Société des écrivains des Nations Unies à Genève United Nations Society of Writers, Geneva Sociedad de Escritores de las Naciones Unidas
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رحلة الحيـــــاةThe Journey of Life
"ذكريـــــــــات " “Memories” لم يعد لي بعد ما غبــتِ عن البال ســوى الذكـــرى الأليمـــة وسؤالا دائــم الترحال في نفســـــي وأشــواقي القديمـــــــــة هل هجرنانــا إلى الأبــد وما عادت مشــــاعرنا حميمـــــــــة
ثم أفتــــح من جديــد بــاب ود دونما نـــدم ولا بضع ملامـة وأمنّـــي النفس كي أضواء شــمس الحب تبقـى مســتدامـة
ثم حلّــــت فجـــــأة فينـــــا نقاشــــــــات الصـــــــــــــــراع بعدهـــا رحــل الهـــوى عنّـــا ولـم يُبـــقِ التيــــــــــــــــاع
يقتـلُ الحــبَّ اختـلافُ الـرأي والتوهان في معنى الحروف إذ لوصف الحبِّ صدقــاً سوف نحتاج إلى كـل الحــــروف
وثالثــة وقـــد رُســــــــــِمَت لمن في القلب مســــــكنهـا ورابعة قـــــد اكتملـــــــــــت بفيـــض الشــــوق أودعها
وقد ترمـــي بقلبــــي فــــــي أتون الشــــــك ســـــــاهمة وتعرف أننـــي في البعــــــد أضعف أن أقاومهـــــــــــــا
وقد طـــالت مســــــــــافات تباعــد بين روحانــــــــــــا فهــل حـــلّ الفــــــراق إذن لينهـي كلّ ما كانــــــــــــــا
لنداوي الشوق القديم ونـاره بالود تتبعه رؤى وعنــــاق ونلملم البسمات دون حرارة كي لا يباغتها نـوى وفراق
يرقب القلب اللقــــــــــــــاء نهـــاره قبل الليالـــــــــــــي فالحقيقــــــة أنـــتِ أنــــــتِ وأن تزول فذا زوالـــــــــــي
S’il est des mots qui rusent D’autres, D’autres vivent ensevelis Au creux de notre lit Buvons les jusqu’à la lie A moins que nos langues se délient.
A quoi bon dire ce que le regard avoue Je préfère garder mes yeux clos
la douce illusion qu’est la rencontre l’envie qu’un soir d’hiver un parapluie devienne ce rendez-vous espéré Laisse-moi venir à ta rencontre, te pister et t’encercler Je deviens chasseresse et la langue de l’amour dingue-dongue
comme la pluie roule sous mon parapluie pour faire place à un nouveau soleil J’ai tant rêvé que seule je resterai, tissant les mots que tu n'as pas encore murmuré.
La raison, arraisonnée, la passion, filbustière. Je voudrais que tu lises dans mes défauts dans ce livre mal fermé et que des faits tu ne t'affaires Que sur la feuille je me couche et de la gomme tu revèles le sombre du vrai Il est en chacun de nous un rêve et son ombre. Mon rayon de lumière Je ne comprends pas encore tes mots Que bientôt et déjà ce sont des secrets.
Et que je tremble qu’au son des troupeaux J’irai fragile, me blottir en solitaire Prenant tes jambes à mon cou Et de te garder à mon altitude, je n’aurai de cesse Pour vibrer encore sous tes caresses. Quand du matin vient la paresse Je me fais la promesse de lendemains Car de notre amour et notre tendresse Seul le présent nous tend la main Parce qu’hier n’est plus, et que demain ne sera peut-être pas. Cécile Elshami, UNCTAD ****************************************************************** Délirante blancheur
Il y a loin si loin des fastes disparus d’un Empire à sa fin rongé depuis longtemps dans sa force vitale, à son aspect présent. Subistent toutefois le charme des villages aux beaux clochers à bulbe et le parfum à peine évanoui d’une mélodie de Schubert inquiète et joyeuse à la fois et bien souvent mouillée de larmes. *****
Nous avons parcouru les allées du bazar nous avons longé le Bosphore visité le Palais vécu les fastes de la Porte avant de prendre le chemin des hautes terres pour aller découvrir leurs cheminées de fée leurs églises rupestres où s’achevait enfin ce long itinéraire qui nous fit survoler des siècles agités par le vent de l’Histoire. Roger Prevel, UNWTO, retired Pianissimo – Moderato Sur le piano d’un soir, J’ai allumé la chandelle de l’espoir. Et de ce clavier qui m’aspire l’âme, défilent sous mes doigts tremblants, les touches blanches et noires de l’existence. Chacune d’elles enflamme mon cœur, le dévorant de mille célestes bonheurs. Ma partition n’est qu’un moulin-à vent perdu dans la nostalgie d’un temps. Le poète au coin d’un feu Il se souvient des longues veillées où, tisonnant le foyer du rêve, Il consommait l’idéal de l’être, Dont les vers crépitaient sous l’âtrée.
