Bilingual Poems

Hamid Ouyachi

NOTE: These poems were written in Tamazight first; the versions in English are intended to act more as a vade mecum, (not as a standalone translations) to help with the reading of the Tamazight texts. In some of the poems the Tamazight (i.e. tafirt and tafaska) and the English (syllable and feast) versions differ in parts, and that is intentional.

ⴰⴼⵇⵇⵉⵔ

ⵎⵓⵛⵛ ⴳ ⵢⵉⵎⵉ ⵏ ⵛⵛⵕⵊⵎ
ⵜⵉⵟⵟ ⵏ ⵜⴰⴼⵓⵢⵜ ⵉⴳⵏⴼⵔⵏ ;
ⵀⴰⵏ ⴰⵡⴷ ⴰⴼⵇⵇⵉⵔ
ⴷⴷⴰⵡ ⵛⵛⵕⵊⵎ
ⴷⴰ ⵢⵙⵙⵍⵓⵢ ⴳ ⵜⴰⴼⵓⵢⵜ
ⵡⴰⵅⵅⴰ ⵡⵔ ⴰⵙ ⵜⵍⵍⵉ
ⵜⵡⵔⵖⵉ ⴳ ⵉⵎⵙⵡⴰⵏ,
ⴷ ⵡⵓⴷⵎ-ⵏⵏⵙ ⵓⵔ ⵉⴹⴼⴰⵔ
ⵜⴰⴼⵓⵢⵜ ⵙ ⵢⵉⴹⴰⵕⵏ ⵏ ⵉⵥⴹⵢⴰⵏ ;
ⵉⵖⴼ-ⵏⵏⵙ ⵉⴱⵅⵅⵓⵛ
ⵙ ⵓⴱⵔⴰⵛ ⵏ ⵜⵡⵏⴳⵉⵎⵉⵏ

My father

a cat on a windowsill
a sunflower brooding,
and my father too
ruminating in the sun
even though he does not
have yellow whiskers
and his sun-hugging face
does not follow, after the sun
on his spindly stalks
his head is full
of black speckled thoughts

ⵜⴰⴼⵉⵔⵜ

ⵎⴰⵢⴷ ⴷ ⵉⵜⵜⵍⵍⵡⵓⵏ
ⴰⴷ ⵉⵙⵙⵎⵢⴰⵔ
ⵜⵓⵙⵙⵉⵙⵜ ⵏ ⵢⵉⵍⵙ
ⵉⴳⴰⵏ ⵜⵉⵡⵏⵜ ⴳ ⵉⵎⵉ ⵏ ⵓⵎⵅⵍⵓⵍ ? 

ⵍⴰⵥ ⴰⵢⴷ ⵢⵓⴹⵕⵏ ⴰⵔⴽⵜⵓ ⵏ ⵡⴰⵡⴰⵍ—
ⵜⴰⵖⴰⵡⵙⴰ ⵢⵙⵔⴼⵏ ⴳ ⵍⵀⴹⵕⵜ ⵏ ⵢⵉⵍⵙ. 

ⴰⵎⵥ
ⵜⴰⵍⵍⵓⵃⵜ, ⵜⵉⵔⵔⵉⵙⵜ, ⵙⵙⵎⵅ, ⴷ ⵓⵖⴰⵏⵉⵎ ;
ⴰⵛⵛⴰⴷ ⵉⴳⵣⵎ ⴰⵣⵣⵓⵖⵔ ⵏ ⵓⴼⵓⵙ :

ⴱⴰ… ⴱⴰ…

…ⵜⴰⴼⵉⵔⵜ, ⴰⵙⵉⵔⵡ ⵏ ⵜⴳⵓⵔⵉⵡⵉⵏ
ⴰⴼⴰⵔⴰⵙ ⵏ ⵡⴰⴼⴰ ⵢⴽⵔⵣⵏ ⵉⴳⵔ-ⵎⵣⵣⵓⵖ. 

ⴷⵖⵉ,
ⵉⵡⴰ ⵙⴼⵉⵔⵙ ⵉⵙⵎ ⵉⵎⵕⵕⵥⵉ !

