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Étincelle dailleursAs Love is Not EnoughAs Love is Not EnoughTAOU2AMlivhis01livhis02livhis03livhis04livhis07livhis08livhis09livpo017livpo018livpo019livpoe01livpoe02livpoe03livpoe04livpoe05LeDroitDePartirlivpoe05AkaleidoscopeLo que el silencio enmudició
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27 - يونيو - 2017

by Huang Lihai:

When a poem takes form, it is to visit an unknown world for the poet to meet one who will enjoy it. A poem written in a foreign language is to make its way in a strange land , encounter people and things becoming legendaries that may be known to only a few. This kind of thought starts me wondering that words with soul and life will all experience such an exotic journey. Fatiha Morchid writes in Arabic and therefore when her poems reappear in Chinese on the paper, her poems are reborn. What makes it different is that, this time, it has chosen the land of China, where poetry once prospered. In her virtual trip, Fatiha wrote :
Take me/ Take me /To another end / Where coincidences are dates

This is the pre-informed meeting with Lord, because of poetry, she travels a thousand miles and comes to us with an open heart bearing her inner blossom of secret:
I life up my branches /to heaven/ Toward my depths
In that far-reaching world, border, sky may be abyss, just like the sun ------ a coin burning on both sides. Everyone has his vault of heaven/ sky and abyss, Fatiha calls up a multi-worlds and holds up her feelings like tree branches, which represents the depth and altitude of poetry.
A child reaches out
We carry him up
But keeps crying on our breast

So is love
A coward
When exalted

A poem with insight reveals the poet’s exquisite observational ability. As to love, Fatiha has her own experience with different contents, as she wrote in another poem :
Love is to us astrolabe
Map
lifting our shirts
In our complete breath

Love is astrolabe, map, the shirt lifted by wind in blue the blue sky
Morocco, a distant and exotic land, when it comes to us along the edge of poetry like a shadow, it gleams with imagination.
Fatiha said when writing, she unties the words, then they will spread their wings and take her to a strange land where feelings and meanings coexist. As we know, words reflect the character of a poet. This poet of delicate sensibility describes for us what she experienced in a walk in the woods:

Autumn shaking my woods fine leaves stuck to your footmarks
Slow your steps trees are still rustling/ whispering
These simple words bring us the delicate touch. It reminds me of the moments I walked in the forest in Jilin, hidden paths paved with leaves, sparse sun strings down, mysterious and serene , no envy but warmth and joy. I don’t know whether she has walked in the forest alone, in her poems, scenery is life, restless years extended to the pleasant journey, as she said;
Journey of the horizon
Farther away than the water

Such is poem, a comfort, to new eyesight, to sensitive heart, life that doesn’t exist in reality.
To love
Is learn to
Die a little

Death and love bear the same destiny bond, quality with without any extensive branches and decorations , reach the depth of life,: to love to death, everybody start from birth on the way to death, to learn how to die is to learn how to live. As a doctor, Fatiha has certainly witnessed fugacity (Anitya) of life, from which she leans that it is best to learn to love in one’s lifetime.

Fatiha, pure and illusive like lullaby but not the simple frankness, subtle, delicate experience, soul is burning like water in the slight shivering . She named her collection Unspoken, is to attempt to reveal her inner hidden swarming/stirring strange or unpredictable. There is always mystery and absurdity behind poetry , what is fascinating about poetry is recover/revive some of the forgotten , longing for those yet to gain, crossing the borderline between lurking into a new world. In Arabic world, her words transfer from the surface to Morocco to a pedal like light rays. Our feet/are the trunk of departure/ your whispers/keep recurring/secrets breathe/inside their tomb.
Desire/crosses darkness/to the other bank

I close my eyes/ to behold the gardens of spirit/hoping the soul/turn into dew/and the heart/ into the pulsations of a rose

In the garden of poetry, pulsing bring the joyful gentle waves, dancing gold from the desert, skin of dawn and calm temptation, like a butterfly, nirvana from the flame. Nirvana.

Translated from Chinese by June Yang

Preface of Chinese translation of Unspoken
Edition: Poetry and People; August 2011

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