Indéniablement, l’automne Distribue ses feuilles d’or, Nous détournant de nos hivers. L’oiseau ivre Passereau d’une arche lunaire Ce poète court la mer, Et de ses ailes solitaires Déploie au monde sa tendresse. Fleurs au Fusil Si l’arme n’était qu’un cœur Ne distribuant que fleurs, L’on se ferait jardinier D’un espace libéré. Roger Chanez, UNSW/SENU Le Temps Immesuré Les oiseaux font leurs nids. Merles, moineaux, mésanges Déviennent chats volants aux moustaches de brins ! Les buissons, les auvents abritent leurs écrins, Et l’adroit martinet va et vient dans les granges. Au sommet de l’érable une corneille arrange La ramille en couronne et la branche en coffin. C’est toute la journée un mouvement sans fin Qui tisse l’euphorie et tresse la louange ! Mais nous qui demeurons dans l’ombre, moi et toi, Sommes des passereaux, seuls au rebord du toit. Notre temps s’effiloche ainsi qu’une fumée.
A retarder l’envol à travers la ramée Sans savoir mesurer nos heures ni nous jours !
Reprends tes textes Tes discours Ta morale et je t’en prie Enferme-la A double tour Dans un tiroir plein de poussière Que le temps charrie Dans l’un de ces tiroirs Que l’on n’ouvre jamais Et qui nous paraît Plus triste que n’est La grisaille des jours de pluie Reprends tes secrets De polichinelle Tes secrets de famille Tes bronzes dorés Tes estampes à cent sous Tes souvenirs qui mêlent De sombres dessous A des récits édulcorés Issus des replis cachés De tes fantasmagories *** Qu’on nous donne la paix De l’esprit La paix de l’âme Dès que saigne le cœur Avec ou sans parfum de femme Il n’est de place qu’à la douleur Jacques Herman, UNSW/SENU Écrire à tout prix S'il faut écrire à tout prix A tout prendre j'ai pris Une résolution sage Je n'ai depuis longtemps plus l'âge De perdre mon temps
J'écrirai donc A l'horloge parlante Écriture éminemment Sans risque Innocente Et sans danger
A cette maîtresse Nouvelle je n'en sais rien Du reste à parler franc Qu'importe Le flacon pourvu Qu'on ait l'ivresse
J'entends frapper Douze coups réguliers Dessus ma porte J'y vois déjà le signe De lourds secrets d'alcôve Et qui sait peut-être bien davantage Tandis que mon voisin jaloux A ce qu'on dit enrage
Lieu de non droit, de la perte de foi, de l'abandon, de la trahison à nos valeurs -- Chaque jour, chaque heure, le crime banalisé ! N’oublions pas : Silence est culpabilité : GUANTANAMO La hypocrisie, La lutte contre l'idéologie, contre le terrorisme contre tant d'autres ismes. La perte de repère, de valeurs chères ! N’oublions pas : Droits humains à la carte, C’est la violation de la Charte: GUANTANAMO. La guerre juste ? La guerre injuste ? Talion vieux Cercle vicieux. Soif de vérité, Soif de solidarité, de la charité. N’oublions pas : Le courage civil raté entraîne la responsabilité … … pour GUANTANAMO. Il existe encore un isme, C'est l'optimisme. Il existe encore une possibilité de retrouver nos valeurs oubliées, les ressortir de nos muets tiroirs. Il y a toujours l'espoir de s'échapper du noir néant. “Yes, we can !” Fermons donc GUANTANAMO! Alfred de Zayas, OHCHR retired Spectator Sport Sitting in a Paris café Watching the world swirl by. Humanity on show: All ages, shapes and sizes. My voyeuristic neighbours Betray their approval or dismissal Of fellow humans who inspire respect, Pity, or a patronizing smile; Of those who create a resonance And who do not pass unnoticed. For the price of a drink I have rented a watcher’s seat. A spectator cannot resist the role of judge And to assess others, as if made of different stuff. We select the ones we would like to be, Or better still, be near or with. But mesmerized by the ever moving forest, We lose sight of the tree that is you or me, Oblivious that in proposing scores for others, We are sitting in judgement of me and thee. Yet in a while the music changes; We are off and others fill our places. Now we are the ones on display, Being viewed, and hoping not to be ignored. Stretching, bending, keeping up faces. Yes, they also serve who sit and watch And react to others going through their paces. For their response, or the absence of a wink or nod, Affirms our sense of worth, and ability to leave traces, Or of failing to register with other golden fish Treading water in the same flooded spaces.