Syllable

what comes
to cradle
the rough tongue
stitching the baby’s bleat?

hunger kneads breathwords—
the thing laddered in a game of tongues.

clutch
tablet, clay, suint and reed,
lash and fire etched in every stroke : 

bA… bA… 

... syllabic pain furrows skull and membrane
stills the other tongue. 

now
trace the broken name.

ⵜⴰⵃⵔⵉⵔⵜ

ⵜⴰⵃⵡⴰⵔⵜ ⴳ ⵍⴽⵓⵣⵉⵏⴰ
ⴰⴳⴷⵓⴷ ⵏ ⵍⵃⵉⵎⵥ—
ⴱⵕⵕⴰ ⵜⴰⴼⵙⵓⵜ ⴳ ⵉⵙⴽⵡⵍⴰ !
ⴷⴰ ⵙⵙⵉⴹⵉⵏⵖ ⵜⵉⵙⵓⵔⵉⴼⵉⵏ ⵏ ⵜⵓⵙⵔ
ⴽⵓⴷ ⵜⴳⴰⵏⵏⴰⵖ ⴰⴽⵓⴷ ⵏ ⵜⵃⵔⵉⵔⵜ

Soup

a bowl in the kitchen
a conference of chickpeas—
outside spring in the trees !
I count steps to old age
while I wait for supper

ⴰⵎⵓⵣⵣⵔ

ⴰⵎⵓⵣⵣⵔ ⴰⵎⵃⴰⵢⵍ
ⵓⵣⵣⴰⵍ ⵏ ⵓⴼⵓⵙ

ⴰⴼⵓⵙ ⵉⴳⵔⴰⵏ ⵉⴼⴳⵡⵔⴰⵏ ⴳ ⵓⵙⵟⵟⴰ
ⵉⵛⵔⵔⴳ ⵜⵉⵍⵎⵉ ⵏ ⵉⵙⴳⴳⵡⴰⵙⵏ

ⴰⵙⴼⴹ ⴰⵎⵥⴹⴰⵡ ⴳ ⵜⴱⴱⵃⵓⵜ
ⵉⵙⵙⵔⴳⵉⴳⵢ ⵉⵖⵙⵙ ⵏ ⵢⵉⵍⵙ 

ⴰⴳⵏⵙⵓ ⵏ ⵉⴼⵔⵉ ⵏ ⵉⵎⵉ,
ⴰⵢⵢⵓⵔ ⵏ ⵉⵊⵊⵔⴳⴰⵏ

Rage 

rusted rage
hafted to your hand

the hand clawed in a loom
ripping the day’s weft

a burning in the throat shuttles
and raises the hyoid bone 

between your lips,
a crescent molar moon

ⵜⴰⴼⴰⵙⴽⴰ

ⵜⴳⵔⴰ ⵜⴷⴳⴳⵡⴰⵜ ⴰⵙⵍⵙⵓ-ⵏⵏⵙ ⵖⴼ ⵜⴱⵃⵉⵔⵉⵏ
ⴷⴷⴰⵡ ⵟⵟⴱⵍⴰ ⵎⵓⵛⵛ ⵉⴳⵔⴰ ⵢⴰⵎⵣⵣⵓⵖ
ⴳ ⵜⴰⴷⴷⴰⵔⵜ ⴰⵎⵎ ⵜⴰⵢⴹ
ⵜⵙⴳⵓⵔⵔ ⵜⵎⴰⵔⴰⵡⵜ :
            “ⴰ ⵜⴰⵙⴰ-ⵏⵡ !”
ⵉ ⵡⵖⴷⴷⵓ ⵏ ⵜⴷⵉⵙⵜ-ⵏⵏⵙ—
ⴰⵇⵓⵊⵊ ⴰⵎⵍⵉⵢⵢⵙ ⵢⵓⴼⴼ ⵙ ⵜⵓⵜⵍⵉⵡⵉⵏ.

