of servitude
Utter subjugation, forced labor
Due time to abolish
We are Christians too
Brothers, siblings and even neighbor…
WANTING TO LIVE
As Isabel inquires about the days she spent alone,
Wanting to know why things happened when she was
Too coy.
Why the subservient dog gave up, not barking anymore
She opened the wardrobe, obsessed by the pursuit of joy
Wanting to live, not one might annoy
Sad sensation of an approaching departure
Isabel waits and waits,
A hundred years elapsed
Lying to a self, she was
Mild tears tear up her curious mind
Pretense seizes her love for an instant rupture
Glamour, power blurs her way
A unique island, a gift
On a sweetest birthday,
Knowing not that life is worth selling
Thinking of a more civilized creature
Isabel wants to live
To obscure mortal rumors
To pepper the years with icing sugar
Chilled cheesecake tastes hot,
Though the lips are swollen.
All she awaits creeps into
A pinch of cumin
Cumulating an acute account
Of the castrated bodies of the Medusa
Like a circumscribed boy
In ancient times
She wants to live
In an arena
A wooden cave, she dwells in
Surrounded by an intimate ferocity
Animosity calls her on the spot
Desiring, a secret treasure, to give
Isabel knows well, sister Serena
The woman, writing dots
… Leaving vacant pages,
But who will fill them in?
Who dares that?
Isabel wants to live
The rosy bed embellishes that black view
Deserted it becomes
Not the one to forgive
Assembling the far crew
She needs to make her troubled sleep
Be defined anew
As a sordid cigarette
Whose flame flies
She spends most of the seasons
Flapping vaguely
Though her agony is deep
Many times she reassesses herself
Has grasped the meaning of burying the past,
Treading on foes in full blast
Of summer heat,
Isabel crushes ashes
And feeds the starving with red meat
Still-born, Isabel wants not to die
Abandons Tramadol pills
Destroys tablets
Evacuates doctors’ phone calls
Laughs out loud, smiles and sings
A daring dance shakes those white walls
The body does fly
Like a red riding kite.
AUGUST 17TH
Green Street, Mayfair
Scorching weather
Serious affair,
Opting for a silky maxi dress,
Abandoning leather.
The pregnant Lady
With red Zōri,
And a coolie hat
But!
Strong labour pains startled her…
Giving birth to a girl
Seemed a genuine matter
Not a word did she utter,
Recalling pre-Islamic barbaric fight
She read about and had deep insight
“When the female infant, buried alive, is questioned
For what crime she was killed”
It was wrong, horrible deed, not right.
Ready for the nesting instinct,
Her fateful mission was
Possible as Ian Fleming might detect,
For family Bond she has longed
Her body replaced her body,
Despite fake laughter,
Mood swings,
Style to alter
Many other things:
Chloasma,
Hyperpigmentation,
Hemorrhoids,
Medical terms she wanted to shutter.
Here in the hospital
Her womb beats her to the delivery room,
Cries do hover
Over and over.
Never cry, the mother says,
Ahead of time to cry,
You will have to adapt,
To think twice before you act,
To live or die,
To love or hate,
To abide by your bitter fate,
To leave or stay,
Wait until you grow,
Life will obviously show,
Decades of immense triumph,
Coupled with decades of decay…
Green Street, Mayfair
Scorching weather
Serious affair,
Opting for a silky maxi dress,
Abandoning leather.
The pregnant Lady
With red Zōri,
And a coolie hat
But!
Strong labour pains startled her…
Giving birth to a girl
Seemed a genuine matter
Not a word did she utter,
Recalling pre-Islamic barbaric fight
She read about and had deep insight
“When the female infant, buried alive, is questioned
For what crime she was killed”
It was wrong, horrible deed, not right.
Ready for the nesting instinct,
Her fateful mission was
Possible as Ian Fleming might detect,
For family Bond she has longed
Her body replaced her body,
Despite fake laughter,
Mood swings,
Style to alter
Many other things:
Chloasma,
Hyperpigmentation,
Hemorrhoids,
Medical terms she wanted to shutter.