to repel the drip-drip litanies of words picking away at the delicate web of sleep! Words for verses or forming thoughts, words drifting singly in quest of a sentence, words for repairing a garbled past, or preparing future feuds, words rich in import, words of pure play, words to rephrase old wisdoms anew... words which will anyway fade away before the morning dew.
by the hand, across the crosswalk more than middle-aged, a Chinese couple. She in lantern red tunic he in straight black pants, thin hurried shoes, eyes down rushing his wife along.
absorbing the majestic building on the other side. He gently touches and I witness years and years of being, inner leaves of a cabbage nestled together, banquets of happiness seasons of leanness, births and deaths, holding out against snow and loss, holding on. Silken love so fine strong as her ink-black hair it can tug a loved one across a busy street into the safety of another world.
There are poems I have lost before– words that scattered like leaves before a rain. Poems I wanted to use, build with, make a shelter to keep us warm all afternoon long.
quietly in the night, sit patiently at your bedside
sleep at your ear– they vanish suddenly, stripes of black
of loss and longing the sound of fading hooves.
you call, hoping against all odds
lines, syllables will make their stubborn way back home.
Low-lying daisies heads up tiny satellites tuned into winter sky as if it were already April and trouble was not ahead.
all made of cosmic dust,” inspecting his hand as if it were a starfish, the bay window in front of us. Claudio is worried there are trees budding in February, birds preening soon to begin their courtship dance. Afraid their eggs will come too early be caught in a cold snap all this so out of season he leans on the tips of his fingers. He is worried there will be empty nests in every tree, meaning annoying insects everywhere, they will just take over. This is the end or is it the beginning of climate change, Claudio asks? Scratching his head, looking at his foot he goes back to the time of dinosaurs as if he too were there, amidst giant footprints, all that muck, Jurassic problems. Implosion is imminent, he nods. Man will most likely (90%) ruin this planet but will be smart enough to send a select few out into space first, maybe even clones. “Claudio,” I say, “thank you for the coffee.” I edge off my seat and rise to go back to work two empty coffee cups left behind us as we recede into the dark hallway. Beth Peoch, UNCTAD 
Graffiti Photo by Florence Chabannay, UNOG Give Us This Day Our Daily Bread It was not the first time scooping flour, setting grainy yeast in sugared water, the frothing mixture anxious to roll with flour between my hands. But that March morning far from where Santo Antonio Abate blessed bread baking under domed ceilings, was the first time I left the dough to rise alone,
linen cloths stippled with herbs and goddesses, to protect it from drafts, without stroking the sign of the cross over baking stone and cornmeal dusted peel,
no womanly bleeding in the house, no doors closed too loudly during fermenting hours, without whispering incantations while kneading, counting exactly to cent’uno
skein of dough stretching to translucent white celadon like a pregnant belly.
perhaps to fall, for I had heard stillness shiver when air dies and Gods turn away, all our preparations in that held breath. Regina Monticone, ILO ********** Bartica Beauty Softly the silver sunshine warmed my blood as I sat on the burning river wall beside the foaming Essequibo’s flood and the blistering sand. I do recall how she came from out the festive mass as brown as the sands on Bartica beach, out of the holidaying hordes to pass ‘neath me on the sand as she strove to reach some spot or shadow from the puissant heat; how the sun's splendour seeped into her form scant clad, revealing golden thighs and feet, rounded beauty of curves crowned by the storm of raven black hair whispering she was sprung from fusion of races to beauty renowned
Faithfully my clock works on by my bed, marking off my lifetime hours one by one: small squared-off numbers in bright, cheerful red merging what once was with what will become. Far away in New York, in my home town, decades-old, the debt clock on bright Times Square, has run out of digits to tether down a chaos of zeros spreading everywhere. Doomsay'rs in the press now reading the signs say it's time to kiss our future goodbye. Main Street's fighting on as Wall Street resigns. Why should simple numbers cause us to die? Here my clock goes on and still brings me hope we have not yet reached the end of our rope.