ⵉⵙⵏⴼⵓⴼⴷ ⵕⵕⴰⴱⵓⵥ ⵜⵉⵔⵔⴳⵉⵏ
ⵉⵣⵓⵣⵣⵔ ⵉⴼⵟⵟⵉⵡⵊⵏ
ⵉⵊⴳⵓⴳⵍ ⵡⴰⴳⴳⵓ ⵢⴰⵍⵢ ⵙ ⵜⵖⵡⵎⵉ ⵏ ⵉⴳⵏⵏⴰ :

ⵉ
ⵡⵎⴰⵏⴰⵢ
ⵓⵔ ⵉⵔⵉⵏ ⴰⴷ ⵢⵉⵏⵉ
ⵉⵙⴰⵡⵍ-ⴰⵙ ⵉ ⵡⵏⵏⴰ ⵡⵔ ⵉⵙⵙⵉⵏⵏ
ⵉⵜⵜⵔ-ⴰⵙ ⵎⵉⵎⵎⵉⵙ
ⴰⴼⴰⴷ ⴰⴷ ⵢⵉⵙⵉⵏ   

ⵉ
ⵡⵎⴽⵔⵓⴼ
ⵏⵏⴰ ⵖⴼ ⵜⵙⵓⴳⴳⵔ ⵜⵓⵣⵣⴰⵍⵜ,
ⵉⵜⵜⵓⴱⴷⵔ, ⵜⵉⴼⴰⵡⵜ ⴷⴷⵖ,
ⵙ ⵡⵓⵣⵓ ⵏ ⵓⵣⴰⵎⴰⵔ ⵓⵔ ⵉⴱⴽⴽⵉⴹⵏ—
ⴰⵣⵏⵉ ⵏ ⵉⴷⴰⵎⵎⵏ ⵉ ⵢⴷⴰⵎⵎⵏ ⵓⵔ ⵉⵏⵏⵖⵉⵍⵏ

ⴱⵕⵕⴰ ⵏ ⵜⴰⴷⴷⴰⵔⵜ ⴰⵎⵎ ⵜⴰⵢⴹ
ⵉⵙⵍⵍⵙ ⵓⵖⵍⵍⵓⵢ ⵉⵖⵥⵥⴰⵥⵏ
ⵜⵙⴷⵉⵡ ⵜⵀⵉⵔⵉⵜ ⵉⵜⵔⵔⴰⵙⵏ ;
ⵊⴰⵊ, ⴰⵎⴰⵔⴰⵡ—
ⵉⵎⵉ ⵡⵔ ⵉⵎⵓⵏⵏ ⴷ ⵡⴰⵡⴰⵍ
ⴰⴼⵓⵙ ⵉⵏⵏⵓⵎⵏ ⴰⵎⵔⴰⵢ ⵏ ⵜⵎⵥⵉⵏ—
ⵢⵓⵎⵥ ⵜⵉⵖⵉⵎⵉⵜ
ⵉⵔⴰⵔ ⵓⴷⵎ ⵙ ⵍⵄⵉⵍ
ⴽⵓⴷ ⵉⵜⵜⵛⵔⵔⴰⵃ ⵜⴰⵙⴰ ⵙ ⵍⵃⵉⵣ ;
ⵉⴹⵓⴹⴰⵏ-ⵏⵏⵙ ⵉⵏⵉⴼⵉⴼ ⵉ ⵡⵉⵏⵏⴰ ⵣⵡⴰⵔⵉⵏ. 

Feast (Ethnofriction)

Evening’s caul
hems a drab light,
a cat, curled still

flicks an ear, in a house
like any other, a mother lilts :
                     “my little liver !”        

for a tender boy,
brisk cheeks puffed
with grilled liver 

Bellows on fat-kindled embers
unbraid sparks across the atrium,
smoke whisked to a cobalt sky 

for
an uncertain god
who spoke to a certain
man and asked him
for a certain son
for certainty

for
a bound son
remembered
this morning
with a purchased ram—
blood for unspilled blood
is celebration

Evening’s uncarvable,
and car horns blow
for others, outside a house
like any other.
A father, wordless,
helms a low pine table,
heavy hands
that know the hilum of the grain
turned toward the boy
busy with a knife,
tenderly slicing liver.
Time eddies in his hands, and
his fingers ready the boy|
to deepen the cut
from seed to blood.