Here in the hospital
Her womb beats her to the delivery room,
Cries do hover
Over and over.
Never cry, the mother says,
Ahead of time to cry,
You will have to adapt,
To think twice before you act,
To live or die,
To love or hate,
To abide by your bitter fate,
To leave or stay,
Wait until you grow,
Life will obviously show,
Decades of immense triumph,
Coupled with decades of decay…
TASTY MURDER
The Bohemian Corporal starts playing the fool
Language is his sweet tool
Crypted messages, he shall convey.
Grasps not, he, the challenge.
The odor of blood is a substitute for fortified food
Ruling is worth killing
Pinned in the Reich
The Ashkenaz souls; the shoah to display.
He’d always say:
“We are peoples
you are peoples”
Paves the bay to that dark day
When innocent men, sentenced to death
When many, burnt alive
When much wealth loves the rich solely
Of one direction the train has,
The der Führer is convinced deeply…
MY PEN
Pen is power
Behind the shades, obscurity dissipates
Dawn is getting nearer and nearer
Time to write
Virgin papers are there, awaiting the ink
To be spilled, it will be
A poem has to be written
Now I sat on a chair, the window is open
A bird is tweeting
I heard him say
Never succumb, never give up
Keep on writing,
It is reserved for You.
My voice comes out of a deep well
From long torpor it has awakened
A poem has to be written
Words are now crammed, flowing nonstop
Pouring out decades of silence
Now I can write
No one can quell my voice
No one can thwart me
No one can oppress me
I am the one whose words
Are mightier than swords
I possess words
Words are made for me
The war is launched
I am the warrior
A poem has been written
It bespeaks that I do exist
The pen is the weapon a woman holds
Fighting like a knight to obliterate oppression
To efface ignorance is my mission
The witch is now burning out of the flames of her pen
She is a survivor. Triumphant she becomes
A poem has been written …
Pen is power
Behind the shades, obscurity dissipates
Dawn is getting nearer and nearer
Time to write
Virgin papers are there, awaiting the ink
To be spilled, it will be
A poem has to be written
Now I sat on a chair, the window is open
A bird is tweeting
I heard him say
Never succumb, never give up
Keep on writing,
It is reserved for You.
My voice comes out of a deep well
From long torpor it has awakened
A poem has to be written
Words are now crammed, flowing nonstop
Pouring out decades of silence
Now I can write
No one can quell my voice
No one can thwart me
No one can oppress me
I am the one whose words
Are mightier than swords
I possess words
Words are made for me
The war is launched
I am the warrior
A poem has been written
It bespeaks that I do exist
The pen is the weapon a woman holds
Fighting like a knight to obliterate oppression
To efface ignorance is my mission
The witch is now burning out of the flames of her pen
She is a survivor. Triumphant she becomes
A poem has been written …
Today’s LittleNip:
My task, which I am trying to achieve is, by the power of the written word, to make you hear, to make you feel—it is, before all, to make you see.
—Joseph Conrad, Lord Jim
___________________
Anissa Sboui is a University teacher, poet and Ph.D. research scholar at the Faculty of Arts and Humanities of Sousse in Tunisia. The writer of Transcend (2018); Rebirth (2019); Number One (2020); The Co-Avid Breath (2021); and Hurricane (2022), her poems have been featured in Writing in a Woman’s Voice; The Writers’ Club; Galaxy: International Multidisciplinary Research Journal; Dumpster Fire Press; Medusa’s Kitchen; and The 2020 Annual by the Elizabeth River Writers. Welcome to the Kitchen, Anissa, and don’t be a stranger!
Drop by Crepeville in Davis today at noon for Sac. Poetry Alliance’s Poets and Writers Hump Day Lunch. For details about this and about other NorCal poetry events this week and in weeks beyond, go to the UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS link at the top of this column.
___________________
—Medusa
Anissa Sboui
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