My little Mac my silver wafer of words with the hum and blink of a virtual poet. What fails me fills you; when I'm blank you speak to me in electrified verse
you're a veritable crystal plaque of words, beloved ghost, my wild knight writer. Exile from Home Language The exile speaks a bastard tongue -- a quaint mélange (a tad passé); so you're wondering --every day-- can you be you and still be they? Or still be you and really you with old roots withering away? Alexa Intrator, UNOG, retired Searching You twist despair into prayer sticks but the god of infallibility is hanging limp on a cross… or has he gone to his father where you cannot follow?
unless spring is a promise. So you turn to the poets, those who do not preach from the Book of the Dead.
to give both freedom and the sea to shuttered hearts and Rilke sends you to the limits of your longing. There you encounter mandarins infected by pain and pleasure. Life, they say, is a farrago of experience.
that continues to call out to its god in screams and silences…
as a way forward. Jo Ann Hansen Rasch, UNSW/SENU Evensong The jade bowl of my garden is brimful of liquid sky and downy clouds on wings of gold drift softly by.
The birds call, and grow still. And from the light of a thousand suns I drink my fill. Dawn Chorus Threads of song from tiny throats weave the web that nets the sun and draws it up over the horizon.
from ruby throats spin the lead of night to gold. Olive Alvis, ILO Sun Drunk I saw the Sun drunk by the Lip of the Horizon. I saw the Stars eaten by the ruby Mouth of Dawn.
the Dark devours the Light; all in a Feast of endless Delight. Olive Alvis, ILO Rikurqani pacha qhaway tukukuy intita ujyaykujta.
qoyllurkunata mikuyqojta. K’anchay welqon tutayayta tutayay millphun k’anchayta, Kay tukuyta kusi-pujllaypi mana tukuy kanan kama. Translation into Quechua by Florindo Alvis, UNSW/SENU Writing out of No Place On being and not being at St. Erhard in Mauer, Vienna Well, what can I tell you, Lord --I’m hung over. Not like you, of course --from drinking. but here I barely am, at five,
in church to write some poetry. It hailed today, Hail Mary, on St. Joseph’s --my late father’s name day, Our Father. I sure hope he’s in heaven –I’d like to go there myself and visit him: I miss him. At times I think I see his ghost, O Holy ... –But it’s O.K., Glory be. St. Patrick’s gone –no parade up Fifth Avenue in Vienna like on the good old days in high school, St. Francis Xavier Cabrini, patron of migrants. --Alma Mater. Hell! hail in Vienna! (hot in Havana, windy in New York) in March: two, three, four, Halt! O Lord, these crazy showers and let April in Paris --was I ever happy in Paris, Notre-Dame. St. Clotilde was my church there (posh place for weddings) –I stopped going. I finally got married (at the Karlskirche), late as usual, Lord but better late than... O God! I guess I won’t make it to St. Erhard’s in Mauer to write poetry. I’m still in bed –hung over, for Chrissake! But I’ll have been there in spirit, Holy Spirit, I swear –oh! my apologies, Lord. I confess using poetic license –you know, playing with words, basically: lying. But this time, Lord, I’m –so help me yours truly, Amen.
Maria Elena Blanco, UNOV, retired Parable of the Fish with Setting Sun The fish rejected, the pales of your heraldry give way and catapult you, orphaned, on my field of mullets, the only cove ready to receive you.
the kindred crossing per fess point azure turns into Charon’s mooring at the Stygian shore. The viscous tangency with the slime of the fish rejected, you drown in abstract give-or-takes and soon the roundel gold will melt upon a field of gules. Thus I throw you back into the simple swell of gift and acceptance: go and let the dusk not find you with a barren heart, empty-handed. Show dexter chief, lower the bridge and cross your dovetailed tower’s moat. The sea is now a sun of rose and sable: fly and fetch them. Aleluya, aleluya, we did clean the day’s catch and did relish it. Maria Elena Blanco, UNOV, retired Parábola del Pez con Sol Poniente Negado el pez, los palos de tu heráldica ceden y te devuelven huérfano a mi flanco de estrellas, única playa presta a recibirte.
la travesía fraterna por el centro de azur tórnase arribo de Caronte a la ribera estigia. Negado el tacto untuoso con la baba del pez te anegas en teóricos dames y daretes y es inminente la caída del oro en campo de gules. Te arrojo pues de vuelta al simple oleaje del don y del recibo: ve, y que no te pille el crepúsculo yermo de corazón con las manos vacías. Muestra el cantón diestro, baja el puente y franquea el foso de tu torre enclavada. El mar ya un sol de sable y rosa: vuela y alcánzalos. Aleluya, aleluya: hubimos de limpiar la pesca y degustarla. Maria Elena Blanco, UNOV, retired 
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